The Big Brother
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George Cary Eggleston >> The Big Brother
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"Yes, of course."
"Well, now I can explain the thing to you, I think. If a thing is
heavier,--the whole thing I mean, than the amount of water it
displaces,--that is, if it is heavier than exactly its own bulk of
water, it will sink; but if it is lighter than its own bulk of water it
will float."
"Oh, yes, I see."
"Now a bullet weighs a good deal more than its own bulk of water, and so
it sinks. A log weighs less than its own bulk of water, and so it
floats. An empty teacup weighs less than a solid body of water equal to
it in size, and it therefore floats. If you fill it with water, however,
you increase its weight without adding anything to the amount of water
it displaces,--or rather, as you let water into all the hollow space,
you lessen by that much the amount of water it must displace in sinking
without taking away anything from its weight, and so it sinks; or, if
you break the teacup you lessen the amount of water it must displace
without lessening its weight, and so it sinks in that case, too. Do you
understand that?"
"Yes, I think I do," said Tom; "but I don't exactly see how it applies
to the drift-pile."
"I'll explain that presently. I want to make it plain first that the
ability of a thing to float depends not on its weight, but on its weight
as compared with that of a like bulk of water. This comparative or
relative weight is called _specific gravity_, and in measuring the
specific gravity of substances water is taken as the standard usually,
though sometimes gold is used for that purpose. Now to come to the
drift-pile. When the water rises say two or three feet, it will be above
the level of the lower logs, and these would float away, if they were
free, because their specific gravity is less than that of water. But
there is twenty feet of other timber on top of them, and its weight must
be added to theirs. The water displaced is exactly equal to their bulk,
while the weight is many hundred times greater than theirs. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, I think I do. You mean that the water must come high enough to
pretty nearly cover the whole drift-pile before any of it can float."
"Yes. The pile must be considered as a whole, and it won't float until
there is water enough to float the whole. The bottom logs can't float
while those above them are clear out of water, if their weight rests on
the bottom logs, as it does in the drift-pile. You see when you put
anything into the water, it sinks until it has displaced a bulk of water
equal to its own weight, and then stops sinking. In other words, that
part of the floating thing which goes under the water is exactly the
size of a body of water equal in weight to the whole thing. If a log
floats with just half of itself above water, you know that the log
weighs exactly the same as half its own bulk of water, or, in other
words, that its specific gravity is just half that of water. Water two
inches deep won't float a great saw-log, because a great saw-log weighs
more than the amount of water it takes to cover its lower part two or
three inches deep; and water two or three feet deep won't float a
drift-pile twenty feet high, because such a drift-pile weighs a good
deal more than a body of water two or three feet deep, of its own length
and width. But even if the water were to rise to the top of the hammock,
the pile wouldn't float away. It would float, of course, and some of the
wood near its edges would be carried away, but the main pile would
remain here, because it is all tangled together and can't go away except
in one great mass. It is so firmly lodged against the trees as to
prevent that, and as a freshet big enough to cover, or nearly cover it,
would bring down a great quantity of new drift and deposit it here, the
pile would grow bigger rather than smaller. But the river won't get very
high at this season, or at any rate it won't rise to anywhere near the
top of the hammock, as I have already explained to you, because it is
evidently only the biggest freshets that ever come near the top, and the
biggest freshets never come in the fall, but always in the spring. It
isn't rising fast enough either. It isn't rising nearly so fast now as
it was before it got over the bank."
"Why, how do you know that, Sam? You haven't been to look."
"No, but I know it, nevertheless, simply because I know that water, left
to itself, will find its level."
"I don't see what that's got to do with it," said Tom.
"Perhaps not, but it has something to do with it for all that," replied
Sam; "and I can make you see how, too."
He paused, to think the matter over and determine how to present it to
Tom's comprehension.
"You see," he then resumed, "that the river inside its banks is about
four hundred yards wide. When it rises above the banks, however, it
spreads out over the level ground, and becomes, in some places, many
miles wide, averaging a mile at least in width. Now there is only a
certain amount of water coming into the river every hour. The rain has
stopped, but the soil is full of water, and so there is about as much
running into the river now as there was while the rain lasted. But the
surface of the stream is now many times greater than it was, and as
water finds its level, all that comes into the river spreads out over
its whole surface, and of course doesn't raise its level nearly so much
as the same quantity did while the stream was still within its banks. Do
you understand now?"
