The cold gray light of early dawn had given place to saffron, and the first drowsy challenge from the henroost had been shrilly answered from far and near, when old man Jerry awoke from his nap in the chimney corner, and, finding himself chilled through all his old, rheumatic bones, bent over the dying embers, pushed together the blackened and half-burned “chunks,” and blew them until they glowed. Then, hitching his stool close into the ashes, he spread his horny palms to the blaze, and basked in its genial warmth as it crackled up the wide chimney. Reaching his pipe from its nook, he filled it, dipped it skillfully in the coals so as to ignite without wasting the precious weed, and drew a long whiff by way of a start; then, bending still closer to the blaze, he pulled away, now and then rubbing his shins in slow content, as though to emphasize his comfort.

All things, though, must come to an end. The “chunks” became a heap of white ashes, the pipe was finished, and broad shafts of light stealing down the chimney and under the door told “Ung Jerry” that it was time to be stirring.

He had, according to his usual custom, risen from his bed long before cockcrow, and, having cooked and eaten his “morning bread,” had unlatched his door in order to throw a morsel to his old hog-hound, “Drive,” who had already crept from under the house, and stood wagging his stump of a tail in eager expectancy. The morsel being thrown, the old man had cast a knowing look towards the heavens, and, judging by the seven stars that it yet lacked an hour to dawn, had returned to the smoky warmth and comfort of his hovel, where, seated in the chimney nook, he had nodded till roused by the crowings from all the neighboring henroosts—for his cabin was one of many.

The pipe being smoked, Ung Jerry rose stiffly, and, shuffling to his bed, fumbled underneath it, and, taking care not to disturb the setting hen, brought out two bits of old blanket, with which he proceeded to wrap his feet before putting on his shoes.[2]

The hog-horn was now slung over the old coat, a bucket of cold victuals was reached from the shelf, and the old hog-feeder, equipped for his day’s work, lifted the latch, and, stepping out into the sharp frostiness of the November morning, plodded with heavy steps toward the barnyard, Drive following closely at his heels.

The frosty fields were glittering in the slant rays of the newly risen sun, and sounds of busy life came floating through the crisp air, telling the old man that the day’s labor had begun. The sharp crack of the teamster’s whip told that the great ox wagons were already afield. The plow-boys whistled as they led out their mules; men and short-skirted, heavily shod women went trooping to the cotton fields; the milkwomen stepped briskly by, with the foaming pails balanced upon their well-poised heads. Then came the cowboys, with noisy whoop, driving before them the crowding, clumsy, sweet-breathed herd, while, fearlessly amid all, pigeons fluttered, greedily picking up the refuse grain, heedless of the hoofs among which they pecked and fluttered.

One small, grizzled mule, of great age and much cunning, had contrived to slip into the feedroom, and was there enjoying a stolen bait of oats when Ung Jerry found her.

“You ’speck I wan’t gwine fine you, I reckon, but you ’se wrong dis time,” he said, taking her by one of the long ears and leading her off to the barnyard, where the little cart awaited her.

Drive, meanwhile, had crept under the barn, where, nosing about, he had come upon a hen’s nest, and was feasting upon the warm, fresh eggs.

The hitching-up was done with great deliberation. Ung Jerry plodded to and from the harness-room many times, bringing out first a chuck collar, then a bit of leather, finally, after a long search, an end of rope. At length, when all seemed to be adjusted, the old man again retired to the harness-room, where he remained so long that Drive was contemplating another raid upon the hens, when he reappeared, bringing with him an old piece of bagging, with which he proceeded with careful adjustment to protect the old mule’s back from the friction of the cart-saddle. She, meanwhile, had stood with closed eyes and flopped ears, immovable save for an occasional twitching of her small, rat-like tail; but when the loading began, her manner changed from its quiescent indifference; watchful glances followed each basketful that was dumped in, and an ominous backing of the ears gave warning of what would happen should the load be heavier than she liked. At length, all being ready for the start, Ung Jerry climbed slowly to his perch on the cart’s edge, gave a jerk to the rope bridle, and Rachel moved off, closely followed by Drive, who, conscious of egg-sucking and fearful of its consequences, had prudently ensconced himself beneath the cart, from whence he eyed, suspiciously, all passers-by.

