CHAPTER XII. THE NIGHT-HUNT.
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Henry St. Leger was the younger son of an English gentleman
of ancient family, and had an uncle, an earl, in the ministry. He
was placed at an early age, through the influence of his noble relatives,
in the diplomatic career, which he had pursued as secretary
of embassy at Paris, then at Vienna, then at Berlin; when, weary
of red tape, and dancing at the embassy balls, he had sought and
obtained, through purchase and influence combined, the commission
of ensign in the Guards, then called the “Blues,” the most
select and aristocratic of corps. As the headquarters of the “Blues”
were necessarily in London, St. Leger had an excellent opportunity
to study military affairs; but the routine of duty was disagreeable to
him: he longed for movement, adventure, new scenes, and thought
often, with a sort of craving regret, of days spent in the wilds of
Hungary with a friend whose acquaintance he had first made at
Vienna—Justin Harley, of Virginia.
He had met Harley many years before, and an intimacy had
sprung up between them. One was cold, the other was impulsive;
one was twenty-odd, the other nearly thirty, and older in character
than in years. Hence the intimacy. The almost severe reserve of
Harley had a strange attraction for the young and impulsive St.
Leger, and the warm and cordial traits of the younger person had
for Harley an even greater charm. They speedily became intimate,
and then they were separated. St. Leger was transferred, by that
unseen machinery which regulates the English diplomatic service,
to Berlin, from which city he passed back to England, and entered
the Guards. Harley continued to reside at Vienna, contemplating,
meanwhile, a campaign, under the Russian flag, to the Caucasus,
when one day he received his uncle's letter and returned to Virginia.
The circumstances leading to the visit of St. Leger have been
mentioned. Weary of the routine of guard-duty, he had been
offered the mission of dispatch-bearer to the Governor of Virginia,
had reached Williamsburg, ridden out to look at the country, gone
fox-hunting, and been succored by his old friend Justin Harley,
whom he had left at Vienna.
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In so unexpected a manner had the two friends, parting in Vienna,
met once more in Virginia.
St. Leger's bruises were painful, but proved trifling. A servant
was dispatched back to Williamsburg with the Governor's hunter,
and then St. Leger abandoned himself, with an air of the freshest
enjoyment, to the pursuits of rural life, determined, he said, to
make the most of the few days he would remain with his friend.
There never was a greater contrast than that between the two
friends. Harley plainly looked upon the visit as an unexpected
good fortune; but his gravity was too deep-rooted to readily yield
to mere impressions, and he remained phlegmatic. St. Leger, on
the contrary, was youth and frolic incarnate. Everything about
him seemed to laugh—his eyes, his lips, and the tones of his voice.
He rallied Harley, inquired about everything, declared Huntsdon a
superb old castle, and his friend a grand seigneur, and asked what
game there was to hunt and what young ladies there were to see
in the Virginia wilds.
“There are foxes, deer, partridges, pheasants and woodcock,” said
Harley. “Of the young ladies I know nothing, my dear St. Leger.”
“The same old Harley!—turning your back on every woman you
meet! What has happened to you?”
“Nothing,” returned Harley.
“There was not a duchess in Vienna that could get a second look
from you; and I venture to say there are a dozen beauties around
you here, without your knowing it. But they can wait! Hunting
first! What can you offer me?”
“Something you have never tried—deer-hunting by torchlight.”
“By torchlight?”
“The light of a portable fire—shining upon there eyes, and so
directing your aim.”
The door opened.
“Puccoon, sir,” said a servant.
“Ah! show him in. Here is your man, St. Leger. The best
huntsman and trapper in the country.”
Harley went to the door, cordially greeted some one, and said,
“Come in! come in! Puccoon!”
“My service to you, squire,” said a voice.
Thereupon the owner of the voice came in, and stood attentive.
He was a man of about forty-five, half-clothed in deer and otter
skins, and holding in his hand a cap of raccoon skin. His face was
ruddy, his figure stout, and he had an independent air, tempered
by deference. He and Harley were evidently old friends, and their
talk now was on the subject of hunting, and the proposed night-hunt
for deer, to amuse St. Leger.
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“Ready when you give the word, squire,” said Puccoon. “But
game's gittin' scarce now.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, I don't rightly know, squire, but I have some idees.
There's somebody huntin' all the time in the swamp.”
“Ah!”
“Somebody who lives there.”
“Lives in the swamp? Do you mean in the Blackwater?”
“Jest so, squire, and all I can do, I can't get a near sight of him.”
“Rather mysterious, Puccoon. Who is the stranger, and what do
you know of him?”
“Well, all I know is that I have seen him mor'n once in his boat
at a bend of the river, near the swamp, squire, and tried to git near
him, and make out his look, but couldn't.”
“Hum!”
“He fishes and hunts, and shoots half the deer, and somethin'
worse, squire, leastways somethin' I like less.”
“What is that?”
“He hangs around my cabin. Often, on a moonlight night, I've
seen him go by in the bresh like a shadow, and in the dark, I can
tell by my dog's barkin' that he is lookin' through the window.”
Puccoon knit his brows. He seemed reflecting.
“The thing is on my mind all the time, squire,” he said. I've
stopped laughin'.”
