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Za darmoWhere's Duncan?
Joel Chandler Harris
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You know, young folks are mighty queer. Somebody told you that they heard old Isaiah Winchell gabble about old times, and here you come fishing for what you call a story. Why, bless your soul, it's no story at all—just a happening, as my wife used to say. If you want me to tell you what there is of it, we need to have an understanding. You know what should be printed and what should be left out. I'd know myself, I reckon, if I stopped to think it over, but there's the trouble. When I get started, I just rattle along like a runaway horse. I'm all motion and no sense, and there's no stopping me until I run over a stump or up against a fence. And if I tried to write it out, it would be pretty much the same. When I take a pen in my hand, my mind takes all sorts of uncertain flights, like a pigeon with a hawk after it.
As for the affair you speak of, there's not much to tell, but it has pestered me at times when I should have been in bed and sound asleep. I've told it a thousand times, and the rest of the Winchells have told it, thinking it was a fine thing to have in the family. It has been exaggerated, too, but if I can put into your ear the facts just as they are in my mind, I'll be glad, because I want to get everything straight from the beginning.
Well, it was 1826.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 1 / 9
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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You know, young folks are mighty queer. Somebody told you that they heard old Isaiah Winchell gabble about old times, and here you come fishing for what you call a story. Why, bless your soul, it's no story at all—just a happening, as my wife used to say. If you want me to tell you what there is of it, we need to have an understanding. You know what should be printed and what should be left out. I'd know myself, I reckon, if I stopped to think it over, but there's the trouble. When I get started, I just rattle along like a runaway horse. I'm all motion and no sense, and there's no stopping me until I run over a stump or up against a fence. And if I tried to write it out, it would be pretty much the same. When I take a pen in my hand, my mind takes all sorts of uncertain flights, like a pigeon with a hawk after it.
As for the affair you speak of, there's not much to tell, but it has pestered me at times when I should have been in bed and sound asleep. I've told it a thousand times, and the rest of the Winchells have told it, thinking it was a fine thing to have in the family. It has been exaggerated, too, but if I can put into your ear the facts just as they are in my mind, I'll be glad, because I want to get everything straight from the beginning.
Well, it was 1826.That seems a long time ago to you, but to me it's no longer than yesterday. I was eighteen years old, and a right smart chunk of a boy for my age. While we were ginning and packing cotton, our overseer left us, and my father turned the whole business over to me. Now, you may think that was a small thing, because this railroad business has turned your head, but it was a very big thing, as a matter of fact. It fell to me to superintend the ginning and packing of the cotton, and then I was to go to Augusta in charge of two wagons. I never worked harder before nor since. You see, we had no packing-screws or cotton-presses in those days. The planter who could afford it had his gin, and the cotton was packed in round bales by a worker who used something like a crowbar to do the packing. He trampled the lint with his feet and beat it down with the bar until the bagging was full; then the bale weighed about three hundred pounds.
Naturally, you'd laugh at that nowadays, but it was no joke; it was hard work.
Well, after we prepared all the cotton, we loaded the wagons and started for Augusta. We hadn't gone more than two miles from home before I found that Crooked-leg Jake, my best driver, was drunk—beastly drunk. Where he got the liquor, I couldn't tell you to save my life, because it was against the law back then to sell whiskey to anyone of his color. But Crooked-leg Jake had it, and he was full of it. He had to be pulled off his mule and sent to sleep on the cotton bales. It wasn't a warm roost, but it was warm enough for a fellow in his condition.
This was a bad business for me, but I had to make the best of it. I had to do what I'd never done before—drive six mules with only one rein. That was the way they did it, but it was a tricky thing for a youngster to handle. You'd jerk, jerk, jerk to turn the lead mule right, and pull, pull, pull to go left.
So we crept along, with a stubborn mule at the wheel and a drunk man on the wagon, when suddenly out of the woods came a thick-set, dark-featured, black-bearded man with a bag slung across his shoulder.
