We haven’t lost it—have we?”
“I’m afeerd we hev, though.
The wheel-tracks ain’t no longer to be seen. They’re burnt out, along wi’ the grass.”
“What matters that?
I reckon we can cross a piece of scorched prairie, without wheel-marks to guide us?
We’ll find them again on the other side.”
“Ye-es,” naively responded the overseer, who, although a “down-easter,” had been far enough west to have learnt something of frontier life; “if theer air any other side. I kedn’t see it out o’ the seddle—ne’er a sign o’ it.”
“Whip up, niggers! whip up!” shouted Calhoun, without heeding the remark; and spurring onwards, as a sign that the order was to be obeyed.
The teams are again set in motion; and, after advancing to the edge of the burnt tract, without instructions from any one, are once more brought to a stand.
The white men on horseback draw together for a consultation.
There is need: as all are satisfied by a single glance directed to the ground before them.
Far as the eye can reach the country is of one uniform colour—black as Erebus.
There is nothing green—not a blade of grass—not a reed nor weed!
It is after the summer solstice.
The ripened culms of the gramineae, and the stalks of the prairie flowers, have alike crumbled into dust under the devastating breath of fire.
In front—on the right and left—to the utmost verge of vision extends the scene of desolation.
Over it the cerulean sky is changed to a darker blue; the sun, though clear of clouds, seems to scowl rather than shine—as if reciprocating the frown of the earth.
The overseer has made a correct report—there is no trail visible.
The action of the fire, as it raged among the ripe grass, has eliminated the impression of the wheels hitherto indicating the route.
“What are we to do?” The planter himself put this inquiry, in a tone that told of a vacillating spirit.
“Do, uncle Woodley! What else but keep straight on?
The river must be on the other side?
If we don’t hit the crossing, to a half mile or so, we can go up, or down the bank—as the case may require.”
“But, Cassius: if we should lose our way?”
“We can’t.
There’s but a patch of this, I suppose?
If we do go a little astray, we must come out somewhere—on one side, or the other.”
“Well, nephew, you know best: I shall be guided by you.”
“No fear, uncle.
I’ve made my way out of a worse fix than this.
Drive on, niggers!
Keep straight after me.”
The ex-officer of volunteers, casting a conceited glance towards the travelling carriage—through the curtains of which appears a fair face, slightly shadowed with anxiety—gives the spur to his horse; and with confident air trots onward.
A chorus of whipcracks is succeeded by the trampling of fourscore mules, mingled with the clanking of wheels against their hubs.
The waggon-train is once more in motion.
The mules step out with greater rapidity.
The sable surface, strange to their eyes, excites them to brisker action—causing them to raise the hoof, as soon as it touches the turf.
The younger animals show fear—snorting, as they advance.
In time their apprehensions become allayed; and, taking the cue from their older associates, they move on steadily as before.
A mile or more is made, apparently in a direct line from the point of starting.
Then there is a halt.
The self-appointed guide has ordered it.
He has reined up his horse; and is sitting in the saddle with less show of confidence.
He appears to be puzzled about the direction.
The landscape—if such it may be called—has assumed a change; though not for the better.
It is still sable as ever, to the verge of the horizon.
But the surface is no longer a plain: it rolls.
There are ridges—gentle undulations—with valleys between.
They are not entirely treeless—though nothing that may be termed a tree is in sight.
There have been such, before the fire—algarobias, mezquites, and others of the acacia family—standing solitary, or in copses.