Part 17 (1/2)
”The rest of the work was easy.”
”How? how?”
”He let himself down from the caves to the rail-fence, and then crawled along.”
”You've got the whole trail knit together nicely,” said old Bowen, deeply wounded and humiliated because he had failed to connect the facts.
”Ha! ha! I'll get him now! And how I'll lash him!” he continued, with satanic glee, at the same time calling his dogs and starting for the fence, where he hoped to find the lost trail.
”But hold! Mr. Bowen, why are you so cruel with your slaves? If you treated them kindly, they would not run away.”
”Zach Howard!” cried old Bowen, ”those slaves are mine! They are mine, and I'll whip them as often as I wish--whip them just to hear them yell, if I choose to do so. That's my answer to your question.”
”And my answer to you is this,” retorted Mr. Howard, in a tone of voice that made Louis Bowen quail before him, ”you are a heartless wretch, with whom I'll have nothing in common. Never again cross the threshold of my door, or enter this yard. If you do----”
”No threats are necessary,” interrupted Bowen. ”I hate and despise you too much for that. Now that you have shown me how and where to find my slave, I have no further use for your company.” He wheeled around and started off to find the trail.
Mr. Howard regretted that he had given the information. It was too late, however, to amend matters, so he went into the house, and from one of the upper windows, where he could get a full view of the scene, eagerly watched old Bowen in his vain attempts to follow up the trail. After riding up and down either side of the fence for about an hour, the master grew tired of the fruitless labor, and regretted that he had disposed of Mr. Howard's services so quickly. Still, not having the courage to return and ask for help, he spurred his horse on toward the river, where he hoped to find a new clue to the direction taken by the runaway.
The escaped slave, trembling with fright, watched the whole proceedings from a crevice in the hayloft, and when his master had disappeared he sank back upon the hay exhausted. For days and weeks he suffered from his sore and emaciated back. The negro, Mose, came to him regularly three times a day, bringing him food and applying salve to his wounds.
When asked why he had been whipped, the poor slave would only answer: ”He'll kill me if I tell; he'll kill me if I tell.” After a month had pa.s.sed, the wounds were entirely healed, and Mose suggested to his friend that he should start out again and try to make his escape to some more northern State. But the poor wretch was afraid to leave his place of concealment, knowing that if he were caught a worse punishment, even death, would be his fate.
CHAPTER XVII.
CARRYING THE NEWS.
It was the morning of the twenty-fifth of January, 1815. Martin Cooper rode up before Mr. Howard's and, dismounting, called Owen, whom he saw busy with the ch.o.r.es around the house.
”Owen,” said he, ”look at this! Father was working at the barn yesterday, and found it in the saddle pockets--it's one of the prize pistols you won at the shooting-match. I don't know how it got into the pockets. Why didn't you speak about it?”
”Why, Martin!” was the answer, ”I thought you would find it as soon as you got home. I slipped it into the pockets just before we parted.”
”I've brought it back, Owen. You must not give it to me.”
”Keep it, Mart! You did as much to get the pistols as I. When I told them here at home that I had given you one of the prizes, they all said you deserved it.”
”No, Owen! it wouldn't be right for me to take your prize.”
”Right, nothing. It's yours, Mart, and you have got to keep it.”
”I can't.”
”You must,” and with playful firmness Owen quickly replaced the pistol in the saddle pockets, and secured the buckles.
”But look!” he continued, running toward the gate, ”there comes a man with a flag.”
”Hurrah, boys!” cried the stranger, riding up at full speed. ”Hurrah!
Our soldiers have whipped the English in a great battle at New Orleans.