"What a great big brother you are, Sam, anyhow!" was all the reply Tom
made.
CHAPTER XVI.
WHERE IS JOE?
It was now getting late, and Sam knew that it was not well for him to
talk longer. He felt so much better, however, that he knew he would
continue to talk in spite of himself unless the whole party should go to
sleep at once. Joe had not been in the drift cavern for more than two
hours, and Sam, observing his prolonged absence, said:
"Tom, I'm afraid some of us have hurt poor Joe's feelings. Go and look
at your water-mark, and while you are out, find the poor fellow and find
out what's the matter with him. He's a good boy, and has done his part
faithfully ever since we started. I can't bear to think of him moping."
Tom went out and examined his stake, which showed that the water was not
more than an inch or two over the bank, and was not rising very rapidly
now; but he could see nothing of Joe anywhere. He went to the look-out,
but the boy was not there, and a diligent search through the drift-pile,
showed that he was nowhere in the neighborhood of the fortress. Tom was
now fairly alarmed, and returning, was about to report the facts to Sam,
when little Judie, in a whisper, informed him that the big brother was
asleep. As his fever had risen somewhat, Judie rightly thought it better
not to disturb him, as he certainly could not aid in any way in finding
Joe.
"I must just think," Tom said to himself, "as Sam does, and then I can
do all there is to be done. Now I know Joe isn't anywhere in the
hammock, because I knew every place he could squeeze himself into, and
I've looked in every one of them. It's no use then to waste time looking
there any more. He must have left here, either accidentally or on
purpose. He couldn't have slipped off the drift and drowned, because he
can swim pretty well and would have swam out in a minute. There is no
other way in which he can have left here by accident, unless an Indian
has killed him on the drift-pile somewhere, and if that were so I would
have found his body. He must have run away on purpose."
But just as Tom reached this point in his thinking he remembered the
earnestness with which poor Joe had begged him to bear witness in any
and every event that he was not "a runaway nigger." And this reminded
Tom of all the queer ways he had noticed in Joe of late. The boy must
have had a premonition, he thought, that something was going to happen
to him. Only two theories remained. One was that Joe had gone crazy
under his long exile from civilized life and had madly put an end to
himself by jumping into the river; and the other that, persisting in his
belief in the instability of the drift-pile, he had gone to the upper
bank for safety and had fallen asleep there. In that event he must be
found, lest an Indian should discover him in the morning and put him to
death. Tom went ashore after explaining his purpose to Judie, so that
she might not be alarmed at his absence, and literally spent the entire
night in hunting for the black boy. Joe was nowhere to be found, and
when daylight came, Tom saw that a further search was of no use
whatever, and he therefore returned sadly to the drift cavern. The water
was now going down again, and the bank was free from it, but the sand in
the root fortress was still too wet to sit or lie upon, and so Tom made
no immediate preparation for their return.
Sam's fever was very slight that morning, and his first question was
about Joe. Tom told him of his night's search, and Sam's deduction from
all the facts was that the poor boy had committed suicide, had been
killed by an Indian and thrown into the river, or had fallen in
accidentally and drowned.
"He would never have left us in any case," said Sam, "and even had he
been less faithful, he would have been afraid to run away, not knowing
where to run or how to take care of himself in the woods."
They were too much grieved for Joe's loss, to relish their breakfast,
and that meal was dispatched very quickly. Tom watched the falling of
the water all day, and at night reported that the river was well inside
its banks again.
CHAPTER XVII.
A FAMINE.
The river having gone down until no water remained on the sandy bank,
Tom reported the fact and added,
"Now let's move back again to the root-fortress. It's a safer place than
this, by a good deal, if it isn't quite so big or quite so comfortable."
"No, we mustn't go back yet," said Judie, who had visited the fortress
before Tom had, "because the sand in there is as wet as can be, and I
can't let my big sick brother lie on it."
"There, Tom," said Sam, "my doctor forbids my return yet awhile, and a
sick man always must obey the doctor you know. Besides, Judie is right.
It won't do for any of us to lie on wet sand; we must wait till it
dries; but that won't be very long if the river continues to go down."
Accordingly they spent one more night in the drift cavern. Early the
next morning Judie went to the fortress, and returning said, playing
doctor.
"Now, then, Mr. Hardwicke, the floor of your lower house is quite dry,
and I think it will be safe to move back again. Will you have your
breakfast first, or will you wait until you get back home again before
eating anything?"
