Chapter Eighty Two. A Dead Forest
My comrades, wearied with the long ride, were soon in deep slumber – the sentries only keeping awake. For me, was neither rest nor sleep – my misery forbade repose.
Most of the night I spent in passing to and fro around the little pond, that lay faintly gleaming in the centre of the open ground.
I fancied I found relief in thus roving about; it seemed to still the agitation of my spirit, and prevented my reflections from becoming too intense.
A new regret occupied my thoughts – I regretted that I had not carried out my intention to fire at the chief of the murderers – I regretted I had not killed him on the spot – the monster had escaped, and my sister was still in his power – perhaps beyond the hope of rescue. As I thought thus, I blamed the hunters for having hindered me.
Had they foreseen the result, they might have acted otherwise; but it was beyond human foresight to have anticipated the alarm.
The two men who had caused it were again with us. Their conduct, so singular and mysterious, had given rise to strong suspicion of their loyalty, and their re-appearance – they had joined us while advancing towards the camp – had been hailed with an outburst of angry menace. Some even talked of shooting them out of their saddles, and this threat would most probably have been carried into effect, had the fellows not offered a ready explanation.
They alleged that they had got separated from the troop before it made its last halt, how they did not say; that they knew nothing of the advance of the scouts, or that the Indians were near; that they had got lost in the woods, and had fired their guns as signals in hopes that we should answer them. They acknowledged having met three men afoot, but they believed them to be Indians, and kept out of their way; that afterwards seeing the party near, they had recognised and ridden up to it.
Most of the men were contented with this explanation. What motive, reasoned they, could the two have in giving an alarm to the enemy? Who could suspect them of rank treason?
Not all, however, were satisfied; I heard old Hickman whisper some strange words to his comrade, as he glanced significantly towards the estrays.
“Keep yur eye skinned, Jim, and watch the skunks well; thares somethin’ not hulsome about ’em.”
As there was no one who could openly accuse them, they were once more admitted into the ranks, and were now among those who were stretched out and sleeping.
They lay close to the edge of the water. In my rounds, I passed them repeatedly; and in the sombre darkness, I could just distinguish their prostrate forms. I regarded them with strange emotions, for I shared the suspicions of Hickman and Weatherford. I could scarce doubt that these fellows had strayed off on purpose – that, actuated by some foul motive, they had fired their guns to warn the Indians of the approach of our party.
After midnight there was a moon. There were no clouds to intercept her beams, and on rising above the tree-tops, she poured down a flood of brilliant light.
The sleepers were awakened by the sudden change; some rose to their feet, believing it to be day. It was only upon glancing up to the heavens they became aware of their mistake.
The noise had put every one on the alert, and some talked of continuing the pursuit by the light of the moon.
Such a course would have coincided with my own wishes; but the hunter-guides opposed it. Their reasons were just. In open ground they could have lifted the trail, but under the timber the moon’s light would not have availed them.
They could have tracked by torch-light, but this would only be to expose us to an ambuscade of the enemy. Even to advance by moonlight would be to subject ourselves to a like danger. Circumstances had changed. The savages now knew we were after them. In a night-march the pursued have the advantage of the pursuers – even though their numbers be inferior. The darkness gives them every facility of effecting a surprise.
Thus reasoned the guides. No one made opposition to their views, and it was agreed that we should keep our ground till daylight.
It was time to change the sentinels. Those who had slept now took post, and the relieved guard came in and flung themselves down, to snatch a few hours of rest.
Williams and Spence took their turn with the rest. They were posted on one side the glade, and next to one another Hickman and Weatherford had fulfilled their guard tour.
As they stretched themselves along the grass, I noticed that they had chosen a spot near to where the suspected men were placed. By the moonlight, they must have had a view of the latter.
Notwithstanding their recumbent attitudes, the hunters did not appear to go to sleep. I observed them at intervals. Their heads were close together, and slightly raised above the ground, as if they were whispering to one another.
As before, I walked round and round – the moonlight enabling me to move more rapidly. Ofttimes did I make the circuit of the little pond – how oft, it would be difficult to determine.
My steps were mechanical – my thoughts had no connection with the physical exertions I was making, and I took no note of how I progressed.
After a time there came a lull over my spirits. For a short interval both my griefs and vengeful passions seemed to have departed.
I knew the cause. It was a mere psychological phenomenon – one of common occurrence. The nerves that were organs of the peculiar emotions under which I had been suffering, had grown wearied and refused to act. I knew it was but a temporary calm – the lull between two billows of the storm.
During its continuance, I was sensible to impressions from external objects. I could not help noticing the singularity of the scene around me. The bright moonlight enabled me to note its features somewhat minutely.
We were encamped upon what, by backwoodsmen, is technically termed a glade– oftener, in their idiom, a “gleed” – a small opening in the woods, without timber or trees of any sort. This one was circular – about fifty yards in diameter – with the peculiarity of having a pond in its midst. The pond, which was only a few yards in circumference, was also a circle, perfectly concentric with the glade itself. It was one of those singular natural basins found throughout the peninsula, and appearing as if scooped out by mechanic art. It was deeply sunk in the earth, and filled with water till within three feet of its rim. The liquid was cool and clear, and under the moonbeams shone with a silvery effulgence.
Of the glade itself nothing more – except that it was covered with sweet-smelling flowers, that now, crushed under the hoofs of horses and the heels of man, gave forth a redoubled fragrance.
The picture was pretty.
Under happier circumstances, I should have contemplated it with pleasure. But it was not the picture that so much occupied my attention at that moment. Rather was it the framing.
Around the glade stood a ring of tall trees, as regular as if they had been planted; and beyond these, as far as the eye could penetrate the depths of the forest, were others of like size and aspect. The trunks of all were nearly of one thickness – few of them reaching a diameter of two feet, but all rising to the height of many yards, without leaf or branch. They stood somewhat densely over the ground, but in daylight the eye might have ranged to a considerable distance through the intervals, for there was no underwood – save the low dwarf palmetto – to interrupt the view. They were straight, and almost cylindrical as palms; and they might have been mistaken for trees of this order, had it not been for their large heads of leaves terminating in cone-shaped summits.
They were not palms – they were pines – “broom” pines (Pinus Australis), a species of trees with which I was perfectly familiar, having ridden many hundreds of miles shaded by the pendant fascicles of their acicular foliage.
The sight of these trees, therefore, would have created no curiosity, had I not noticed in their appearance something peculiar. Instead of the deep green which should have been exhibited by their long, drooping leaves, they appeared of a brownish yellow.
Was it fancy? or was it the deceptive light of the moon that caused this apparent change from their natural hue?
One or the other, soliloquised I, on first noticing them; but as I continued to gaze, I perceived that I was in error. Neither my own fancy nor the moon’s rays were at fault; the foliage was really of the colour it appeared to be. Drawing nearer to them, I observed that the leaves were withered, though still adhering to the twigs. I noticed, moreover, that the trunks were dry and dead-like – the bark scaled or scaling off – that the trees, in short, were dead and decaying.
I remembered what Hickman had stated while groping for the direction. That was at some distance off; but, as far as I could see, the woods presented the same dim colour.
I came to the conclusion that the whole forest was dead.
The inference was correct, and the explanation easy. The sphinx21 had been at work. The whole forest was dead.