Slowly the little cart crept along the narrow plantation lanes, crept past the level cornfields and into the wide pasture, where sunburnt mares were grazing with their wild-eyed, unkempt colts; crept past the marsh, where the heron, disturbed in her solitary vigil, rose upon silent wing and sought some more secluded haunt amid the dim recesses of the swamp.

Turning at length into the forest, where the gray moss hanging from the trees almost obscured the deep blue autumnal sky, the cart slowly creaked through the rustling leaves until it came upon a cross fence which barred the way. Here, as Rachel came to a full stop, Ung Jerry awoke from his nap, descended from his perch, and, unslinging his horn, blew one long blast.

One was enough. In a moment the deep stillness of the forest was broken by the pattering of many little feet; from the thickets the hogs came; each hurrying with might and main to be foremost, they rushed, grunting, squealing, crowding to the fence, where, standing with upturned faces and small covetous eyes, they awaited the feast of golden grain which the old man hastened to scatter amongst them. Then, leaning upon the fence, he noted each greedy grunter as he wriggled his small tail in keenest enjoyment and cracked the sweet corn.

No need was there to count; to the hog-feeder each animal possessed an individuality so marked that in all the drove the absence of the most insignificant was at once detected. So now, as he leaned upon the fence, he cast anxious glances into the dimness beyond. Evidently some were missing.

Drive, too, divining his master’s thoughts, stood with look intent and anxious yelp, impatient for the search to begin. Then the word came, “Seek, boy!”

Scrambling through the fence, he dashed into every covert or tangle wherein a hog might lurk, but without result; there came no rush of feet, no shaking of the brown leaves, no startled grunt. All was still, save for the quick panting of the old hound.

The old man then turned his eyes again upon the greedy mob, still hoping to discover the missing ones amongst them. ’T was all in vain.

“De listed sow, she done gone, an’ de big white hogue, he done gone, an’ seben head o’ shotes!” he at length murmured, still, however, casting expectant glances toward the thickets, in which Drive was still sniffing with uneasy yelpings.

“Seem like dem creturs is clean gone, sho’ nuf,” he exclaimed, with an air of unwilling conviction; then adding, “well, ef dey’s gone, I ’se got ’em to fine, dat’s de trufe.”

He called in the dog, and, taking his dinner bucket, climbed the fence and struck off into the woods. Now and again he would pause, put his horn to his lips, and give a long blast, then stand listening with anxious expectancy. Every thicket was searched. It was a weary tramp,—through bogs and sloshes, where the cypress knees stood up like sugar-loaves in the shallow water, or sometimes his steps were bent to some open glade, where the great oaks dropped sweet mast among the brown leaves.

The day was no longer young when a low fence came into view; beyond it stretched a levee, and at its base a glint of water showed itself through the great trees, which stretched their mighty arms as though they would embrace it.

Ung Jerry, after climbing the fence, mounted the levee and stood upon the brink of a wide and muddy river. Taking off his hat, the old man wiped the sweat from his face, then turned an observant eye upon the river, whose muddy waters were already lapping the boughs of the overhanging trees, and with a long-drawn breath exclaimed, “Bank an’ bank!”

Then, as his experienced eye noted the angry swirls near the shore and the dÉbris borne rapidly upon the turbid current, “An’ still on de rise. She gwine be out in de low groun’s befo’ mornin’, bless de Lord; I’s been ’spectin’ she gwine play dis trick eber since de win’ set like et did.”

Then, looking at the field of standing corn upon the further shore, protected by a low levee, and seeming to be upon a lower level than the red waters of the flood, he soliloquized:—

“I’s skeared de fresh gwine ’stroy a sight o’ Mars Jones’s corn. It raly do ’pear like dat corn mout a been housed befo’ now.”

The old man’s thoughts were interrupted at this point by loud and animated barkings from Drive, and, hurrying to the spot whence they proceeded, he discovered the old hound standing in a broken gap in the fence, in a state of excitement over the numerous footprints which told that the truants had broken through and made for the river, evidently with designs upon “Mars Jones’s” cornfield.