"Hello!" he said, "you must be a new hand."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
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# language: en
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That seems a long time ago to you, but to me it's no longer than yesterday. I was eighteen years old, and a right smart chunk of a boy for my age. While we were ginning and packing cotton, our overseer left us, and my father turned the whole business over to me. Now, you may think that was a small thing, because this railroad business has turned your head, but it was a very big thing, as a matter of fact. It fell to me to superintend the ginning and packing of the cotton, and then I was to go to Augusta in charge of two wagons. I never worked harder before nor since. You see, we had no packing-screws or cotton-presses in those days. The planter who could afford it had his gin, and the cotton was packed in round bales by a worker who used something like a crowbar to do the packing. He trampled the lint with his feet and beat it down with the bar until the bagging was full; then the bale weighed about three hundred pounds.
Naturally, you'd laugh at that nowadays, but it was no joke; it was hard work.
Well, after we prepared all the cotton, we loaded the wagons and started for Augusta. We hadn't gone more than two miles from home before I found that Crooked-leg Jake, my best driver, was drunk—beastly drunk. Where he got the liquor, I couldn't tell you to save my life, because it was against the law back then to sell whiskey to anyone of his color. But Crooked-leg Jake had it, and he was full of it. He had to be pulled off his mule and sent to sleep on the cotton bales. It wasn't a warm roost, but it was warm enough for a fellow in his condition.
This was a bad business for me, but I had to make the best of it. I had to do what I'd never done before—drive six mules with only one rein. That was the way they did it, but it was a tricky thing for a youngster to handle. You'd jerk, jerk, jerk to turn the lead mule right, and pull, pull, pull to go left.
So we crept along, with a stubborn mule at the wheel and a drunk man on the wagon, when suddenly out of the woods came a thick-set, dark-featured, black-bearded man with a bag slung across his shoulder.
"Hello!" he said, "you must be a new hand.""It would take an old hand," I said, "to train this team to meet you in the road."
"Now you have me," he said, and he laughed as if enjoying a good joke.
"Who hitched up your team?" he asked.
"That drunk fellow," I said.
"To be sure," he said, "I might have known. The lead mule is on the far side."
"Why, how do you know that?" I asked.
"My two eyes tell me," he replied. "They're pulling crosswise." Without asking permission, he unhitched the traces, unbuckled the reins, and switched the two front mules. He did it in a jiffy, with such a light-hearted manner that no one could object. And indeed, no objection was needed, for the moment we started I could see he was right. No more jerking or whipping. We went on smoothly for a mile or more, until I thought to ask if he'd like to ride. He laughed and said he wouldn't mind straddling a mule, and I had no objections.
So I climbed onto the cotton and lay there beside Crooked-leg Jake. Soon Jake woke up and saw me.
"Who dat drivin' dem mules, Marse Isaiah?" he asked.
"I couldn't tell you even if you were sober," I said. "The lead mule was hitched wrong, and this man came out of the woods, fixed her, and we've been making good time since."
"Is he a sho' 'nuff w'ite man, Marse Isaiah?" Jake asked.
"Well, he looks like it," I said, "but I'm not sure."
With that, Jake crawled to the front and looked at the driver. After a while, he came back.
"Tell me what you saw," I said.
"Well, sir," he said, "I don't know if that man's white or not, but he's sitting sideways on that saddle mule, and every time he chirps, the lead mule knows what he's saying. Yes, sir. Did you say he came from the woods?"
"I don't know where he came from," I said. "He's there, and he's driving."
"Yes, sir, that's so. He's there, for I saw him myself. He looks flesh and blood, but he might be a haint—can't tell. Them mules are moving too smoothly to suit me."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 3 / 9
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# language: en
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"It would take an old hand," I said, "to train this team to meet you in the road."
"Now you have me," he said, and he laughed as if enjoying a good joke.
"Who hitched up your team?" he asked.
"That drunk fellow," I said.
"To be sure," he said, "I might have known. The lead mule is on the far side."
"Why, how do you know that?" I asked.
"My two eyes tell me," he replied. "They're pulling crosswise." Without asking permission, he unhitched the traces, unbuckled the reins, and switched the two front mules. He did it in a jiffy, with such a light-hearted manner that no one could object. And indeed, no objection was needed, for the moment we started I could see he was right. No more jerking or whipping. We went on smoothly for a mile or more, until I thought to ask if he'd like to ride. He laughed and said he wouldn't mind straddling a mule, and I had no objections.
