The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Seventeen

The Indian Summer

Look forth on the forest ere autumn wind scattersIts frondage of scarlet, and purple, and gold:That forest, through which the great “Father of Waters”For thousands of years his broad current has rolled!Gaze over that forest of opaline hue,With a heaven above it of glorious blue,And say is there scene, in this beautiful world,Where Nature more gaily her flag has unfurled?Or think’st thou, that e’en in the regions of bliss,There’s a landscape more truly Elysian than this?Behold the dark sumac in crimson arrayed,Whose veins with the deadliest poison are rife!And, side by her side, on the edge of the glade,The sassafras laurel, restorer of life!Behold the tall maples turned red in their hue,And the muscadine vine, with its clusters of blue;And the lotus, whose leaves have scarce time to unfold,Ere they drop, to discover its berries of gold;And the bay-tree, perfumed, never changing its sheen,And for ever enrobed in its mantle of green!And list to the music borne over the trees!It falls on the ear, giving pleasure ecstatic —The song of the birds and the hum of the beesCommingling their tones with the ripples erratic.Hark! hear you the red-crested cardinal’s callFrom the groves of annona? – from tulip-tree tallThe mock-bird responding? – below, in the glade,The dove softly cooing in mellower shade —While the oriole answers in accents of mirth?Oh, where is there melody sweeter on earth?In infamy now the bold slanderer slumbers,Who falsely declared ’twas a land without song!Had he listened, as I, to those musical numbersThat liven its woods through the summer-day long —Had he slept in the shade of its blossoming trees,Or inhaled their sweet balm ever loading the breeze,He would scarcely have ventured on statement so wrong —“Her plants without perfume, her birds without song.”Ah! closet-philosopher, sure, in that hour,You had never beheld the magnolia’s flower?Surely here the Hesperian gardens were found —For how could such land to the gods be unknown?And where is there spot upon African groundSo like to a garden a goddess would own?And the dragon so carelessly guarding the tree,Which the hero, whose guide was a god of the sea,Destroyed before plucking the apples of gold —Was nought but that monster – the mammoth of old.If earth ever owned spot so divinely caressed,Sure that region of eld was the Land of the West!

The memory of that scene attunes my soul to song, awaking any muse from the silence in which she has long slumbered. But the voice of the coy maiden is less melodious than of yore: she shies me for my neglect: and despite the gentlest courting, refusing to breathe her divine spirit over a scene worthy of a sweeter strain. And this scene lay not upon the classic shores of the Hellespont – not in the famed valleys of Alp and Apennine – not by the romantic borders of the Rhine, but upon the banks of Mud Creek in the state of Tennessee! In truth, it was a lovely landscape, or rather a succession of landscapes, through which I rode, after leaving the cabin of my hospitable host. It was the season of “Indian summer” – that singular phenomenon of the occidental clime, when the sun, as if rueing his southern declension, appears to return along the line of the zodiac. He loves better the “Virgin” than “Aquarius;” and lingering to take a fond look on that fair land he has fertilised by his beams, dispels for a time his intruding antagonist, the hoary Boreas. But his last kiss kills: there is too much passion in his parting glance. The forest is fired by its fervour; and many of its fairest forms the rival trod of the north may never clasp in his cold embrace. In suttee-like devotion, they scorn to shun the flame; but, with outstretched arms inviting it; offer themselves as a holocaust to him who, through the long summer-day, has smiled upon their trembling existence.

At this season of the year, too, the virgin forest is often the victim of another despoiler – the hurricane. Sweeping them with spiteful breath, this rude destroyer strikes down the trees like fragile reeds – prostrating at once the noblest and humblest forms. Not one is left standing on the soil: for the clearing of the hurricane is a complete work; and neither stalk, sapling, nor stump may be seen, where it has passed. Even the giants of the forest yield to its strength, as though smitten by the hand of a destroying angel! Uprooted, they lie along the earth side by side – the soil still clinging to the clavicles of their roots, and their leafy tops turned to the lee – in this prostrate alignment slowly to wither and decay! A forest, thus fallen, presents for a time a picture of melancholy aspect. It suggests the idea of some grand battle-field, where the serried hosts, by a terrible discharge of “grape and canister,” have been struck down on the instant: not one being left to look to the bodies of the slain – neither to bury nor remove them. Like the battle-field, too, it becomes the haunt of wolves and other wild beasts; who find among the fallen trunks, if not food, a fastness securing them from the pursuit both of hound and hunter. Here in hollow log the black she-bear gives birth to her loutish cubs, training them to climb over the decaying trunks; here the lynx and red couguar choose their cunning convert; here the racoon rambles over his beaten track; the sly opossum crawls warily along the log, or goes to sleep among the tangle of dry rhizomes; while the gaunt brown wolf may be often heard howling amidst the ruin, or in hoarse bark baying the midnight moon.

