The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts (Literature) (31 page)

At 8, just as the wind began to softly moan and whimper and
wheeze, Mr. Hotchkiss laid his spiritualistic book down, snuffed
the candle, threw an extra log on the fire, then parted his coat tails
and stood with his back to the blaze and began to turn over in his
mind some of the information which he had been gathering about
the manners and customs and industries of the spirit land, and to
repeat and try to admire some of the poetry which Byron had sent
thence through the rapping-mediums. He did not know that there
was a storm outside. He had been absorbed in his book for an hour
and a half. Aunt Rachel appeared, now, with an armful of wood,
which she flung in the box and said-

"Well, seh, it's de wust I ever see; and Jeff say de same."

"Worst what?"

"Storm, sell."

"Is there a storm?"

"My! didn't you know it, sell?"

"No.

"Why, it's de beatenes' storm-tain't like nothin' you ever see,
Marse Oliver-so fine-like ashes a-blowin'; why, you can't see no
distance scasely. Me en Jeff was at de prar meetin', en come back a
little bit ago, en come mighty near miss'n de house; en when we
look out, jist dis minute it's a heap wuss'n ever. Jeff he uz a
sayin'-" She glanced around; an expression of fright came into her
face and she exclaimed, "Why, I reckoned of cose he uz here-en
he ain't!"

"Who?"

"Young Marse Fawty-fo'."

"Oh, he's playing somewhere; he'll be along presently."

"You hain't seen him, seh?"

"No."

"O, my Gawd!"

She fled away, and in five minutes was back again, sobbing and
panting.

"He ain't in his room, his supper ain't tetched, he ain't anywhers;
I been all over de house. 0, Marse Oliver de chile's lost, we ain't
never gwyne to see him no mo'."

"Oh, nonsense, you needn't be afraid-boys don't mind a storm."

Uncle Jeff arrived at this moment, and said-

"But Marse Oliver dis ain't no common storm-has you been to
look at it?"

"No."

Hotchkiss was alarmed, at last, and ran with the others to the
front door and snatched it open. The wind piped a high note, and
they disappeared in a world of snow which was discharged at them
as if from steam-shovels.

"Shut it, shut it!" gasped the master. It was done. A blast of wind
came that rocked the house. There was a faint and choking cry
outside. Hotchkiss blenched, and said, "What can we do? It's death
to go out there. But we must do something-it may be the boy."

"Wait, Marse Oliver, I'll fetch a clo'es line, en Jeff he-" She
was gone, and in a moment brought it and began to tic an end
around uncle Jeff's waist. "Now, den, out wid you! me en Marse
Oliver'11 hole on to de yuther end."

Jeff was ready; the door was opened for the plunge, and the
plunge was made; but in the same instant a suffocating assault of
snow closed the eyes and took away the breath of the master and
Rachel and they sank gasping to the floor and the line escaped from
their hands. They threw themselves on their faces, with their feet
toward the door; their breath returned, and Rachel moaned, "He's
gone, now!" By the light from the hall lamp over the door she
caught a dim vision of the new boy, coming from toward the dining room, and said "Thank de good Gawd for dat much-how ever did
he find de back gate?"

The boy came through against the wind and shut the front door.
The master and Rachel rose out of their smother of snow, and the
former said, in words broken by sobs-

"I'm so grateful! I never expected to see you again."

By this time Rachel's sobs and groans and lamentations were
rising above the clamors of the storm, and the boy asked what the
trouble was. Hotchkiss told him about Jeff.

"I will go and fetch him, sir. Get into the parlor, and close the
door."

"You will venture out? Not a step-stay where you are! I
wouldn't allow-"

The boy interrupted-not with words, but only a look-and the
man and the servant passed into the parlor and closed the door.
Then they heard the front door close, and stood looking at each
other. The storm raged on; every now and then a gust of wind burst
against the house with a force which made it quake, and in the
intervals it wailed like a lost soul; the listeners tallied the gusts and
the intervals, losing heart all the time, and when they had counted
five of each, their hopes died.

Then they opened the parlor door-to do they didn't know what
-the street door sprang open at the same moment, and two snowfigures entered: the boy carrying the unconscious old negro man in
his arms. He delivered his burden to Rachel, shut the door, and
said-

"A man has found refuge in the open shed over yonder; a
slender, tall, wild-looking man with thin sandy beard. He is groaning. It is not much of a shelter, that shed."