So I climbed onto the cotton and lay there beside Crooked-leg Jake. Soon Jake woke up and saw me.
"Who dat drivin' dem mules, Marse Isaiah?" he asked.
"I couldn't tell you even if you were sober," I said. "The lead mule was hitched wrong, and this man came out of the woods, fixed her, and we've been making good time since."
"Is he a sho' 'nuff w'ite man, Marse Isaiah?" Jake asked.
"Well, he looks like it," I said, "but I'm not sure."
With that, Jake crawled to the front and looked at the driver. After a while, he came back.
"Tell me what you saw," I said.
"Well, sir," he said, "I don't know if that man's white or not, but he's sitting sideways on that saddle mule, and every time he chirps, the lead mule knows what he's saying. Yes, sir. Did you say he came from the woods?"
"I don't know where he came from," I said. "He's there, and he's driving."
"Yes, sir, that's so. He's there, for I saw him myself. He looks flesh and blood, but he might be a haint—can't tell. Them mules are moving too smoothly to suit me."Well, the upshot was that the stranger kept driving. He made himself useful during the day, and at night he made himself musical; for in the pack across his back was a fiddle, and in playing it he showed a power few men possess. He might not have been a stage performer, but I've heard your modern players, and none could come close to him, to my taste. They all seem to play for the music itself, but this man played for what it reminded him of. When he took out his fiddle at night (he always did, unless asked not to), I'd shut my eyes and dream dreams I've never dreamed since, and see visions few men see. If I were younger I could describe them, but old men like me aren't good at that.
We traveled on, joined by other cotton wagons until we became a caravan of twenty or more. That made things lively, especially at night when we camped. There were scenes never described in books about life in the South before the war. After feeding the teams and cooking supper, the men would sing, dance, and wrestle; the white men would gather to watch or tell stories and play cards. Sometimes there'd be a fight, exciting in those days of handy shotguns and dirks. There was every amusement that such a crowd could conjure. In our caravan were more than a dozen fiddlers, black and white, but none drew attention like the stranger driving my team. When in the mood, he could entrance the whole camp, but he rarely played, and often he and I would go to bed under our wagon while the others frolicked. I had found him a useful companion.
He knew how to handle mules, knew the roads, knew where to camp, and he knew how to keep Crooked-leg Jake sober.
One night after we'd gone to bed, he rose on his elbow and said, "Tomorrow night, if I'm not mistaken, we'll camp within a few miles of the Sandhills. My journey ends there, yet you've never asked my name."
"Well," I said, "you're much older than I, and I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. I had no reason to ask, anymore than you have to hide it."
He lay back and laughed. "You'll learn when you're older," he said, still laughing, though whether at my words or his own thoughts, I couldn't tell.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 4 / 9
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
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Well, the upshot was that the stranger kept driving. He made himself useful during the day, and at night he made himself musical; for in the pack across his back was a fiddle, and in playing it he showed a power few men possess. He might not have been a stage performer, but I've heard your modern players, and none could come close to him, to my taste. They all seem to play for the music itself, but this man played for what it reminded him of. When he took out his fiddle at night (he always did, unless asked not to), I'd shut my eyes and dream dreams I've never dreamed since, and see visions few men see. If I were younger I could describe them, but old men like me aren't good at that.
We traveled on, joined by other cotton wagons until we became a caravan of twenty or more. That made things lively, especially at night when we camped. There were scenes never described in books about life in the South before the war. After feeding the teams and cooking supper, the men would sing, dance, and wrestle; the white men would gather to watch or tell stories and play cards. Sometimes there'd be a fight, exciting in those days of handy shotguns and dirks. There was every amusement that such a crowd could conjure. In our caravan were more than a dozen fiddlers, black and white, but none drew attention like the stranger driving my team. When in the mood, he could entrance the whole camp, but he rarely played, and often he and I would go to bed under our wagon while the others frolicked. I had found him a useful companion.
He knew how to handle mules, knew the roads, knew where to camp, and he knew how to keep Crooked-leg Jake sober.