In a few years, however, this sombre scene assumes a more cheerful aspect. An under-growth springs up, that soon conceals the skeletons of the dead trees: plants and shrubs appear – often of different genera and species from those that hitherto usurped the soil – and the ruin is no longer apparent. The mournful picture gives place to one of luxuriant sweetness: the more brilliant sheen of the young trees and shrubs, now covering the ground, and contrasting agreeably with the sombre hues of the surrounding forest. No longer reigns that melancholy silence that, for a while, held dominion over the scene. If, at intervals, be heard the wild scream of the couguar, or the distant howling of wolves, these scarcely interrupt the music falling endlessly upon the ear – the red cardinals, the orioles, the warbling fringillidae, and the polyglot thrushes – who meet here, as if by agreement, to make this lovely sylvan spot the scene of their forest concerts.

Shortly after leaving the cabin of this young backwoodsman, my path, hitherto passing under the gloomy shadows of the forest, debouched upon just such a scene. I had been warned of its proximity. My host, at parting, had given me directions as to how I should find my way across the herrikin– through which ran the trace that conducted to the clearing of the squatter, some two miles further down the creek. I was prepared to behold a tract of timber laid prostrate by the storm – the trees all lying in one direction, and exhibiting the usual scathed and dreary aspect. Instead of this, on emerging from the dark forest, I was agreeably surprised by a glorious landscape that burst upon my view.

It was, as already stated, that season of the year when the American woods array themselves in their most attractive robes – when the very leaves appear as if they were flowers, so varied and brilliant are their hues – when the foliage of the young beeches becomes a pale yellow, and glimmers translucent against the sun – when the maples are dying off of a deep red, and the sumac and sassafras turning respectively crimson and scarlet – when the large drupes of the Osage orange, the purple clusters of the fox-grape, and the golden berries of the persimmon or Virginian lotus, hang temptingly from the tree: just at that season when the benignant earth has perfected, and is about to yield up, her annual bounty; and all nature is gratefully rejoicing at the gift. No wonder I was agreeably impressed by the gorgeous landscape – no wonder I reigned up, and permitted my eyes to dwell upon it; while my heart responded to the glad chorus, that, from bird and bee, was rising up to heaven around me! I, too felt joyous under the reflection that, amid such lovely scenes, I had chosen my future home.

Chapter Eighteen

A Backwoods Venus

After indulging for some time in a sort of dreamy contemplation I once more gave the bridle to my horse, and rode onward. I was prepared for a tortuous path: my host had forewarned me of this. The herrikin, he said, was only three hundred yards in breadth; but I should have to ride nearly twice that distance in crossing it. His statement proved literally true. The old trace, passing down the creek bottom, had run at right angles to the direction of the storm; and, of course, the trees had fallen perpendicularly across the path – where they still lay, thick as hurdles set for a donkey-race. Some of them could be stepped over by a horse, and a few might be “jumped,” but there were others that rose breast high; and a flying-leap over a five-barred gate would have been an easy exploit, compared with clearing one of these monstrous barriers. I might add, also, from experience, that leaping a log is a feat of considerable danger. There is no room for “topping;” and should the iron hoof strike, there is nothing that will yield. On the other side, the rider has the pleasant prospect of a broken neck – either for himself or his horse. Not being in any particular hurry, I took the matter quietly; and wound my way through a labyrinth worthy of being the maze of Fair Rosamond.