"Oh, let's wait, by all means, and eat breakfast in the dear old
root-fortress," said Tom, and as Sam made no objection, it was so
arranged.
By nine o'clock the moss carpet was laid in the root-fortress and the
little party was back in its old quarters again. The vacant corner which
had been Joe's, reminded them sadly of his disappearance. Poor fellow!
they had learned to love him almost as a brother, and they could not
think of him now without tears. When three people sit down with a silent
grief, their conversation is very apt to be lively, or, if they cannot
quite accomplish that, they are sure to talk only of indifferent
matters, and so it was in the present case. Judie was the first to break
the silence which had fallen upon all.
"Tom," she said playfully, "I'm afraid you're not a good provider. Here
we are, hungry as wolves, and you haven't brought us a mite of anything
to eat. You've moved everything but the provisions, and you've forgotten
them entirely."
Master Tom admitted the grievousness of his fault and returned at once
to the drift cavern after the forgotten provision pack. The bread, as
they all knew, was long ago exhausted, but plenty of meat remained, and
this Tom presently brought. When he opened the pack a disagreeable odor
spread itself at once over the little room.
"Phew! what's that?" said Tom, and putting his nose to the meat, he
looked up in blank consternation, saying:
"The meat is spoiled, Sam! What on earth shall we do?"
The case was an alarming one certainly. They were hungry, and Sam, whose
returning health had brought with it a ravenous appetite, was
particularly so. He needed wholesome, nourishing food now more than
anything else, as he knew.
"Well," he said, after thinking the matter over, "it can't be helped.
There's nothing for it but to fall back on sweet potatoes till I get
strong enough to go hunting. You must go to the potato field Tom, and
bring some."
There had been but one field of corn in the neighborhood at first, and
the various parties of Indians who had camped in its vicinity had long
ago carried away the last ear of corn from that, as the boys knew very
well. The river was altogether too high now for mussels to be got, and
so the sweet potatoes in a field half a mile away, were their only
resource.
Tom set out at once in quest of them, carefully looking out for lurking
savages. He was gone more than an hour, and just as Sam was growing
really uneasy on his account, he returned, _empty handed_!
"There isn't a potato in the field," he said as he sat down in utter
dejection. "The Indians have dug every one of them."
This announcement was indeed an alarming one to the whole party. They
were without an ounce of food of any sort within their utmost reach, and
it was plain that they must starve, unless they could hit upon some new
device, by which to get a supply.
"I must go hunting, sick or well," said Sam rising; but he had no sooner
got upon his feet, than he felt the utter impossibility of doing
anything of the kind.
"It's of no use," he said sadly. "I can't make my legs carry me, Tom,
and so we must depend upon you. Go into the woods there by the creek,
and sit down or stand still till you see something in the way of game,
and then take good aim before you shoot, for we mustn't waste any of our
powder."
With this he shook the horn to ascertain how much remained in it, and
was horrified to find it empty! Tom remembered that the last time he had
loaded the gun he had used the last grain of powder in the horn.
"Well, then," said Sam, "we have only one charge of powder between us
and starvation, and it won't do to waste that, Tom. You can shoot pretty
well when you have time enough to take good aim, and I suppose, if you
make up your mind beforehand that you won't shoot till you know you can
kill what you shoot at, it is safe enough. At any rate we must risk it.
Remember, however, that you mustn't run the risk of wasting this load
in your anxiety to kill the first thing you see to shoot at. There is
plenty of game in the woods, so if you can't get a sure shot at one
thing, wait for another. Get a sure shot anyhow, if it takes you all
day. It must be something big enough to last us awhile, too. You mustn't
shoot at anything less than a turkey or a 'possum, and you mustn't shoot
at all till you get _very_ close, because if you miss, we will starve.
Better take all day to-day and all day to-morrow than to miss when you
fire."
And after many instructions and cautionings, Tom sallied forth in search
of game. Going into the woods for a considerable distance, he sat down
on a log in the thick undergrowth and waited patiently for the
appearance of some animal which could be eaten. Hour after hour passed,
and Tom fell asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but waking
suddenly he saw a flock of wild turkeys within a few yards of him.
Raising his gun and taking a very deliberate aim he pulled the trigger.
No explosion followed, but the clicking of the hammer was enough to put
the game to flight.
Poor Tom was disheartened, but it would not do to give up, and so he
carefully picked the edge of his flint with his knife and walked further
into the woods.