One night after we'd gone to bed, he rose on his elbow and said, "Tomorrow night, if I'm not mistaken, we'll camp within a few miles of the Sandhills. My journey ends there, yet you've never asked my name."
"Well," I said, "you're much older than I, and I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. I had no reason to ask, anymore than you have to hide it."
He lay back and laughed. "You'll learn when you're older," he said, still laughing, though whether at my words or his own thoughts, I couldn't tell.Then he went on, "You're as clever a youngster as I've met, and I've nothing to hide. My name is Willis Featherstone. I'm a vagabond, else you'd never see me trudging the road with just a fiddle, but I have a rich daddy around here, and I'm on my way to see how he's doing. Now," he continued, "I'll give you a riddle. If you can't solve it, it'll solve itself. A father had a son. He sent him to school in Augusta until he was fifteen. By then, the father grew to hate the son, and one day, in anger, sold him to a slave trader."
"How could that be?" I asked.
"That's part of the riddle," he said.
"Are you the son?"
"That's another part."
"Where was the mother?" I asked.
"In the riddle, in the riddle," he replied.
I couldn't solve it, but it hinted at villainy like I'd read in my father's books. A man selling his son—that was enough for me. It gave me much to dream about, and as a heavy dreamer then, my dreams came thick. But they aren't worth telling, for what actually happened was far worse.
As Featherstone predicted, we camped the next night near the Sandhills, where the rich of Augusta summered to escape heat and malaria. We could have pushed on to Augusta, but men and mules were tired; only one wagon went forward. I'll remember that place forever. In a hollow surrounded by live-oaks (we call them water-oaks up here) was a bold spring, with plenty of grass for the mules. It was November, so the grass was dry but good forage. Beyond the spring, on a small hill, stood a house—later I had a good view of it, but in twilight it seemed substantial. Painted white with green blinds, it sat in a grove of magnolias and cedars. I remember, vivid as ever, how the avenue was lined with Lombardy poplars, their slender trunks clear against the sky.
As I helped Featherstone unhitch, he suddenly said, "That's the place."
"What place?" I asked.
"The place in the riddle—where the son was sold by his father."
"Well," I said, to say something, "what can't be cured must be endured."
He was quiet, then said, "You're a clever chap, the best I've seen in a long while, and I like you. I've watched you like a hawk, and I know you have a mother at home."
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 5 / 9
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
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Then he went on, "You're as clever a youngster as I've met, and I've nothing to hide. My name is Willis Featherstone. I'm a vagabond, else you'd never see me trudging the road with just a fiddle, but I have a rich daddy around here, and I'm on my way to see how he's doing. Now," he continued, "I'll give you a riddle. If you can't solve it, it'll solve itself. A father had a son. He sent him to school in Augusta until he was fifteen. By then, the father grew to hate the son, and one day, in anger, sold him to a slave trader."
"How could that be?" I asked.
"That's part of the riddle," he said.
"Are you the son?"
"That's another part."
"Where was the mother?" I asked.
"In the riddle, in the riddle," he replied.
I couldn't solve it, but it hinted at villainy like I'd read in my father's books. A man selling his son—that was enough for me. It gave me much to dream about, and as a heavy dreamer then, my dreams came thick. But they aren't worth telling, for what actually happened was far worse.
As Featherstone predicted, we camped the next night near the Sandhills, where the rich of Augusta summered to escape heat and malaria. We could have pushed on to Augusta, but men and mules were tired; only one wagon went forward. I'll remember that place forever. In a hollow surrounded by live-oaks (we call them water-oaks up here) was a bold spring, with plenty of grass for the mules. It was November, so the grass was dry but good forage. Beyond the spring, on a small hill, stood a house—later I had a good view of it, but in twilight it seemed substantial. Painted white with green blinds, it sat in a grove of magnolias and cedars. I remember, vivid as ever, how the avenue was lined with Lombardy poplars, their slender trunks clear against the sky.
As I helped Featherstone unhitch, he suddenly said, "That's the place."
"What place?" I asked.
"The place in the riddle—where the son was sold by his father."
"Well," I said, to say something, "what can't be cured must be endured."