I could not help remarking the singular effect which the herrikin had produced. To the right and left, as far as my view could range, extended an opening, like some vast avenue that had been cleared for the passage of giants, and by giants made! On each side appeared the unbroken forest – the trunks standing like columns, with shadowy aisles between: their outward or edge-row trending in a straight line, as if so planted. These showed not a sign that the fierce tornado had passed so near them; though others, whose limbs almost interlocked with theirs, had been mowed down without mercy by the ruthless storm.

I had arrived within fifty yards of the opposite side, and the dark forest was again before my face; but even at that short distance, the eye vainly endeavoured to pierce its sombre depths. I was congratulating myself, that I had passed the numerous logs that lay across the path, when yet one more appeared between me and the standing trees. It had been one of the tallest victims of the tornado; and now lay transversely to the line of the track, which cut it about midway. On nearing this obstacle, I saw that the trace forked into two – one going around the tops of the decaying branches, while the other took the direction of the roots; which, with the soil still adhering to them, formed a rounded buttress-like wall of full ten feet in diameter. The trunk itself was not over five – that being about the thickness of the tree. It was a matter of choice which of the two paths should be followed: since both appeared to come together again on the opposite side of the tree; but I had made up my mind to take neither. One of my motives, in seeking this forest-home, had been a desire to indulge in the exciting exercise of the chase; and the sooner I should bring my horse into practice, the sooner I might take the field with a prospect of success. Log-leaping was new to my Arab; and he might stand in need of a little training to it. The log before me had open ground on both sides; and afforded a very good opportunity for giving him his first lesson. Thus prompted by Saint Hubert, I was about spurring forward to the run; when a hoof-stroke falling upon my ear, summoned me to desist from my intention.

The sound proceeded from the forest before my face; and, peering into its darkness, I could perceive that some one, also on horseback, was coming along the path. This caused me to change my design, or rather to pause until the person should pass. Had I continued in my determination to leap the log, I should, in all likelihood, have dashed my horse at full gallop against that of the approaching traveller; since our courses lay directly head to head.

While waiting till he should ride out of the way, I became aware that I had committed an error – only in regard to the sex of the person who was approaching. It was not a he! On the contrary, something so very different that, as soon as I had succeeded in shading the sun-glare out of my eyes; and obtained a fair view of the equestrian traveller, my indifference was at an end: I beheld one of the loveliest apparitions ever made manifest in female form, or I need scarcely add, in any other. It was a young girl – certainly not over sixteen years of age – but with a contour close verging upon womanhood. Her beauty was of that character which cannot be set forth by a detailed description in words. In true loveliness there is a harmony of the features that will not suffer them to be considered apart; nor does the eye take note of any one, to regard it as unique or characteristic. It is satisfied with the coup d’oeil of the whole – if I may be permitted the expression. Real beauty needs not to be considered; it is acknowledged at a glance: eye and heart, impressed with it at the same instant, search not to study its details.

The impression made upon me by the first sight of this young girl, was that of something soft and strikingly beautiful, of a glorious golden hue – the reflection of bright amber-coloured hair on a blonde skin, tinged with a hue of vermilion – something that imparted a sort of luminous radiance divinely feminine. Even under the shadow of the trees, this luminous radiance was apparent – as if the face had a halo around it! The reader may smile at such exalted ideas, and deem them the offspring of a romantic fancy; but had he looked, as I, into the liquid depths of those large eyes, with their blue irides and darker pupils; had he gazed upon that cheek tinted as with cochineal – those lips shaming the hue of the rose – that throat of ivory white – those golden tresses translucent in the sunlight – he would have felt as I, that something shone before his eyes – a face such as the Athenian fancy has elaborated into an almost living reality, in the goddess Cytherea. In short, it was the Venus of my fancy – the very ideal I had imbibed from gazing upon many a picture of the Grecian goddess. The prognostication of my friend had proved emphatically false. If it was not Venus I saw before me, it appeared her counterpart in human form!