He had not walked very far, with cautious steps, when he heard a
rustling in the bushes just ahead of him. At first he thought it must be
an Indian, and drawing back he waited for further developments. A grunt
soon enlightened him as to the character of the game, and creeping
through the bushes he found himself close to a fat young hog, one of the
many running wild in those woods and thickets. That was something worth
having. Levelling his gun again, he again pulled the trigger, but
without effect, and opening the pan he discovered that during the rain,
while in the drift cavern, the "priming," as the powder in the pan is
called, had been reduced to a paste by water. To fire the gun was out of
the question, and so clubbing it, Tom ran at the hog and dealt him a
blow on the head, hoping in that way to secure the game which he could
not shoot. The blow fell upon the nose of the animal, however, and while
it brought a squeal of pain from him, it produced no beneficial result.
The hog ran rapidly away, and Tom was left with nothing better than a
broken gun to carry back to the fortress.
Arriving there about three o'clock in the afternoon he told the doleful
story of his failure, and sitting down burst into tears.
"Come, come!" said Sam. "This will never do, old fellow. It's bad enough
as it is without crying about it. We'll come all right if you'll only
keep your courage up, and give me a chance to think. I'm getting better
every day now, and if we can only hold out a few days longer, I'll be on
my feet again, and then we'll go straight to Fort Glass. Just as soon as
I can walk at all, we'll start, meantime we must get something to eat,
and to do that I must think. Let me see. The gun is of no use now, but
there are other ways of getting game besides shooting it. We must set
some traps. This spoiled meat will do for bait. Get me a good piece of
poplar wood, Tom, or cypress, or some other sort, that I can whittle
easily, and I'll make some figure-four triggers. Then I'll tell you how
to make dead-falls, and you must set as many of them as you can to make
sure of getting something to eat by to-morrow morning."
Tom brought the wood and Sam soon whittled out several sets of triggers.
"Now do you know how to set a trap with these triggers, Tom?" he asked.
"Yes, I've set many a partridge trap with figure fours."
"Very well then. Now you must set dead-falls in the same way. That is,
instead of a trap you must set a log. You see I've made the triggers big
and strong, and you must put them under one end of as heavy a log as you
can lift. Then you must lay other logs on top to make it as heavy as
possible, and bait it with a piece of the spoilt meat. If anything
undertakes to eat the meat to-night, the dead-fall will break its neck
or back, sure. Here are six sets of triggers and you must set six
dead-falls. We can go hungry till to-morrow, can't we, little woman?"
chucking Judie under the chin.
"We can try, anyhow," answered the little woman as cheerfully as she
could, though she was by no means confident that she could do anything
of the sort. She was already faint and almost sick, and whether she
could live till morning or not was an undetermined question in her
mind. To tell the truth, Sam himself felt but little confidence in his
device. The spoiled meat, he knew, would attract only the larger
animals, and such dead-falls as Tom could set were by no means certain
to kill these in their fall. It was the very best thing he could do,
however, and he must trust to it in the absence of any better reliance.
He concealed his anxiety therefore, and after receiving Tom's report of
his operations in dead-fall setting, he drew Judie to his side and told
her a fairy story, as night fell. All went to sleep at last, and when
morning came Sam aroused Tom very early and sent him to examine the
traps. The boy was gone for an hour or more, when he returned with
downcast countenance. Two of the traps had been thrown, but there was no
game under them, while the four others remained undisturbed.
Here was a bad out-look certainly, and they had not tasted food now for
more than thirty hours!
CHAPTER XVIII.
WHICH ENDS THE STORY.
"Something must be done," said Sam, as soon as he had heard Tom's
report, "and quickly too. Let me think a few minutes. We are beginning
now to be hungry enough to eat anything, and when people get that hungry
there are a good many things that can be eaten. I'll tell you what we
must do, Tom--"
But what it was that Sam had hit upon, Tom never knew. Just as this
point in the conversation was reached _Joe_ came running in through the
alley-way, his face flattened out into a broad grin of delight, his
teeth and eyes shining, while he danced all over the fortress, shaking
hands over and over again, and saying,
"Hi! Miss Judie! Hi! Mas' Tom! Hi! Mas' Sam! How does ye all do now? Did
you think Joe had runned away? Joe tell ye he never runned away. Joe
ain't no runaway nigger, nohow at all, and de Ingins ain't ketched Joe
nuther. Joe's back all safe an' sound, sartin sure! Hi!"