“Here’s wha’ dey tuck de watah,” the old man remarked to the dog, as together they followed the footprints to the water’s edge. “Dat ’ere listed sow, she got mo’ sense un folks! She know ’bout Mars Jones’s corn, an’ dey ain’t no fence gwine stop dat cretur when she take a notion for to go.

“Well, well, well, de listed sow, an’ de big white hogue, an’ seben head o’ shotes done tore down de fence, an’ took deyselves ’cross de riber for to steal Mars Jones’s corn; I ’clare ’t is a disgrace. I reckon Mars Jones gwine cuss a plenty when he fine it out. It certinly is a pity for master’s creturs to do sich a low-life trick as dat. But bless de Lord,” and a look of crafty triumph came into his face, “dey’s got dey bellies full, anyhow.”

With this pleasing reflection, and the conviction that nothing more could be done for the present, the old man seated himself upon a log, opened his bucket, took out his jack-knife, and proceeded to eat his dinner, while Drive sat by, in eager readiness to snatch the morsels flung to him, ere they could reach the ground. When the meal was finished, dog and man each took comfort in his own way. The dog stretched himself in the sunshine. The old man sat with bent head “a-studyin’,” then nodded, then fell into a deep sleep, soothed by the silence, which reigned unbroken save for the distant cawing of a crow.

The long gray moss swayed dreamily upon the motionless boughs of the giant trees. Where the sycamore lifted its gaunt, white arms, the great bald eagle sat immovable, watching with fierce, intent gaze for its prey in the waters below.

II

The shadows were growing long upon wood and river when the light dip of a paddle broke upon the stillness, and old Jerry, rousing from his nap, spied a canoe gliding down stream, guided by two youths who, with their guns lying crosswise upon their knees, were making for the bank.

“Mars Harry an’ Mars Phil,” he murmured, eying them with lazy curiosity, as they brought their little craft to land, and after making it fast, picked up their guns, crossed the levee, and struck off into the swamp.

“Dey’s after turkey, I ’speck; Mars Harry an’ me, we’s killed many a varmint in dese here woods. Dey want no Mars Phil ’bout here in dem days befo’ ole Mars were tuck down.”

Thus soliloquizing, the old man continued to gaze wistfully after the retreating figures; for their appearance had seemed to bring a disturbing element into his peaceful dreams, and a look of helpless trouble overspread his face as, taking off his hat and slowly scratching his head, he murmured:—

“Seem like it mos’ a pity Mars Phil trouble hisself for to come here, anyhow. Well, well, well! we folks all gwine be ’vided up ’twix Mars Harry an’ Mars Phil, ’cause ole Mars, he not long for dis world! Bless de Lord, whinsoever it please Him for to teck ole Mars to hisself, I trus’ he gwine ’vide off Jerry to Mars Harry’s shere, ’cause I nachally ain’t got no use for t’other one—he too outlondesh.” So saying, he rose and reached his bucket from the bough where it hung. Drive, who had for some moments been watching him out of the corner of one red eye, rose also, and the two set out upon their tramp back to the cart.

The old man had climbed the fence, the dog had scrambled through, and both were threading their way across the swamp, when the report of a gun close by caused the dog to beat a retreat from the thicket into which he had thrust his nose, and, with tail tucked in, to creep to his master’s side; while the old man, exclaiming, “Good Gor-a-mighty! whot dat?” pushed aside the bushes in order to see what game the boys had brought down.

The sight that met his eyes froze him with horror. Philip’s lifeless body lay upon the ground, while Harry, with scared white face, bent over it.

For a brief space the old man stood as if petrified, then muttered: “Jerry ain’t gwine know nothin’ bout dis here. When ole Mars say, ‘Jerry, what you seen in de Vine Ridge Swash?’ Jerry, he gwine say, ‘Nothin’, Marster, fo’ de Lord. I seen nothin’ ’t all!’ An’ I ain’t gwine tell no lie, nuther, ’cause I ain’t gwine look!”

Thus thinking, he cautiously drew back, and, with ashen face and limbs that through trembling almost failed to support him, he stealthily crept away until out of earshot; then took to his heels and fled. When, however, he was forced to pause for breath, he considered if he had done well to desert his young master, and turned reluctantly to retrace his steps, when, as he did so, the air was suddenly rent with ear-piercing shrieks for half a second, and Jerry’s heart quailed.

