Mass' George Part 97

The boy raised his face all wet with tears, and his eyes swollen. "How Pomp know?" he cried. "Fader nebber tell um."

"Don't talk, Hannibal, my man," said my father, gently. "We none of us knew, my boy. The poor fellow was wounded, and has been going about all this time with an arrow-head in his side, saying nothing, but patiently bearing it all. My poor brave fellow," he continued, taking the man's hand, "you have always been risking your life in our defence."

"Han belong to Ma.s.s' Capen," he said, feebly, as he smiled at us. "If arrow not hit um, hit ma.s.sa."

"What!" said my father, eagerly, as if he suddenly recollected something; "was it that night when you dragged me back, as the arrows flew so fast?"

Hannibal smiled, and clung to the hand which held his.

"Yes; I remember now feeling you start," said my father. "Yes--what is it?"

He leaned over the rough bed that had been made for the wounded man, for the black's lips moved.

"Ma.s.sa do somefin for Han?" he said.

"My poor fellow, only speak," said my father, who was much moved, while I felt choking.

"If Han die, ma.s.sa be kind to Pomp?"

"No," cried the boy, with a pa.s.sionate burst of grief, "Pomp die too."

"And Ma.s.sa George be good to um."

"Oh, Han," I cried, in a broken voice, as I knelt on the opposite side to my father, and held the poor fellow's other hand.

He looked keenly in both our faces, and though neither of us spoke, he was satisfied, and half closed his eyes.

"Han sleep now," he said.

Just then the doctor bent in at the opening of the tent, and signed to us to come out, and we obeyed.

"Let him sleep, boy," he whispered to Pomp. "Don't speak to him, but if he asks for anything fetch me."

Pomp nodded; he could not answer, and we accompanied the doctor to his rough tent only a few yards away.

"Well?" he said to me as I caught his hand, and questioned him with my eyes. "Do you mean can I save him? I don't know; but I do know this-- if it had been a white his case would have been hopeless. The poor fellow must have been in agony; but I have extracted the arrow-head, and these blacks have a const.i.tution that is wonderful. He may recover."

"Please G.o.d!" I said to myself, as I walked right away to try and get somewhere quite alone to sit down and think. For I was beginning to waken to the fact of how much I cared for the great kind-hearted, patient fellow, who had all along devoted his life to our service, and in the most utter self-denial offered that life in defence of ours.

Ever since the departure of the Spaniards I had slept soundly, but that night I pa.s.sed on my knees by poor old Hannibal's pillow.

It was a strange experience, for the poor fellow was delirious, and talked rapidly in a low tone. His thoughts had evidently gone back to his own land and other scenes, but I could not comprehend a word.

Pomp was there too, silent and watchful, and he whispered to me about how the doctor had cut his father's side, and it took all my powers of persuasion and insistence, upon its being right, to make the boy believe that it was to do the wounded man good.

"If Ma.s.s' George say um good," he said at last, "Pomp b'leeve um. Oh, Pomp poor fader. Pomp die too," he sobbed.

"He shan't die," I cried, pa.s.sionately. "Don't talk like that."

There was silence for a time, and then the poor fellow began to mutter again.

"What does he say?" I whispered; but the boy broke down, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. But after a time, in broken tones, he told me that his father was talking about dying down in the hold of the stifling s.h.i.+p, and about being brought ash.o.r.e.

"Dat all Pomp hear," whispered the boy. "Talk 'tuff. Done know what."

It was a long, long, weary night, but towards morning the poor fellow slept peacefully, and soon after daylight the doctor was there, as indefatigable in his attentions as he had been over my father, for the colour of a man's skin did not trouble him.

"Less fever," he said to me. "I've got a nurse for him now, so you go and get some sleep."

I was about to protest, but just then I saw who the nurse was, for Sarah stooped down to enter the shelter, and I knew that poor old Hannibal would be safe with her.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

That day the embargo was taken off, and one by one the settlers began to return to their homes, those whose houses were standing sharing them with the unfortunates whose places had been burned, so that at night the camp wore a peculiarly silent and solemn aspect, one which, depressed as I felt by Hannibal's state, seemed strange indeed.

A certain number of men stayed in the enclosure, and there were ten wounded in our temporary hospital; but the doctor set others of those who had crowded the place free.

One thing struck me directly, and that was the change in Pomp, who could hardly be persuaded to leave his father's side, but sat holding his hand, or else nestled down beside him, with his black curly head just touching the great black's arm, and gently raising it whenever I went to the tent.

I can recall it all very vividly as I now write these my recollections of the early incidents in my life, and how in the days which followed I gradually found that Hannibal fully justified the doctor's words about his fine healthy state; for after the first few days, during which his life seemed to be on the balance, he rapidly began to mend, and his being out of danger was the signal for a change.

My father had been talking about it for quite a month, but our friends at the settlement persuaded him to stay in the quarters that had been rigged up for us, and nothing could have been kinder than the treatment we received.

It was always pointed out by the settlers that at any time the Indians might return, and a fresh expedition be on foot from Florida, though this was looked upon as of little consequence, every one feeling that if the block-house were rebuilt, and the enclosure strengthened, we could laugh any Spanish attack to scorn.

With this in view, and with an eye to the attack of the Indians, very little was done in the way of rebuilding houses and cottages, but the whole strength of the settlement was devoted to the rebuilding of our little fort, and the strengthening of the stockade; and so much energy was thrown into the work by the little white and black population that a stronger building was erected, and left to be finished off afterwards.

I remember well standing with Morgan one day, and seeing the powder-kegs, which had for safety been buried under a heap of sand, disinterred and borne into the new cellar-magazine prepared for them early in the making of the block-house.

Nothing was said for some time, but all at once, as our eyes encountered, Morgan exclaimed--

"There, it's of no use for you to keep looking at me like that, Master George; I know what you are thinking about."

"Do you?"

"Yes, I just do; and I teclare to cootness, I feel as if it would have been right. The only thing against it that I can see is, that I was rather in too great a hurry."

"But it was utter madness," I said, with a shudder.

"Ah, you say so now, sir, because help came, and we were saved; but how would it have been if the Indians had got the mastery, as they nearly did? There is nothing that they stop at in the way of torture and murder, and it would have been a blessing for an end to have been made of us all at once."

"Well," I said, "don't talk about it. Let's be thankful we were saved."

"Oh, I won't say another word, sir, and I wouldn't have spoken now, only you're always looking at me in an aggravating manner."

"Ah, well, Morgan," I replied; "the powder's being put out of sight now, and I will not think about it any more."