"What on earth ails you, Joe? You're out of your wits, poor fellow,"
said Sam, convinced that the black boy was demented.
"No I ain't nuther, Mas' Sam," he replied. "Joe ain't crazy one bit, but
he's glad _sure_."
"Where have you been, Joe, since you left us?"
"Whar? Why to de fort, an' I'se dun brung back a rescue too, didn't I
tell you? Laws a massy, dat's what I comed in fust for to tell you. I'se
done been to Fort Glass and brung a big rescue party, and de white folks
dey said, long as Joe brung us he's 'titled to tell de good news fust,
an' dat's how I'm here while de rest is outside de drif'."
"Go and see, Tom," said Sam, afraid to believe this story of the
seemingly insane boy, who, he thought, had become crazed from long
brooding over the chances of rescue. Tom got up to go, but as he started
Mr. Hardwicke himself met him in the door way and caught him in his
arms. Tandy Walker was just behind.
"Well, this beats all," said Tandy. "I've done a good many jobs o'
rescuin' in my time, but I never yit found the rescued hid in the roots
of a tree an' fortified with a drift-pile. An' if I'm a jedge o' sich
things, this here party's a'most starved. I've seed hungry people afore
now, an' I say le's have a breakfast sot right away for these here
little ones."
Tandy was right, as we know, and it was not long before an abundant
breakfast was spread for Sam and Tom and little Judie. The rescue party
consisted of twenty stout fellows from the fort, and after breakfast a
rude litter was provided for Sam, and crossing the river in the little
canoe the party began its homeward march. Tom was glad to walk, the walk
being in that direction. Judie was carried, part of the time in her
father's arms, part of it in Tandy Walker's, and part on the broad
shoulders of Caesar, the negro man who had participated in the canoe
fight. Sam was stretched on a litter, carried by four of the men, and
Joe insisted on walking always by his side, though he fell behind now
and then for the purpose of dancing a little jig of delight. He would
execute this movement, and then running, catch up with the litter again.
"Tell me, Joe," said Sam after the black boy had become somewhat quiet
again, "tell me all about this thing."
"'Bout what thing, Mas' Sam?"
"About your going to the fort and all that. How did you manage it, and
how came you to think of it?"
"Well, you see, Mas' Sam, when you was at your wust, I got a thinkin',
an' I thought out a plan dat Mas' Tom said was a good un. Him an' me was
to make a raf' out'n cane, an' pole it up de river wid you an' little
Miss Judie on it, an' den I was to go cross de country to de fort an'
bring help. Jes' as we got de raf' ready, howsomever, Mas' Tom he axed
me if I know de way to de fort, an' as I didn't know nothin' 'bout it, I
jis' sot down an' gived up. But I kep' a thinkin' all de time, an' I
said to myself, 'Joe, you're a fool anyhow, an' you mustn't tell your
plans till you know dey're good uns, an' you ain't got sense enough to
know dat till you try 'em.' An' so I sot my head to work to git up a
new plan, meanin' to try it all by myself. When de big fight took place
an' I seed the white folks marchin' away, I said out 'loud, 'dem dare
folks is gwine right straight to de fort,' an' I said to myself, 'I
means to go dere too if I kin.' It took me two days 'n more to git de
thing fixed up right in my min'.
"I was willin' enough to risk Injuns, but I was afear'd you'n Mas' Tom
'ud think Joe was a runaway nigger if I never comed back, an' dat
troubled me. I fixed dat at las' by makin' Mas' Tom mos' swar he'd stick
to it dat I wasn't no runaway nigger, an' den I sot out. I crossed de
river in de little canoe an' hid her in de bushes. I found de place whar
de white folks started from, an' I jes' follered dere trail. Dat was my
plan. I know'd dey would make a big easy trail, dere was so many of 'em,
an I meant to follow 'em. It took me more'n two whole nights to git to
de fort, dough, 'cause de creeks was all high an' de brush very tangley.
When I tole de folks about you'n Miss Judie an' Mas' Tom, dey didn't
more'n half believe me, an' when I tole 'em I'd lead 'em straight to
whar you was, an' dey said dey'd sculp me if I didn't, I jest said all
right, 'cause if we don' find Mas' Sam an' little Miss Judie an' Mas'
Tom no more, den I'd rather be sculped'n not, anyhow. But we did fin'
you, didn't we Mas' Sam?" and at this Joe had to drop behind again and
execute a rapid jig movement, as a relief to his feelings.
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