I remember that he had cut in the solid shutters of that room, folded into the embrasures, ``Nicholas Temple, His Mark,'' and a long, flat sword.The first night in that room we slept but little, near the whole of it being occupied with tales of my adventures and of my life in the mountains.Over and over again I must tell him of the ``painters'' and wildcats, of deer and bear and wolf.Nor was he ever satisfied.And at length I came to speak of that land where I had often lived in fancy--the land beyond the mountains of which Daniel Boone had told.
Of its forest and glade, its countless herds of elk and buffalo, its salt-licks and Indians, until we fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
``I will go there,'' he cried in the morning, as he hurried into his clothes; ``I will go to that land as sure as my name is Nick Temple.And you shall go with me, David.''
``Perchance I shall go before you,'' I answered, though I had small hopes of persuading my father.
He would often make his exit by the window, climbing down into the garden by the protruding bricks at the corner of the house; or sometimes go shouting down the long halls and through the gallery to the great stairway, a smothered oath from behind the closed bedroom doors proclaiming that he had waked a guest.And many days we spent in the wood, playing at hunting game--a poor enough amusement for me, and one that Nick soon tired of.They were thick, wet woods, unlike our woods of the mountains; and more than once we had excitement enough with the snakes that lay there.
I believe that in a week's time Nick was as conversant with my life as I myself.For he made me tell of it again and again, and of Kentucky.And always as he listened his eyes would glow and his breast heave with excitement.
``Do you think your father will take you there, David, when he comes for you?''
I hoped so, but was doubtful.
``I'll run away with you,'' he declared.``There is no one here who cares for me save Mr.Mason and Mammy.''
And I believe he meant it.He saw but little of his mother, and nearly always something unpleasant was coupled with his views.Sometimes we ran across her in the garden paths walking with a gallant,--oftenest Mr.
Riddle.It was a beautiful garden, with hedge-bordered walks and flowers wondrously massed in color, a high brick wall surrounding it.Frequently Mrs.Temple and Mr.Riddle would play at cards there of an afternoon, and when that musical, unbelieving laugh of hers came floating over the wall, Nick would say:--``Mamma is winning.''
Once we heard high words between the two, and running into the garden found the cards scattered on the grass, and the couple gone.
Of all Nick's escapades,--and he was continually in and out of them,--I recall only a few of the more serious.
As I have said, he was a wild lad, sobered by none of the things which had gone to make my life, and what he took into his head to do he generally did,--or, if balked, flew into such a rage as to make one believe he could not live.
Life was always war with him, or some semblance of a struggle.Of his many wild doings I recall well the time when--fired by my tales of hunting--he went out to attack the young bull in the paddock with a bow and arrow.It made small difference to the bull that the arrow was too blunt to enter his hide.With a bellow that frightened the idle negroes at the slave quarters, he started for Master Nick.I, who had been taught by my father never to run any unnecessary risk, had taken the precaution to provide as large a stone as I could comfortably throw, and took station on the fence.As the furious animal came charging, with his head lowered, I struck him by a good fortune between the eyes, and Nicholas got over.
We were standing on the far side, watching him pawing the broken bow, when, in the crowd of frightened negroes, we discovered the parson beside us.
``David,'' said he, patting me with a shaking hand, ``Iperceive that you have a cool head.Our young friend here has a hot one.Dr.Johnson may not care for Scotch blood, and yet I think a wee bit of it is not to be despised.''
I wondered whether Dr.Johnson was staying in the house, too.
How many slaves there were at Temple Bow I know not, but we used to see them coming home at night in droves, the overseers riding beside them with whips and guns.One day a huge Congo chief, not long from Africa, nearly killed an overseer, and escaped to the swamp.As the day fell, we heard the baying of the bloodhounds hot upon his trail.More ominous still, a sound like a rising wind came from the direction of the quarters.Into our little dining-room burst Mrs.Temple herself, slamming the door behind her.Mr.Mason, who was sitting with us, rose to calm her.
``The Rebels!'' she cried.``The Rebels have taught them this, with their accursed notions of liberty and equality.We shall all be murdered by the blacks because of the Rebels.Oh, hell-fire is too good for them.Have the house barred and a watch set to-night.What shall we do?''
``I pray you compose yourself, Madame,'' said the clergyman.``We can send for the militia.''
``The militia!'' she shrieked; ``the Rebel militia! They would murder us as soon as the niggers.''
``They are respectable men,'' answered Mr.Mason, ``and were at Fanning Hall to-day patrolling.''
``I would rather be killed by whites than blacks,'' said the lady.``But who is to go for the militia?''
``I will ride for them,'' said Mr.Mason.It was a dark, lowering night, and spitting rain.
``And leave me defenceless!'' she cried.``You do not stir, sir.''