He said it indifferently, and Hotchkiss shuddered.

"Oh, it is awful, awful!" he said, "he will die."

"Why is it awful?" asked the boy.

"Why? It-it-why of course it's awful!"

"Perhaps it is as you say; I do not know. Shall I fetch him?"

"Great guns, no! Don't dream of such a thing-one miracle of
the sort is enough."

"But if you want him-Do you want him?"

"Want him? I-why, I don't want him-that isn't it-I mean,
why, don't you understand?-it's a pity he should die, poor fellow;
but we are not in a position to-"

"I will fetch him."

"Stop, stop, are you mad!-come back!"

But the boy was gone.

"Rachel, why the devil did you let him get out? Can't you see that
the lad's a rank lunatic?"

"O, Marse Oliver, gim it to me, I deserve it! I's so thankful to git
my ole Jeff back I ain't got no sense en can't take notice of nothin'.
I's so shamed, en 0, my Gawd, I-"

"We had him, and now we've lost him again; and this time for
good; and it's all your fav It, for being a-"

The door fell open, a snow image plunged in upon the floor, the
boy's voice called, "There he is-there's others, yet," and the door
closed again.

"Oh, well," cried Hotchkiss with a note of despair, "we've got to
give him up, there's no saving him. Rachel!" He was flapping the
snow from the new take, with a "tidy." "Bless my soul, it's Crazy
Meadows! Rouse up, Jeff! lend a hand, both of you-drag him to
my fire." It was done. "Now, then, blankets, food, hot water,
whisky-fly around! we'll save him, he isn't more than half dead,
yet.

The three worked over Crazy Meadows half an hour, and
brought him around. Meantime they had kept alert ears open,
listening; but their listening was unblessed, no sounds came but the
rumbling and blustering of the storm. Crazy Meadows gazed
around confusedly, gradually got his bearings, recognized the faces,
and said-

"I am saved! Hotchkiss, it seems impossible. How did it happen?"

"A boy did it-the most marvelous boy on the planet. It was
lucky you had a lantern."

"Lantern? I hadn't any lantern."

"Yes, you had. You don't know. The boy described your build
and beard."

"I hadn't any lantern, I tell you. There wasn't any light around."

"Marse Oliver," said Rachel, "didn't Miss Hannah say de young
marster kin see in de dark?"

"Why, certainly-now that you mention it. But how could he see
through that blanket of snow? My gracious, I wish he would come!
Oh, but he'll never come, poor young chap, he'll never comenever any more.

"Marsc Oliver, don't you worry, de good Lawd kin take care of
him."

"In this storm, you old idiot? You don't know what you're talking
about. Wait-I've got an idea! Quick-get around the table; now
then, take hold of hands. Banish all obstructive influences-you
want to be particular about that; the spirits can't do anything
against doubt and incredulity. Silence, now, and concentrate your
minds. Poor boy, if he is dead he will come and say so."

He glanced up, and perceived that there was a hiatus in the
circle; Crazy Meadows said, without breach of slave-State politeness, and without offence to the slaves present, since they had been
accustomed to the frankncsses of slave-State etiquette all their
lives-

"I'll go any reasonable length to prove my solicitude for the fate
of my benefactor, for I am not an ungrateful man, and not a soured
one, either, if the children do chase me and stone me for the fun
they get out of it; but I've got to draw the line. I'm willing to sit at a
table with niggers for just this once, for your sake, Oliver Hotchkiss, but that is as far as I can go-I'll get you to excuse me from
taking them by the hand."

The gratitude of the two negroes was deep and honest; this
speech promised relief for them; their situation had been a cruelly
embarrassing one; they had sat down with these white men because
they had been ordered to do it, and it was habit and heredity to
obey, but their seats had not been more comfortable than a hot
stove would have been. They hoped and expected that their master
would be reasonable and rational, now, and send them away, but
it didn't happen. He could manage his seance without Meadows,
and would do it. I didn't mind holding hands with negroes, for he was a sincere and enthusiastic abolitionist; in fact had been
an abolitionist for five weeks, now, and if nothing happened
would be one for a fortnight longer. I had confirmed the sincerity
of his new convictions in the very beginning by setting the two
slaves free-a generosity which had failed only because they didn't
belong to him but to his wife. As she had never been an abolitionist
it was impossible that she could ever become one.

