A FOOL'S ERRAND & Its Sequel, Bricks Without Straw. Albion Winegar Tourgée
all the pleasanter," he laughed.
"Ef ye'll take pore folks' fare," said the other man somewhat anxiously, "you're welcome to supper and a bed at my house. It's right nearby," he continued, "not more'n a mile off your road at the farthest. You might ride by, and stay tu supper anyhow. 'Twouldn't hinder long, an' we'd be right glad tu chat with ye a bit."
"No, thank you," he replied: "my wife will be looking for me, and would be alarmed if I did not get home by dark, or a little after. Good-evening!"
He was about to spur on, when one of the men cried after him in their peculiar way, —
"O stranger! wait a minit. Don't stop, but jest walk along as if we was only passin' the time o' day. I don't want tu 'larm ye; but it's my notion it would be jest as well fer ye not to go home by the direct road, arter makin' that speech ye did to-day."
"Why not?"
"Wal, ye see, there was a crowd of rough fellers thar that was powerful mad at what ye said about the nigger, though I be cussed ef I don't believe it's gospel truth, every word on't, myself. However, they're mad about it; an' thar's a parcel of towns-folks hez been eggin' 'em on tu stop ye somewhar on the road home, an' they may make ye trouble. I don't think they mean tu hurt ye; but then ther's no tellin' what such a crowd'll do."
"You say they intend to waylay me?" asked Servosse.
"Wal, no! we didn't say that: did we, Bill?" appealing to his comrade. "But we thought they mout stop ye, and treat ye rough, ye know."
"So you think they'll stop me. Where do you think they'll do it?" he asked.
"Oh, we don't know it! Mind ye, we don't say so; but they mout, an', ef they did, 'twould ez likely ez not be somewhar about the ford."
"All right, my friends. When I'm stopped, it will be a queer thing if some one's not hurt."
"Better stop with us now," said his new friends anxiously, "an' not git into trouble when ye can jest ez well go round it."
"No, thank you," he answered: "I'm going home; and no one will stop me either."
He spurred on, but had gone only a short distance, when a pebble fell in the road in front of him, and then another, evidently thrown from the bushes on his right. He drew rein, and was about to take a pistol from his belt, when he heard some one, evidently a colored man, say, —
"O Mars' Kunnel! don't shoot!" And at the same time he saw a black face, surrounded by gray hair and whiskers, peering out from behind a bush. "Jes' you git down off'n yer hoss, an' stan' h'yer one minit while I tells ye sumfin'."
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently. "It's getting towards sundown, and I don't want to be late home.
"Dar! jes' h'yer him now!" said the colored man reproachfully. "Ez ef ole Jerry ebber wanted tu keep him 'way from home!"
"Well, what is it, Jerry? Be in a hurry!" said Servosse, as he dismounted, and led his horse into the dense undergrowth where the man was. It was without misgiving that he did so. He did not know the man, and had never seen him before, except, as he thought, at the meeting that day. He had been warned of danger; but such was his confidence in the good will of every colored man, that he left the highway, and came into the thicket to meet him, without fear. The confidence which his service as a Federal soldier had inspired in the good faith, trustworthiness, and caution of the colored man, had not yet departed.
"Dey's waitin' fer ye, Mars' Kunnel," said the man almost in a whisper, as soon as he came near. "I'd sot down to rest my lame leg in de bushes jes' a little while ago, an' they come 'long, an' stopped nigh 'bout where I was; an' I heard 'em lay de whole plan, — tu stop ye down by de fo'd, an' tie ye out into de woods, an' give ye a whippin' fur de speech ye made to-day."
The man came from behind his bush, and Servosse saw that he was strangely deformed, or rather crippled from disease. He walked almost bent double, supported by two staves, but had yet a very bright, intelligent countenance. He remembered then having seen him before. His name was Jerry Hunt, and he lived on a plantation adjoining Warrington.
"How did you come to be so far from home, Jerry?" he asked in surprise.
"Went to h'yer de speakin', sah. Can't tell what fer. Tought de Lor' hed sumfin' fer old Jerry tu du out h'yer; so started 'arly, an' come. I knowed de Lor' sent me, but didn't know what fer till I heerd 'em a-fixin' it up tu git ye, mars' Kunnel. Den I knowed, 'cause yu'se our fren': I knows dat."
Then he told how, as he was lying in the bushes to rest, six men came along; and he heard them arrange to waylay Colonel Servosse, "an war' him out wid hick'ries. Dey said dey wa'n't gwine to hurt him, but jes' tu let him know dat he couldn't make sech infamous speeches as dat in dis region widout gettin' his back striped, — dat's all."
"And where are they to be, Uncle Jerry?"
"Jes' on dis side de fo'd, sah, — jes' as ye goes down de hill in de deep cut."
"But how are they to know which road I take? The road forks three miles before I come to the creek, and I can as well take one as the other."
"Yes, sah!" said Uncle Jerry. "Dey taught o' dat: so dey's gwine to leabe one man at de fawks wid a good hoss to come down whichever road you don't take, an' gib 'em warnin', leastwise ef you takes de upper road, which dey don't 'spect, cos you come de lower one. Dey's gwine to put a grape-vine cross de cut to catch yer hoss."
"And who stops at the forks?"
"Mars' Savage, sah."
"What horse is he riding?"
"He'll not hev any at de cawner, but will claim to be waitin' for Mars' Vaughn's carryall to come; but de gray filly's hid in de bushes."
"All right, Jerry. I'm much obliged. If I don't take care of myself now, it's my own fault. Good-night!"
"God bless you, sah!"
Servosse rode on, revolving in his mind a plan by which he should discomfit his enemies. To evade them after such warning was a matter of no difficulty whatever; but he was too angry to wish to do this. The idea that he should be waylaid upon the public highway, and maltreated, because, after their own urgency, he had spoken his opinion frankly and plainly about a public matter, was more than he could endure. He determined to do something more than escape the threatened attack, and give the parties to understand that he was not to be trifled with.
On arriving at the forks of the road, he found Savage in waiting, as he had been told, and, after some little chat with him, started on the upper road. Savage called to him, and assured him that the lower road was much better, and a nearer way to Warrington.
"Well," was the reply, "my horse has chosen this, and I always let him have his own way when we are going toward home."
The horse of which he spoke was a bay Messenger, which he had captured in battle, and afterwards ridden for nearly two years in the service. In speed, endurance, and sagacity the horse had few equals even among that famous stock. Hoof, limb, and wind were sound; and his spirit did honor to his illustrious parentage. Upon his steadiness and capacity his rider could count with the utmost certainty. Horse and man were well mated, each understanding with exactness the temper and habits of the other.
"Now, Lollard," he said, as soon as he was well hidden from the place where Savage was posted, "make the old 'Tabernacle Church' in the best time you can, and see if we do not make these gentlemen repent the attempt to circumvent us."
"The Tabernacle"was the name of a church which stood on the upper road, about two miles from the lower ford, from which there was a bridle-path through the woods, coming out on the lower road about half a mile above the ford. To reach the latter road by this path before Savage should have time to pass the point of intersection was now the immediate object.
Lollard covered the ground with mighty stretches, but evenly and steadily, in a way that showed his staying qualities. When they reached the church, his rider threw the reins on his neck, and leaped to the ground. He was well acquainted with every bush around the church, having frequently attended meeting there. After