Chapter Fifty Nine. A Hasty Messenger
In the company of Hickman, I had walked off to some distance from the crowd, in order that our conversation should be unrestrained.
As the moments passed, the old hunter warmed into greater freedom of speech, and from his manner I fancied he had still other developments to make. I had firm faith in his devotion to our family – as well as in his personal friendship for myself – and once or twice I was on the eve of revealing to him the thoughts that rendered me unhappy. In experience, he was a sage, and although a rude one, he might be the best counsellor I could find. I knew no other who possessed half his knowledge of the world – for Hickman had not always lived among the alligators; on the contrary, he had passed through various phases of life. I could safely trust to his devotedness: with equal safety I might confide in the resources of his judgment.
Under this belief, I should have unburdened myself of the heavy secrets weighing upon my mind – of some of them at least – had it not been that I fancied he already knew some of them. With the re-appearance of Yellow Jake I knew him to be acquainted: he alleged that he had never felt sure about the mulatto’s death, and had heard long ago that he was alive; but it was not of him I was thinking, but of the designs of Arens Ringgold. Perhaps Hickman knew something of these. I noticed that when his name was mentioned in connection with those of Spence and Williams, he glanced towards me a look of strange significance, as if he had something to say of these wretches.
I was waiting for him to make a disclosure, when the footfall of a fast-going horse fell upon my ear. On looking up, I perceived a horseman coming down the bank of the river, and galloping as earnestly as if riding a “quarter-race.”
The horse was white, and the rider black; I recognised both at a glance; Jake was the horseman.
I stepped out from among the trees, in order that he should see me, and not pass on to the church that stood a little beyond. I hailed him as he advanced.
He both saw and heard me; and abruptly turning his horse, came galloping up to the spot where the old hunter and I were standing.
He was evidently upon an errand; but the presence of Hickman prevented him from declaring it aloud. It would not keep, however, and throwing himself from the saddle, he drew near me, and whispered it into my ear. It was just what I was expecting to hear – Arens Ringgold was at the house.
“That dam nigga am thar, Massr George.”
Such was literally Jake’s muttered announcement.
I received the communication with as much show of tranquillity as I could assume; I did not desire that Hickman should have any knowledge of its nature, nor even a suspicion that there was anything extraordinary upon the tapis; so dismissing the black messenger with a word, I turned away with the hunter; and walking back to the church enclosure, contrived to lose him in the crowd of his comrades.
Soon after, I released my horse from his fastening; and, without saying a word to any one – not even to Gallagher – I mounted, and moved quietly off.
I did not take the direct road that led to our plantation, but made a short circuit through some woods that skirted close to the church. I did this to mislead old Hickman or any other who might have noticed the rapid arrival of the messenger; and who, had I gone directly back with him, might have held guesses that all was not right at home. To prevent this, I appeared to curious eyes, to have gone in an opposite direction to the right one.
A little rough riding through the bushes brought me out into the main up-river road; and then, sinking the spur, I galloped as if life or death were staked upon the issue. My object in making such haste was simply to get to the house in time, before the clandestine visitor – welcome guest of mother and sister – should make his adieus.
Strong reasons as I had for hating this man, I had no sanguinary purpose; it was not my design to kill Arens Ringgold – though such might have been the most proper mode to dispose of a reptile so vile and dangerous as he. Knowing him as I did, freshly spurred to angry passion by Hickman’s narrative of his atrocious behaviour, I could at that moment have taken his life without fear of remorse.
But although I felt fierce indignation, I was yet neither mad nor reckless. Prudential motives – the ordinary instinct of self-safety – still had their influence over me; and I had no intention to imitate the last act in the tragedy of Samson’s life.
The programme I had sketched out for myself was of a more rational character.
My design was to approach the house – if possible, unobserved – the drawing-room as well – where of course the visitor would be found – an abrupt entrée upon the scene – both guest and hosts taken by surprise – the demand of an explanation from all three – a complete clearing-up of this mysterious imbroglio of our family relations, that was so painfully perplexing me. Face to face, I should confront the triad – mother, sister, wooer – and force all three to confession.
“Yes!” soliloquised I, with the eagerness of my intention driving the spur into the flanks of my horse – “Yes – confess they shall – they must – one and all, or – ”
With the first two I could not define the alternative; though some dark design, based upon the slight of filial and fraternal love, was lurking within my bosom.
For Ringgold, should he refuse to give the truth, my resolve was first to “cowhide” him, then kick him out of doors, and finally command him never again to enter the house – the house, of which henceforth I was determined to be master.
As for etiquette, that was out of the question; at that hour, my soul was ill attuned to the observance of delicate ceremony. No rudeness could be amiss, in dealing with the man who had tried to murder me.