“That is an unphilosophical proceeding,” said Harley; “but perhaps
we may unearth your unknown tormentor. Some vagabond
and trespasser, no doubt, hunting game to sell. Be ready, Puccoon;
let us say to-morrow night. We will have a deer-hunt by torchlight,
and will meet at your cabin.
“All right, squire, My service to you, and glad to see you back,
squire—mighty glad.”
Puccoon then executed a polite movement with his head, and
retired.
The night for the hunt came, and was as black as Erebus. Harley
and St. Leger reached the cabin of Puccoon at nightfall, and
every preparation was made. Fanny had just provided her father's
supper, and assisted him now by bringing his long fowling-piece
and other accoutrements—a vision of loveliness which appeared
strange in the rude cabin.
As darkness descended, the three huntsmen entered the swamp,
Puccoon leading the way over the devious and insecure paths of the
bog. At every step the feet sank, and the boughs struck the faces
of the party. But at the end of a quarter of a mile they reached
firmer ground, and advancing more rapidly, saw the jungle open.
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At the same moment a faint light appeared in the east, the clouds
covering the sky were lifted in that quarter, and the moon, large,
blood-red, and weird-looking, slowly rose above the delicate tracery
of the cypress leaves.
Its light showed a singular spectacle. Through a vista in the
clumps of black gum, with gnarled trunks scattered over the expanse
in front, and between the towering cypress trunks, were seen
the waters of a considerable lake, which must indeed have covered
several hundred acres. They pressed on, reached the western shore
of this body of water, and then a magnificent sight was seen—the
bloody furrow made by the moonlight in the dark waters, which a
breeze began to cover with ripples.
Harley was looking carefully at the large expanse of water, with
no idea more romantic than drainage in his mind, when Puccoon,
who had carried with him a brand from his cabin, lit therewith a
piece of “light wood,”—as the heart of a species of pine, heavy
with combustible resin, is called,—and the flame soared aloft a huge
torch. The party then followed the hunter, who plunged into the
jungle again, pausing at each moment to listen, and waving his
torch above his head.
All at once he stopped short.
“Look, squire!” he said, pointing to the copse on the right.
Two bright eyes, resembling stars, were seen stationary in the jungle.
Harley touched St. Leger.
“There is a good shot,” he said;—“a deer—you have his eyes to
guide you.” St. Leger raised his rifle, fired, and a heavy body
was heard bursting away through the vines, then they were torn
and trampled; then the body was heard falling, and hastening to
the spot, they found a full-grown stag, shot in the eye, and writhing
in the death-agony.
Puccoon drew his hunting-knife across the animal's throat,
twisted a cord around his hind legs, and swung him, head down,
to a bough.
“Superb!” cried St. Leger. “Your hunting is incomparable, my
dear Harley! Nothing like it!”
Puccoon grunted. That worthy was in an indignant state of
mind.
“The man of the swamp has nigh spoiled it!” he said.
“Where is your friend?” said Harley. “I begin to think, Puccoon,
that you have dreamed all that story.”
“Look!” cried the hunter, quickly.
Harley looked in the direction indicated, and saw, or thought he
saw, a sort of shadow pass across a distant arm of the lake, and
disappear in the deeper shadow of a clump of cypresses.
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“That is he!” said Puccoon, “the varmint.”
“I see nothing, said Harley. “There was something yonder, but
it was only a waving shadow, I think. Nevertheless, we will go
and reconnoitre.”
They proceeded around the lake to the spot where the shadow
had been seen, but found nothing whatever; and although the hunt
led them later to and fro through the swamp, no human being was
encountered, no trace seen of any inhabitant. When finally, at
dawn, they emerged from the swamp, after killing a number of
deer, Harley had quite forgotten the shadow—in his eyes a mere
vagabond poacher, if a real being, and not worthy of attention. He
had indeed kept in his mind constantly his project of drainage;
had looked with satisfaction upon the large open tracts covered
only with bulrushes and a few inches of water, and had said to
himself:
“Yes, I shall certainly clear this land. It is the richest part of
my estate. I shall not reap the advantage, but my dear Sainty
will.”
“Well, you saw squire?” said Puccoon.
“Yes; the loam is black and strong enough to bring anything.”
Puccoon stared.
“I mean the man of the swamp.”
“My dear Puccoon,” said Harley, “there is no man of the swamp,
or if there is, he is a mere tramp, depredating upon a price of property
from which I have derived no advantage. Let him hunt on;
he is welcome. I shall have to spoil his sport by clearing his `preserves;'
but meanwhile he may remain. And now, here is the
cabin—there are the horses. You will bring out the deer, you say,
Puccoon. Good-night!”
Harley and St. Leger rode back to Huntsdon, and retired to rest,
not spending another thought upon Puccoon's unknown plague.
The trapper had less success in getting to sleep. He sat down on
the rude bench in front of his hut, supported his shaggy head with
both hands, and grunted:
“The squire don't believe in the man o' the swamp! But I believe
in the varmint. There's goin' to be trouble. A man ain't a
hound like me, not to know 'f game 's dang'rous. I see him lurkin'
outside the torchlight! He was follerin'! Who is he? I ain't
found yit, but I'm goin' to find!”
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Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1874], Justin Harley: a romance of old Virginia. (To-Day Printing and Publishing Company, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf513T].
