Selby had probably
returned from a carousal, with all his malignant passions raised into
frenzy by intoxication. He had driven his desolate wife from her bed and
house, and, to shun outrage and violence, she had fled, with her
helpless infant, to the barn. To appease his fury, to console her, to
suggest a remedy for this distress, was not in my power. To have sought
an interview would be merely to excite her terrors and alarm her
delicacy, without contributing to alleviate her calamity. Here, then,
was no asylum for me. A place of rest must be sought at some
neighbouring habitation. It was probable that one would be found at no
great distance: the path that led from the spot where I stood, through a
gate, into a meadow, might conduct me to the nearest dwelling; and this
path I immediately resolved to explore. I was anxious to open the gate without noise, but I could not succeed. Some creaking of its hinges was unavoidably produced, which I feared
would be overheard by the lady and multiply her apprehensions and
perplexities. This inconvenience was irremediable. I therefore closed
the gate and pursued the footway before me with the utmost expedition. I
had not gained the farther end of the meadow when I lighted on something
which lay across the path, and which, on being closely inspected,
appeared to be a human body. It was the corpse of a girl, mangled by a
hatchet. Her head, gory and deprived of its locks, easily explained the
kind of enemies by whom she had been assailed. Here was proof that this
quiet and remote habitation had been visited, in their destructive
progress, by the Indians. The girl had been slain by them, and her
scalp, according to their savage custom, had been torn away to be
preserved as a trophy. The fire which had been kindled on the kitchen-floor tvas now
remembered, and corroborated the inferences which were drawn from this
spectacle. And yet that the mischief had been thus limited, that the
besotted wretch who lay helpless on his bed and careless of impending
danger, and that the mother and her infant, should escape, excited some
degree of surprise. Could the savages have been interrupted in their
work, and obliged to leave their vengeance unfinished? Their visit had been recent. Many hours had not elapsed since they
prowled about these grounds. Had they wholly disappeared, and meant they
not to return? To what new danger might I be exposed in remaining thus
guideless and destitute of all defence? In consequence of these reflections, I proceeded with more caution. I
looked with suspicious glances before and on either side of me. I now
approached the fence which, on this side, bounded the meadow. Something
was discerned, or imagined, stretched close to the fence, on the ground,
and filling up the pathway. My apprehensions of a lurking enemy had been
previously awakened, and my fancy instantly figured to itself an armed
man lying on the ground and waiting to assail the unsuspecting
passenger. At first I was prompted to fly, but a second thought showed me that I
had already approached near enough to be endangered. Notwithstanding my
pause, the form was motionless. The possibility of being misled in my
conjectures was easily supposed. What I saw might be a log, or it might
be another victim to savage ferocity. This track was that which my
safety required me to pursue. To turn aside or go back would be merely
to bewilder myself anew. Urged by these motives, I went nearer, and at last was close enough to
perceive that the figure was human. He lay upon his face. Near his right
hand was a musket, unclenched. This circumstance, his deathlike
attitude, and the garb and ornaments of an Indian, made me readily
suspect the nature and cause of this catastrophe. Here the invaders had
been encountered and repulsed, and one at least of their number had been
left upon the field. I was weary of contemplating these rueful objects. Custom, likewise,
even in so short a period, had inured me to spectacles of horror. I was
grown callous and immovable. I stayed not to ponder on the scene, but,
snatching the musket, which was now without an owner, and which might be
indispensable to my defence, I hastened into the wood. On this side the
meadow was skirted by a forest; but a beaten road led into it, and might
therefore be attempted without danger. Chapter XXIII. The road was intricate and long. It seemed designed to pervade the
forest in every possible direction. I frequently noticed cut wood piled
in heaps upon either side, and rejoiced in these tokens that the
residence of man was near. At length I reached a second fence, which
proved to be the boundary of a road still more frequented. I pursued
this, and presently beheld before me the river and its opposite
barriers. This object afforded me some knowledge of my situation. There was a ford
over which travellers used to pass, and in which the road that I was now
pursuing terminated. The stream was rapid and tumultuous, but in this
place did not rise higher than the shoulders. On the opposite side was a
highway, passable by horses and men, though not by carriages, and which
led into the midst of Solesbury. Should I not rush into the stream, and
still aim at reaching my uncle's house before morning? Why should I
delay? Thirty hours of incessant watchfulness and toil, of enormous efforts and
perils, preceded and accompanied by abstinence and wounds, were enough
to annihilate the strength and courage of ordinary men. In the course of
them, I had frequently believed myself to have reached the verge beyond
which my force would not carry me; but experience as frequently
demonstrated my error. Though many miles were yet to be traversed,
though my clothes were once more to be drenched and loaded with
moisture, though every hour seemed to add somewhat to the keenness of
the blast, yet how should I know, but by trial, whether my stock of
energy was not sufficient for this last exploit? My resolution to proceed was nearly formed, when the figure of a man
moving slowly across the road at some distance before me was observed. Hard by this ford lived a man by name Bisset, of whom I had slight
knowledge. He tended his two hundred acres with a plodding and
money-doting spirit, while his son overlooked a grist-mill on the river. He was a creature of gain, coarse and harmless. The man whom I saw before
me might be he, or some one belonging to his family. Being armed for
defence, I less scrupled at meeting with any thing in the shape of man. I therefore called. The figure stopped and answered me without surliness
or anger. The voice was unlike that of Bisset, but this person's
information I believed would be of some service. Coming up to him, he proved to be a clown belonging to Bisset's
habitation. His panic and surprise on seeing me made him aghast. In my
present garb I should not have easily been recognised by my nearest
kinsman, and much less easily by one who had seldom met me.