Читать книгу The Victim - Thomas Dixon - Страница 4
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The hot sun of the South was sinking in red glow through the giant tree-tops of a Mississippi forest beyond the village of Woodville. A slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge manfully away beside his stalwart brother.
Her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears.
"Wait—wait!" she cried.
With a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart.
"Don't, Polly—you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her with a feeling of sudden fear. "Why did you squeeze me so hard?"
"You shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned.
"I know," the sister pleaded, "but I couldn't help it."
"What are you crying about?" the boy questioned.
Again the girl's arm stole around his neck.
"What's the matter with her, Big Brother?" he asked with a brave attempt at scorn.
The man slowly loosened the sister's arms.
"I'm just going home with you, ain't I?" the child went on, with a quiver in his voice.
The older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands.
"No, Boy," he said quietly. "I'd as well tell you the truth now. I'm going to send you to Kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned men from the Old World—wise monks who know everything. You want to go to a real school, don't you?"
"But my Mamma don't know—"
"That's just it, Boy. We can't tell her. She wouldn't let you go."
"Why?"
"Well, she's a good Baptist, and it's a long, long way to the St. Thomas monastery."
"How far?"
"A thousand miles, through these big woods—"
The blue eyes dimmed.
"I want to see my Mamma before I go—" his voice broke.
The man shook his head.
"No, Boy; it won't do. You're her baby—"
The dark head sank with a cry.
"I want to see her!"
"Come, come, Jeff Davis, you're going to be a soldier. Remember you're the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and won our freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great President. Your three brothers have just come home from New Orleans. Under Old Hickory we drove the British back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to England. The son of a soldier—the brother of soldiers—can't cry—"
"I will if I want to!"
"All right!" the man laughed—"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it full—"
He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little chin. The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger. His bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult of a hat full of tears had hurt.
At last, he found his tongue:
"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"
"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for the best."
"That's why he kissed me when I left?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed me before—"
"He's quiet and reserved, Boy, but he's wise and good and loves you. He's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a wife and ten children. He never had a chance to get an education and the children didn't either. Some of us are too old now. There's time for you. We're going to stand aside and let you pass. You're our baby brother, and we love you."
The child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man.
"And I love you, Big Brother—" the little voice faltered, "and all the others, too, and that's-why-I'm-not-goin'!"
"I'm so glad!" The girl clapped her hands and laughed.
"Polly!—"
"Well, I am, and I don't care what you say. He's too little to go so far and you know he is—"
The man grasped her hand and whispered:
"Hush!"
The brother slipped his arm around the Boy and drew him on his knee. He waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm mouth had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled hair back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. His voice was tender and his speech slow.
"You must make up your mind to go, Boy. I don't want to force you. I like to see your eyes flash when you say you won't go. You've got the stuff in you that real men are made of. That's why it's worth while to send you. I've seen that since you could toddle about the house and stamp your feet when things didn't suit you. Now, listen to me. I've made a vow to God that you shall have as good a chance as any man to make your way to the top. We're going to be the greatest nation in the world. I saw it in the red flash of guns that day at New Orleans as I lay there in the trench and watched the long lines of Red Coats go down before us. Just a lot of raw recruits with old flintlocks! The men who charged us, the picked veterans of England's grand army. But we cut 'em to pieces, Boy! I fired a cannon loaded with grape shot that mowed a lane straight through 'em. It must have killed two hundred men. They burned our Capitol at Washington and the Federalist traitors at Hartford were firin' on us in the rear, but Old Hickory showed the world that we could lick England with one hand tied behind our back. And we did it. We drove 'em like sheep—drove 'em into the sea.
"There's but one name on every lip in this country now, Boy, and that's Old Hickory. He'd be President next time—but for one thing,—just one thing—he didn't have a chance to learn when he was a boy. He's not educated."
The brother paused, and a dreamy look came into his eyes. "We may make him President anyhow. But if he'd been educated—there wouldn't be any if or and about it. Washington and Jefferson and Madison belong to the rich and powerful class. Jackson is a yeoman like your father. But he'd be President. Boy, if he'd been educated! Nothing could stop him. Don't you see this is your country? This is a poor man's world. All you have to do is to train your mind. You've got to do this—you understand—you've got to do it—"
The man paused suddenly and looked into the Boy's wondering eyes. He had forgotten the child's rebellion. The young pioneer of the wilderness was talking to himself. Again he had seen a vision.
He seized the Boy's arms:
"Don't you see, Boy, don't you?"
The child's mouth hardened again:
"No, I don't. I'm just a little boy. I love my Mamma. She's good and sweet to me and I'm not going to leave her—"
Again Polly laughed.
A smile slowly played about the brother's lips and eyes. He must show his trump card.
"But you don't know what I've got for you—"
"What?"
"Something you've always wanted to have for your own—"
"A pony?"
The man slowly rose:
"Come out to the big road—"
The Boy seized his sister's hand:
"Polly, let's see!"
The girl's eyes grew dim:
"Oh, Jeff, I know you're goin'!"
"No—we'll just see what it is—come on!"
In five minutes they emerged from the deep woods into the clearing around a cabin. Beside the roadway stood a horse and pony, both bridled and saddled.
The swift feet of the Boy flew across the opening, the sister wide-eyed and trembling, close on his heels. He threw his arms around the pony's neck and stroked his head with gentle touch. The pony pressed his mouth against the Boy's cheek in friendly response.
"Did you see him kiss me, Polly?" he cried tremblingly.
"Yes, I saw him," was the solemn response.
"Isn't he a beauty? Look, Polly—he's got a white spot on every foot and one in his forehead and black as a coal all over—and Oh—what a saddle—a red belt and red martingales!"
He touched the saddle lovingly and circled the pony's neck with his arms.
The brother smiled again:
"Well, what do you think of that?"
The Boy was trembling now from head to foot, his heart in his throat as he slowly asked:
"You mean that—you'll—give—him—to me—for—all my own?"
"If you'll be a good boy, go to school and work hard—yes."
"All right, Big Brother," was the quick answer, "I'll go. Help me on him quick, and let me try him!"
The Boy lifted his bare foot into the strong hand, sprang into the saddle, bounded down the road, wheeled, flew back and leaped to the ground.
"He's a dandy!"
Polly dropped her head and started home, making a brave fight to keep back the tears. Half way across the clearing she gave up in a long pitiful wail.
The Boy, busy with his pony, had not missed her. In a moment he was by her side, his arms about her neck.
"Don't cry, Polly honey, I'll be back before long," he pleaded.
The only answer was a sob:
"Good-by, Jeff—"
Her hands slowly slipped through his.
"Good-by, Polly—"
He watched her go with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents:
"Kiss Mamma for me—and tell her I wanted to go back and say good-by—but Joe wouldn't let me!"
"Yes, honey!"
"And you—watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods, Polly!"
"Yes!"
"Don't let him get you—"
"No—I won't—good—good-by!"
"Good-by—"
The last good-by stuck in the Boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes, saw his pony and smiled through the tears.