“It’s boun’ to be de debil,” he whispered. Then, a light seeming to break upon him, he exclaimed: “Bless God! ’t ain’t nothin’ but de ole Chieftain a-blowin’.”

The Chieftain, a small freight steamer, had recently taken the place of the old flat-bottomed scows, and, as the steam whistle was still a novelty, it is not surprising that Ung Jerry, in his terror, should for the moment have mistaken it for some unearthly sound.

After many irresolute pauses, the old man at length reached the scene of the disaster, and with shaking hands thrust aside the bushes. Except for the small birds silently flitting to their roosts, the place was utterly deserted. The level sunbeams glinted through the gray moss, gilded the tree trunks, and glowed crimson upon the brown leaves; the solitary peace of nature seemed unbroken; only the pool of blood at Ung Jerry’s feet told him that what he had witnessed had not been a vision.

After a moment’s survey he was turning away, when his eyes fell upon the two guns: here, at least, was something tangible, and the old man proceeded to secrete them in the fallen leaves. Squatted upon the ground, he was too busily engaged to note the sound of approaching footsteps, and started violently when a rough voice accosted him. He mustered courage, however, to quaver:—

“Dat you, Mars Jones?”

“Me? of course it’s me! Who did you reckon it was?”

“I dunno, Mars Jones.” “Well, you’ll know next time, if you don’t keep them hogs o’ yourn out of my corn. Why, that confounded old sow can destroy more corn in one night than you are worth.”

“Yes, Mars Jones, dat de trufe,” meekly assented the old man.

Mars Jones, warming to the subject, now waxed more and more eloquent over his grievances, until, having exhausted his pent up wrath, he had leisure to observe old Jerry’s ashen face and shaking limbs, and he exclaimed:—

“Why, what’s the matter with you? are you sick?”

“Yes, Mars Jones, I’s been po’ly dis liblong day, an’ I’s gittin’ sassifrax for to make me a little drap o’ tea, I’s got sich a mis’ry.”

“Sassafras!” here broke in Mars Jones; and, good-natured, despite his roughness, he took from his pocket a tickler, and handing Jerry a dram, said:

“Drink this, you old blockhead. Sassifrax, indeed!—what good you reckon sassifrax goin’ do you?”

With a scrape and a bow and a “Thank ye, Marster,” the old man gulped down the dram, and Mars Jones, replacing his tickler, was turning away, when his foot slipped in something, and looking down he saw that it was blood.

The dram had put so much heart into the old man that he was able to reply glibly to Mars Jones’s questions.

“Its jes’ wha’ I’s been markin’ hogs, Marster.”

“I don’t believe you; I believe you’ve been killin’ one of your master’s hogs—that’s what you’ve been at.”

But as this did not concern him, he did not wait to inquire further, and so, turning on his heel, he strode off.

The hog-feeder, too, hastening away, took the shortest path back to his cart.

The deserted barnyard lay silent in the white moonlight when the little cart creaked through the gate; but up at the “great house” there were lights and movements where the family watched the coming of the boys.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday passed without tidings, and the hope that they had been caught by the rising water and imprisoned upon some isolated knoll had been abandoned after the swamps had been searched in every direction. To add to the grief of the household, the master, already enfeebled, now lay prostrated in a condition that almost forbade hope.

Upon Sunday the waters began to abate, fences again appeared, and patches of drowned corn showed themselves above the wastes of water, to the no small joy of the flocks of blackbirds which chattered and fluttered amongst them.

Mr. Jones, tired of the loneliness of his water-girt home, made his way to the meeting-house, more for the sake of a gossip with some of the neighbors than for the day’s preaching, and it was there that he first heard the startling news of the unaccountable disappearance of Squire Brace’s nephews.

In the excitement, each man was eager to advance his own theory. The discussion ended, however, in the general opinion that their canoe had been swamped in the freshet and the boys drowned, until a newcomer asserted that the canoe, with Phil’s overcoat still in it, had been found tied up at the Vine Ridge landing, and that their guns had been discovered hidden in the leaves at no great distance in the swamp.