He was quiet, then said, "You're a clever chap, the best I've seen in a long while, and I like you. I've watched you like a hawk, and I know you have a mother at home.""Yes," I said, "she's the dearest old mother. I wish you knew her."
He came close, laid his hand on my shoulder, and looked at me with an air I can't forget. "That's the trouble," he said, "I don't know her. If I did, I'd be a better man. I never had much of a mother." With that, he turned away, and soon I heard him singing softly while he mended a harness piece. All the while, Crooked-leg Jake cooked our supper under the oaks. Other teamsters did likewise, so there were two dozen campfires within a quarter mile. The weather was pleasant, and the scene was lively.
Jake was always lavish with his cooking; he went at it with zest, and we soon ate. While others fussed, Jake nodded by the fire, and Featherstone played his fiddle. He never played better than that night, and he played long while I sat listening. Quite a few teamsters gathered, some reclining in the leaves smoking pipes, others standing. Suddenly, I saw that Featherstone had a new auditor, a strange one. I don't know how I noticed; maybe it just came upon me. He gripped his fiddle neck tighter and swung from "Money-musk" into one of those heart-breaking plantation tunes. Where the folks ever learned them, the Lord knows.
Following his gaze, I looked and saw, within the circle, a tall mulatto woman. She was striking, with hair black and straight as an Indian's, sunken cheeks, and a wolfish look. She rubbed her skinny hands together and licked her thin lips, seeming distraught. When Featherstone stopped, pretending to tune, she drew a long breath and tried to smile, exposing white teeth that gleamed in the firelight like fangs. Finally she spoke, an ungracious speech:
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# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
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"Yes," I said, "she's the dearest old mother. I wish you knew her."
He came close, laid his hand on my shoulder, and looked at me with an air I can't forget. "That's the trouble," he said, "I don't know her. If I did, I'd be a better man. I never had much of a mother." With that, he turned away, and soon I heard him singing softly while he mended a harness piece. All the while, Crooked-leg Jake cooked our supper under the oaks. Other teamsters did likewise, so there were two dozen campfires within a quarter mile. The weather was pleasant, and the scene was lively.
Jake was always lavish with his cooking; he went at it with zest, and we soon ate. While others fussed, Jake nodded by the fire, and Featherstone played his fiddle. He never played better than that night, and he played long while I sat listening. Quite a few teamsters gathered, some reclining in the leaves smoking pipes, others standing. Suddenly, I saw that Featherstone had a new auditor, a strange one. I don't know how I noticed; maybe it just came upon me. He gripped his fiddle neck tighter and swung from "Money-musk" into one of those heart-breaking plantation tunes. Where the folks ever learned them, the Lord knows.
Following his gaze, I looked and saw, within the circle, a tall mulatto woman. She was striking, with hair black and straight as an Indian's, sunken cheeks, and a wolfish look. She rubbed her skinny hands together and licked her thin lips, seeming distraught. When Featherstone stopped, pretending to tune, she drew a long breath and tried to smile, exposing white teeth that gleamed in the firelight like fangs. Finally she spoke, an ungracious speech:"Ole Giles Featherstone, up yonder—he's my marster—he sent me down here to tell you-all that, seeing he got some vittles left from dinner, he'd be glad if some one of you would come take supper with him. But, gentlemen"—here she lowered her voice to a tragic tone—"you better not go, 'cause he ain't got nothin' up there fit to eat—some cold scraps and the frame of a turkey. He scrimps himself, and he scrimps me, and everybody on the place, and he'll scrimp you-all if you go there. No, gentlemen, if you got cornbread and bacon, you better stay away."
Whatever the teamsters might have answered was drowned by Featherstone's fiddle, which burst into a wild, plaintive plantation melody. The woman stood entranced; she caught her breath, drew back a step, stretched forth her arms, and cried, "Who in the name of God is that man?"
Featherstone stopped, fixed his eyes on her, and shouted, "Where's Duncan?"
For a moment, she stood paralyzed. She gasped, her arms twitched, her face muscles convulsed pitifully. Then she rushed forward, fell at his feet, and hugged his legs. "Honey, who is you?" she wailed. "In the name of the Lord, who is you? Do you know me? Say, honey, do you?"