By command the slaves joined hands with their master and sat
trembling and silent, for they were miserable afraid of spectres and
spirits. I bowed his head solemnly to the table, and said in
a reverent tone:

"Are there any spirits present? If so, please rap three times."

After a pause the response came-three faint raps. The negroes
shrunk together till their clothes were loose upon their bodies, and
begged pathetically to be released.

"Sit still! and don't let your hands shake like that."

It was Lord Byron's spirit. Byron was the most active poet on the
other side of the grave in those days, and the hardest one for a
medium to get rid of. Ile reeled off several rods of poetry now, of
his usual spiritual pattern-rhymy and jingly and all that, but not
good, for his mind had decayed since lie died. At the end of
three-quarters of an hour he went away to hunt for a word that
would rhyme with silver-good luck and a long riddance, Crazy
Meadows said, for there wasn't any such word. Then Napoleon
came and explained Waterloo all over again and how it wasn't his
fault-a thing which he was always doing in the St. I days,
and latterly around the festive rapping-table. Crazy Meadows
scoffed at him, and said he didn't even get the dates right, let alone
the facts; and he laughed his wild mad laugh-a reedy and
raspy and horrid explosion which had long been a fright to the
village and its dogs, and had brought him many a volley of stones
from the children.

Shakspearc arrived and did some rather poor things, and was
followed by a throng of Roman statesmen and generals whose
English was the only remarkable thing about their contributions; then at last, about eleven o'clock, came some thundering raps which
made the table and the company jump.

"Who is it, please?"

"Forty-four!"

"Ah, how sad!-we are deeply grieved, but of course we feared it
and expected it. Are you happy?"

"I Certainly."

"We are so glad! It is the greatest comfort to us. Where are you?"

"In hell!"

"0, de good Lawd!-please, Marsc Oliver, lemme go, oh, please
lemme go--oh, Nlarse Oliver, me en Rachel can't Stan' it!"

"Hold still, you fool!"

"Oh, please, pleas'. Marse Oliver!"

"Will you keep still, you puddnhead! Ali, now, if we can only
persuade him to materialize! I've never seen one yet. Forty-four,
dear lost lad, would you mind appearing to us?"

"Oh, don't, Marsc Oliver!-please, don't!"

"Shut up! Do materialize! Do appear to us, if only for a moment!"

Presto! There sat the boy, in their midst! The negroes shricked,
and went over on their hacks on the floor and continued to shriek.
Crazy Meadows fell over backwards, too, but gathered himself up
in silence and stood apart with heaving breast and flaming eyes,
staring at the boy. Hotchkiss rubbed his hands together in gratitude
and delight, and his face was transfigured with the glory light of
triumph.

"Now let the doubter doubt and the scoffer scoff if they want to
-but they've had their day! Ah, Forty-four, dear Forty-four, you've
done our cause a noble service."

"What cause?"

"Spiritualism. Stop that screeching and screaming, will you!"

The boy stooped and touched the negroes, and said-

"There-go to sleep. Now go to bed. In the morning you will
think it was a dream." They got up and wandered somnambulistically away. Ile turned and looked at Crazy Meadows, whose lids at once sank down and hid his wild eyes. "Go and sleep in my bed;
in the morning it will be a dream to you, too." Meadows drifted
away like one in a trance, and followed after the vanished negroes.
"What is spiritualism, sir?"

Hotchkiss eagerly explained. The boy smiled, made no comment,
and changed the subject.

"Twenty-eight have perished in your village by the storm."

"Heavens! Can that be true?"

"I saw them; they are under the snow-scattered over the town."

"Saw them?"

The boy took no notice of the inquiry in the emphasised word.

"Yes-twenty-eight."

"What a misfortune!"

"Is it?"

"Why-how can you ask?"

"I don't know. I could have saved them if I had known it was
desirable. After you wanted that man saved I gathered the idea that
it was desirable, so I searched the town and saved the rest that were
straggling-thirteen."