And this fair creature was costumed in the simplest manner – almost coarsely clad. A sleeved dress of homespun with a yellowish stripe, loosely worn, and open at the breast. A cotton “sun-bonnet” was the only covering for her head – her bright amber-coloured hair the only shawl upon her shoulders, over which it fell in ample luxuriance. A string of pearls around her neck – false ones I could see – was the sole effort that vanity seemed to have made: for there was no other article of adornment. Even shoes and stockings were wanting; but the most costly chaussure could not have added to the elegance of those mignon feet, that, daintily protruding below the skirt of her dress, rested along the flank of the horse.

More commonplace even than her homespun frock was the steed that carried her – a sorry-looking animal, that resembled the skeleton of a horse with the skin left on! There was no saddle – scarce the semblance of one. A piece of bear-skin, strapped over the back with a rough thong, did service for a saddle; and the little feet hung loosely down without step or stirrup. The girl kept her seat, partly by balancing, but as much by holding on to the high bony withers of the horse, that rose above his shoulders like the hump of a dromedary. The scant mane, wound around her tiny fingers scarcely covered them; while with the other hand she clasped the black reins of an old dilapidated bridle. The want of saddle and stirrup did not hinder her from poising herself gracefully upon the piece of bear-skin; but hers was a figure that, could not be ungraceful in any attitude; and, as the old horse hobbled along, the rude movement all the more palpably displayed the magnificent moulding of her body and limbs.

The contrast between horse and rider – the old critter and the young creature– was ridiculously striking: the former appearing a burlesque on the most beautiful of quadrupeds, while the latter was the very impersonation of the loveliest of biped forms.

It is scarcely probable that the Cyprian goddess could ever have been brought into such a ludicrous juxtaposition – a shame upon Mercury if she was! In classic lore we find mention of no such sorry steed; and, for his counterpart in story, we must seek in more modern times – fixing upon the famed charger of Calatrava’s knight. But here the analogy must end. The charms of the dark-haired Dulcinea can be brought into no comparison with those of the golden-haired wood-nymph of the Obion Bottom.

Chapter Nineteen

A Series of Contre-Temps

At sight of this charming equestrian, all thoughts of leaping the log were driven out of my mind; and I rode quietly forward, with the intention of going round it. It might be that I timed the pace of my horse —mechanically, no doubt – but however that may have been, I arrived at the prostrate tree, just as the young girl reached it from the opposite side. We were thus brought face to face, the log-barrier between us. I would have spoken; but, for the life of me, I could not think of something graceful to say; and to have used the hackneyed phraseology of “Fine morning, miss!” would, in those beautiful blue eyes that glistened under the shadow of the sun-bonnet, have rendered me as commonplace as the remark. I felt certain it would; and therefore said nothing.

Some acknowledgement, however, was necessary; and, lifting the forage-cap from my forehead, I bowed slightly – as such a salutation required – but with all the verve that politeness would permit. My salutation was acknowledged by a nod, and, as I fancied, a smile. Either was grace enough for me to expect; but, whether the smile was the offspring of a feeling in my favour, or at my expense, I was unable at the moment to determine. I should have an opportunity of repeating the bow, as we met again in going round the tree. Then I should certainly speak to, her; and, as I turned my horse’s head to the path, I set about thinking of something to say.

I had taken the path leading to the right – that which passed round the root of the tree. Of the two ways this appeared to be the shorter and the more used. What was my chagrin, when, in glancing over my arm, I perceived that I had made a most grievous mistake: the girl was going in the opposite direction! Yes – she had chosen to ride round the branching tops of the dead-wood – by all the gods, a much wider circuit! Was it accident, or design? It had the appearance of the latter. I fancied so, and fell many degrees in my own estimation. Her choosing what was evidently the “round-about” direction, argued unwillingness that we should meet again: since the mazy movement we were now performing precluded all chance of a second encounter, except with the great log still between us. Even then we should be no longer vis-à-vis as before, but dos-à-dos, almost on the instant of our approaching! To insure even this poor privilege, I rode rapidly round the great buttress of roots, that for a moment concealed the fair equestrian from my sight. I did this with the intention of getting forward in time. So rapidly did I pass, and so absorbed was I in the idea of another sweet salutation, that I saw not the fearful creature that lay basking upon the log – on the sunny side of the upheaved mass of earth.