Featherstone looked down serenely. "Come, now," he said, "I ask you again, Where's Duncan?"
His tone was chilling, thrilling, and it had a huge effect. She rose, flung her bony arms overhead, and ran off into the darkness, screaming, "He sold him! He sold Duncan! He sold my only boy!" She kept repeating it as she ran toward the house on the hill, her voice fading like an echo.
There was little joking after that, and little talk at all. None went to the house. Featherstone put his fiddle away and walked to the wagons, and soon we all turned in.
I must have slept an hour when I felt someone shaking me. It was Crooked-leg Jake. "Marse Isaiah," he said, "they's a mighty fuss up at the house on the hill. I think somebody ought to go."
"What are they doing?" I asked drowsily.
"They's cussing and carrying on scandalous. That colored woman is cussing out the white man, and he's cussing back."
"Where's Featherstone?" I asked.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 7 / 9
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
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"Ole Giles Featherstone, up yonder—he's my marster—he sent me down here to tell you-all that, seeing he got some vittles left from dinner, he'd be glad if some one of you would come take supper with him. But, gentlemen"—here she lowered her voice to a tragic tone—"you better not go, 'cause he ain't got nothin' up there fit to eat—some cold scraps and the frame of a turkey. He scrimps himself, and he scrimps me, and everybody on the place, and he'll scrimp you-all if you go there. No, gentlemen, if you got cornbread and bacon, you better stay away."
Whatever the teamsters might have answered was drowned by Featherstone's fiddle, which burst into a wild, plaintive plantation melody. The woman stood entranced; she caught her breath, drew back a step, stretched forth her arms, and cried, "Who in the name of God is that man?"
Featherstone stopped, fixed his eyes on her, and shouted, "_Where's Duncan?_"
For a moment, she stood paralyzed. She gasped, her arms twitched, her face muscles convulsed pitifully. Then she rushed forward, fell at his feet, and hugged his legs. "Honey, who is you?" she wailed. "In the name of the Lord, who is you? Do you know me? Say, honey, do you?"
Featherstone looked down serenely. "Come, now," he said, "I ask you again, _Where's Duncan?_"
His tone was chilling, thrilling, and it had a huge effect. She rose, flung her bony arms overhead, and ran off into the darkness, screaming, "He sold him! He sold Duncan! He sold my only boy!" She kept repeating it as she ran toward the house on the hill, her voice fading like an echo.
There was little joking after that, and little talk at all. None went to the house. Featherstone put his fiddle away and walked to the wagons, and soon we all turned in.
I must have slept an hour when I felt someone shaking me. It was Crooked-leg Jake. "Marse Isaiah," he said, "they's a mighty fuss up at the house on the hill. I think somebody ought to go."
"What are they doing?" I asked drowsily.
"They's cussing and carrying on scandalous. That colored woman is cussing out the white man, and he's cussing back."
"Where's Featherstone?" I asked."That's why I came to you. He's up there, and looks like he's a-egging the fight on. They's going to be trouble, sure as you're born."
"Nonsense," I said, "the master will give her a whipping and that'll be it."
"No, sir," Jake insisted, "that woman has got him riled. It's just like I tell you."
I sent him back to bed, turned over, and was dozing when I heard a stir through camp: mules snorting and tugging, chickens cackling, geese screaming. Jake came back, shaking me. "What I tell you?" he cried. "Look up there! If that house ain't afire, I'm a liar!"
I propped myself up and saw the hilltop house outlined in flame. Hungry yellow tongues lapped the corners and roof, as if searching for food. They found it soon enough—by the time I reached the spot (and I ran fast), the whole roof blazed. I had never seen such a fire, and it made me shake. But in a moment I forgot the fire, for before me was a spectacle that haunts me still.
In the dining room—I assume it was, with a sideboard and candles—the mulatto woman was fighting a gray-haired white man. The candlelight and flames made it look like a theatre scene, yet more terrible.
It was clear the old man was no match for her, but he fought for his life. Their noise was lost in the roaring flames, but they seemed to make none except a snarling when they breathed, like two bulldogs. The woman held a carving knife, trying to push the man against the wall; he tried to grab her hand and avoid the wall. But she was younger and stronger, and, desperate as he was, she was more so.