Upon hearing this, Mr. Jones could but call to mind his meeting with the hog-feeder, his strange behavior, and the blood upon the ground, and he at once jumped to the conclusion that old Jerry had been at least a party to some foul deed. His suspicions, once made known, became certainties, and the whole party, hastily mounting their horses, rode off to the nearest justice, their convictions gaining ground so rapidly that, ere the house of the justice was reached, poor, simple old Jerry, the most harmless of God’s creatures, had become in their estimation a villain of the deepest dye.

Upon this identical Sunday morning the old hog-feeder betook himself to the little plantation church, whose bell, with cracked clamor, gave warning that preaching was about to begin.

The frosty brightness of the past week had given place to a soft mist, through whose dimness the pale sunbeams looked sadly upon the autumnal world; and as the old man, dressed in his Sunday clothes, plodded along the path, the tiny crickets from beneath the grass sent up their sad, perpetual dirge.

Men and women, all shining with Sabbath cleanness, came straggling toward the church, silently and soberly, without the usual light-hearted laughter, for the trouble at the “great house” was felt by all the little band. Yet their feelings were not without a mixture of pleasurable excitement, for all were anticipating with gloomy satisfaction the lengthy prayers, the groanings, and the head-shakings upon this mournful day.

The congregation had taken their seats, old Jethro had taken his place in the pulpit, the long-drawn cadence of the funeral hymn had floated sadly up to the “great house,” when a noise at the door startled the congregation, who, turning, beheld standing in the door a group of white men. Among them was the overseer, who, coming forward, announced that hog-feeder Jerry was to be arrested upon a charge of murder. “Not that I believe it, men,” he said, “but the law must take its course.”

In the meantime two others had approached the old man, who had already stumbled to his feet, and, while bowing in a dazed kind of way, kept murmuring, “Sarvent, Marsters.”

Handcuffs were put upon him, and amid a profound silence he was led forth and lifted into a cart. The two sheriffs took their places upon each side of him, and the cortÈge moved off.

The people, having sufficiently recovered from their shock to jostle one another out of the building, stood huddled together like a flock of frightened sheep; but when the cavalcade had driven off, a subdued clamor of voices arose, all unanimous in contempt for “dese here po’ white, who’d ha’ knowed better ’n to come meddlin’ long o’ Marster’s folks ef Marster wan’t down on de bed an’ mos’ like to die!”

That the dull and simple brain of the old man should have been capable of any formulated plan is not to be imagined, and when upon the following day he was taken before the justice for examination, he merely acted from an instinct of affection in shielding his young master, even at the risk of his own life. When questioned, he preserved an obstinate silence; then, when forced to speak, denied having seen either of the boys upon the day of their disappearance, but, when cross-questioned, admitted that he had seen Mars Phil in the Vine Ridge woods; and finally, when taxed with the blood upon the ground and with having hidden the guns, he reluctantly admitted that “ef Mars Phil had been hurted” he had done it.

“What did you do with the body?” questioned the justice; “throw it in the river?”

A murmur from the prisoner, which passed for assent, concluded the examination, and the justice, sorely puzzled, committed him to jail to await his trial.

With the early morning, the country people had begun to gather around the courthouse, and when told that the old miscreant had actually confessed to the murder, their innate love of justice gave place to fierce anger; and when the prisoner, gray with terror, bent and tottering, was led forth, he was surrounded by a silent but determined crowd, who, thrusting the sheriffs aside, seized and drove him before them, and had already slipped the noose about his neck, when an inarticulate shout caused the crowd to sway,—a horseman dashed into their midst and proclaimed that both boys were alive. Their disappearance had been explained on that morning by a letter forwarded by hand, which ran as follows:—

On Board the Chieftain.

Dear Uncle,—This afternoon, while hunting in the Vine Ridge woods, Phil’s gun went off and wounded him in the side. I was at my wit’s end what to do, when I heard the Chieftain blow up the river; so I tore off to the levee, where I was lucky enough to succeed in attracting Captain Smith’s attention, who sent off a boat, and we managed to get Phil on board. I wanted Smith to put back to our landing, but he thought the current too strong; and on the whole, I believe it is better for Phil to keep on to Hilton, as it would be impossible to get a doctor at home in this high water. Phil’s hurt is not very serious, I hope.

Your dutiful nephew,

Harry Brace.