Once on the other side, I discovered that I had made a third mistake – equally as provoking as the second – I had arrived too soon! Golden-hair was away up among the tangle of the tree-tops. I could see her bright face gleaming through the branches – now and then hidden by the broad leaves of the bignonias that laced them together. To make me still more miserable, I fancied that she was moving with a studied slowness! I had already reached that point, where the path parted from the log. I dared not pause: there was no excuse for it. Not the shadow of one could I think of; and, with a lingering towards that glittering attraction, I reluctantly headed my horse to the forest. A last glance over my shoulder disclosed no improvement in my situation: she was still behind the trellised leaf-work of the bignonias, where she had stayed perhaps to pluck a flower.

“Happier far if I had never seen her!” was the reflection that occurred to me, as I entered the gloomy shadow of the trees – less gloomy than my own thoughts.

With one circumstance I now reproached myself: why had I been so shy with this forest damsel? The very way to secure her indifference. Why had I not spoken to her, if only in commonplace? Even “Good-day” would have promised me a response; and the result could not have been more unfavourable. Why the deuce had I not bidden her “Good-day”? I should have heard her voice – no doubt an additional charm – for I never yet saw a beautiful woman with a harsh voice; and I fear the inverse proposition is equally true. Why passed I without speaking? No doubt, she deems me a yokel! Perhaps it was my very shyness she was smiling at? S’death! what a simpleton – Ho! what do I hear? A woman’s voice – a cry? – of terror? There again! – a scream! the words, “Help, oh! help!” Is it she who is calling? Yes – yes it is she! By such strange sounds were my reflections interrupted. Turning my horse with a wrench, I urged him back along the path. I was yet scarcely a dozen lengths from the log – for the reflections above detailed were but the thoughts of a moment. Half-a-dozen bounds of my steed brought me back to the edge of a standing timber – where I pulled up, to ascertain the purport of this singular summons that had reached me.

I made no inquiry – no explanation was needed. The scene explained itself: for, at the moment of my emerging from the shadowy path, I had a tableau under my eyes, expressive as it was terrifying. The girl was upon the other side of the log, and near the point where she should have turned off from it; but, instead of advancing, I saw that she had come to a halt – her attitude expressing the wildest terror, as if some fearful object was before her! The jade, too, showed affright, by snorting loudly – his head raised high in the air, and his long ears pointing forward. The young girl was dragging mechanically on the bridle – as if to head him away from the spot. But this was impossible: another log, overlapping the first, formed an avenue, so narrow as to leave not the slightest chance of a horse being able to turn in it. Into this the animal had backed. There was no way of his getting from between the two trunks, but by going straight forward or backward. Forward he dared not go; and backward he was moving, as fast as the nature of the place would permit: now halting with his hips against one of the logs; then with a quick rush backing against the other, that, but for the support thus obtained, would have brought him upon his haunches! The retrograde movement on the part of the horse was evidently the result of terror, at the sight of some object in front. It was aided also by the half-mechanical action of the rider: who, pulling continuously on the bridle, and repeating her cries for help, appeared equally to suffer from affright! My astonishment was of short duration. Effect and cause came under my eye almost at the same instant. The latter I saw upon the log in hideous form – the form of a couguar!

Slowly advancing along the dead-wood – not by bounds or paces, but with the stealthy tread of a cat – his long red body stretched out to its full extent – the beast more resembled a gigantic caterpillar than a quadruped. I could scarcely detect the movement of his limbs, so closely did the monster crawl; but his great tail, tapering three feet behind him, was seen vibrating from side to side, or at intervals moving with quick jerks – expressive of the enjoyment he was receiving in the contemplation of his prey – for such he deemed the helpless maiden before him.

I saw not the couguar’s face – hideous sight at such a moment – nor yet his eyes. Both were turned from me, and fixed steadfastly upon his intended victim. The fierce beast did not perceive my approach – perhaps a fortunate circumstance. Once or twice I saw him pause, as if crouching for a spring. Luckily, the old horse, making a fresh retrogression, caused the couguar again to advance along the log, in the same creeping attitude as before. With a glance, I had comprehended the situation: indeed, at the first glance I understood it perfectly. My delay in acting only arose from the necessity of preparing for action; and that did not take long.