Part 16 (1/2)
G.o.dwyn was of a different opinion. It was then August, the busiest and most unhealthy season of the year, when the servants and slaves, weakened by unremitting toil, were succ.u.mbing by scores to the fever. It was the time when the masters looked for disaffection, when the overseers were most alert, when a general watchfulness pervaded the Colony. The planters stayed at home and attended to their business, the trainbands were vigilant, the servant and slave laws were construed with a harshness unknown at other seasons of the year. There were few s.h.i.+ps in harbor compared with the number which would a.s.semble for their fall lading a month later, and G.o.dwyn counted largely upon the seizure of the s.h.i.+ps. In a month's time the tobacco would be largely in,--a weighty consideration, for tobacco was money, and the infant republic must have funds. The s.h.i.+ps would be in harbor, and their sailors ready for anything that would rid them of their captains; the heat and sickness of the summer would be abated; the work slackened, and discipline relaxed.
The danger of discovery was no greater now than it had been all along, and the good to be won by biding their time might be inestimable. The danger was there, but they would face it, and wait,--say until the second week in September.
Landless acquiesced, scarcely convinced, but willing to believe that the other knew whereof he spoke, and conscious, too, that his own impatience of the yoke which galled his spirit almost past endurance might incline him to a reckless and disastrous haste.
It was past midnight when he rose to leave the hut on the marsh. G.o.dwyn took up his stick. ”I will walk with you to the banks of the creek,” he said. ”'Tis a feverish night, and I have an aching head. The air will do me good, and I will then sleep.”
The young man gave him his arm with a quiet, protecting tenderness that was very dear to the mender of nets, and leaning upon it, he limped through the fifty feet of long gra.s.s to the border of the creek.
”Shall I not wait to help you back?” asked Landless.
”No,” said the other, with his peculiarly sweet and touching smile. ”I will sit here awhile beneath the stars and say my hymn of praise to the Creator of Night. You need not fear for me; my trusty stick will carry me safely back. Go, lad, thou lookest weary enough thyself, and should be sleeping after thy long day of toil.”
”I am loth to leave you to-night,” said Landless.
G.o.dwyn smiled. ”And I am always loth to see you go, but it were selfish to keep you listening to a garrulous, wakeful old man, when your young frame is in sore need of rest. Good-night, dear lad.”
Landless gave him his hands. ”Good-night,” he said.
He stood below the other at the foot of the low bank to which was moored his stolen boat. G.o.dwyn stooped and kissed him upon the forehead.
”My heart is tender to-night, lad,” he said. ”I see in thee my Robert.
Last night I dreamed of him and of his mother, my dearly loved and long-lost Eunice, and ah! I sorrowed to awake!”
Landless pressed his hand in silence, and in a moment the water widened between them as Landless bent to his oars and the crazy little bark shot out into the middle of the stream. At the entrance of the first labyrinthine winding he turned and looked back to see G.o.dwyn standing upon the bank, the moonlight silvering his thin hair and high serene brow. In the mystic white light, against the expanse of solemn heaven, he looked a vision, a seer or prophet risen from beneath the sighing gra.s.s. He waved his hand to Landless, saying in his quiet voice, ”Until to-morrow!” The boat made the turn, and the lonely figure and the hut beyond it vanished, leaving only the moonlight, the wash and lap of water, and the desolate sighing of the marsh gra.s.s.
There were many little channels and threadlike streams debouching from the main creek, and separated from it by clumps and lines of partially submerged gra.s.s, growing in places to the height of reeds. While pa.s.sing one of these clumps it occurred to Landless that the gra.s.s quivered and rustled in an unusual fas.h.i.+on. He rested upon his oars and gazed at it curiously, then stood up, and parting the reeds, looked through into the tiny channel upon the other side. There was nothing to be seen, and the rustling had ceased. ”A heron has its nest there, or a turtle plunged, shaking the reeds,” said Landless to himself, and went his way.
Some three hours later he was roused from the heavy sleep of utter fatigue by the voice of the overseer. Bewildered, he raised himself upon his elbow to stare at Woodson's grim face, framed in the doorway and lit by the torch held by Win-Grace Porringer, who stood behind him. ”You there, you Landless!” cried the overseer, impatiently. ”You sleep like the dead. Tumble out! You and Porringer are to go to G.o.dwyn's after that new sail for the Nancy. Sir Charles Carew has taken it into his head to run over to Accomac, and he's got to have a spick and span white rag to sail under. Hurry up, now! He wants to start by sun up, and I clean forgot to send for it last night. You're to be back within the hour, d' ye hear? Take the four-oared shallop. There's the key,” and the overseer strode away, muttering something about patched sails being good enough for Accomac folk.
Landless and the Muggletonian stumbled through the darkness to the wharf behind the quarters, where they loosed the shallop, and in it shot across the inlet towards the mouth of the creek.
”I will row,” said the Muggletonian with grim kindness; ”you look worn out. I suppose you were out last night?”
Landless nodded, and the other bent to the oars with a will that sent them rapidly across the sheet of water. A cold and uncertain light began to stream from the ashen east, and the air was dank and heavy with the thick mist that wrapped earth and water like a shroud. It swallowed up the land behind them, and through it the nearer marshes gloomed indistinctly, dark patches upon the gray surface of the water. The narrow creek was hard to find amidst the universal dimness. The Muggletonian rowed slowly, peering about him with small, keen eyes. At length with a grunt of satisfaction he pointed to a pale streak dividing two ma.s.ses of gray, and had turned the boat's head towards it, when through the stillness they caught the sound of oars. The next moment a boat glided from the creek and began to skirt the sh.o.r.es of the inlet, hugging the banks and moving slowly and stealthily. It was still so dark that they could tell nothing more than that it held one man.
”Now, who is that?” said the Muggletonian. ”And what has he been doing up that creek?”
”Hail him,” Landless replied.
Porringer sent a low halloo across the water, but if the man heard he made no sign. The boat, one of the crazy dugouts of which every plantation had store, held on its stealthy way, but being over close to the bank presently ran upon a sand bar. Its occupant was forced to rise to his feet in order to shove it off. He stood upright but a moment, but in that moment, and despite the partial darkness, Landless recognized the misshapen figure.
”It is the convict, Roach!” he exclaimed.
”Ay,” said the Muggletonian, ”and an ill-omened night bird he is! May he be cursed from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head! May there be no soundness in him! May--What are you about, friend?” he cried, interrupting himself. ”There's no need of two pair of oars. We have plenty of time.”
Landless bent to the second pair of oars. ”He came down the creek,” he said in a voice that sounded strained and unnatural.
The other stared at him. ”What do you mean?” he demanded.
”Nothing: but let us hasten.”