Of course, it's easy to ask why we didn't rush in.
I think someone tried, but the roof was cracking, and heat and smoke were stifling. The smoke and flames poured downward, and soon the building was a sheet of fire. Yet through it all, we saw the two wrestling. Once I heard a voice; it was the woman's. She raised the knife with one hand and grabbed the man's throat with the other. "Where's Duncan?" she shrieked.
He had no chance to answer, for she plunged the knife into him, once, twice. It was sickening, and I shut my eyes. But no need; the two fell to the floor and vanished from sight.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 8 / 9
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"That's why I came to you. He's up there, and looks like he's a-egging the fight on. They's going to be trouble, sure as you're born."
"Nonsense," I said, "the master will give her a whipping and that'll be it."
"No, sir," Jake insisted, "that woman has got him riled. It's just like I tell you."
I sent him back to bed, turned over, and was dozing when I heard a stir through camp: mules snorting and tugging, chickens cackling, geese screaming. Jake came back, shaking me. "What I tell you?" he cried. "Look up there! If that house ain't afire, I'm a liar!"
I propped myself up and saw the hilltop house outlined in flame. Hungry yellow tongues lapped the corners and roof, as if searching for food. They found it soon enough—by the time I reached the spot (and I ran fast), the whole roof blazed. I had never seen such a fire, and it made me shake. But in a moment I forgot the fire, for before me was a spectacle that haunts me still.
In the dining room—I assume it was, with a sideboard and candles—the mulatto woman was fighting a gray-haired white man. The candlelight and flames made it look like a theatre scene, yet more terrible.
It was clear the old man was no match for her, but he fought for his life. Their noise was lost in the roaring flames, but they seemed to make none except a snarling when they breathed, like two bulldogs. The woman held a carving knife, trying to push the man against the wall; he tried to grab her hand and avoid the wall. But she was younger and stronger, and, desperate as he was, she was more so.
Of course, it's easy to ask why we didn't rush in.
I think someone tried, but the roof was cracking, and heat and smoke were stifling. The smoke and flames poured downward, and soon the building was a sheet of fire. Yet through it all, we saw the two wrestling. Once I heard a voice; it was the woman's. She raised the knife with one hand and grabbed the man's throat with the other. "_Where's Duncan?_" she shrieked.
He had no chance to answer, for she plunged the knife into him, once, twice. It was sickening, and I shut my eyes. But no need; the two fell to the floor and vanished from sight.Immediately came a crash: the roof fell in, followed by a fountain of sparks and flame, a roar like a storm's peak. It roused the pigeons, which circled the burning building. One, more frightened, dove headlong into the flames, vanishing with a fizz and sputter, burnt to a crackling. I watched such things with strange interest, sharpened by the thought that no hope remained for the two under the roof.
Naturally, you'll want to ask many questions. I've asked them myself a thousand times, tried to dream the answers while dozing in the sun, but my dreams are full of the smell of burning flesh. Crooked-leg Jake insisted to his dying day that the man who'd driven our team sat in a chair in the corner, watching the fight, seeming to enjoy it. It may be so. We never saw him again. As for the rest, you know as much as I do.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6a378fab654040d4bb4e5d46f9ca2465
# book_title: Where's Duncan?
# chapter_id: 1-where-s-duncan
# chapter_title: Where's Duncan?
# book_page: 9 / 9
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Immediately came a crash: the roof fell in, followed by a fountain of sparks and flame, a roar like a storm's peak. It roused the pigeons, which circled the burning building. One, more frightened, dove headlong into the flames, vanishing with a fizz and sputter, burnt to a crackling. I watched such things with strange interest, sharpened by the thought that no hope remained for the two under the roof.
Naturally, you'll want to ask many questions. I've asked them myself a thousand times, tried to dream the answers while dozing in the sun, but my dreams are full of the smell of burning flesh. Crooked-leg Jake insisted to his dying day that the man who'd driven our team sat in a chair in the corner, watching the fight, seeming to enjoy it. It may be so. We never saw him again. As for the rest, you know as much as I do.
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