Harrington: A Story of True LoveO'Connor, William Douglas
General
Harrington: A Story of True Love
O'Connor, William Douglas
Slavery -- United States -- Fiction
his fear and fury gave him superhuman energy, and nerved with unnatural
vigor his weakened thews. He swam for a long time, with the solemn night
of the dense cypress dusking his form and shadowing the tarn. At length
the dreadful twilight of the grove began to lighten, and far beyond he
saw the sunlight illuminating the grey and green of the trees, and the
many colored parasites and flowers, and shining on the mud and water
of the marsh. Presently he struck bottom, and wading again for a long
distance, emerged at length into the sunlight, among the shallows and
mud-shoals, and rushed on as before, till at last, as the sun was near
its setting, he stood on the banks of an unknown river, which, whispering
sullenly past its margin of sedge and water-flowers, moved, with an
imperceptible motion, through the solemn and horrible wilderness of
forest.
He stood gazing across it with a haggard and mournful countenance. The
croak of frogs came faintly from its border, and mingled with the distant
quacking of crowds of mallard ducks from the opposite shore, the vague
hooting of owls in the swamp beyond, and the occasional plunge of an
alligator from the adjacent margin. Dreary and ominous sounds, which
yet hardly disturbed the stagnant stillness around him. The wind had
lulled, and no whisper came from the bearded trees, which stood like
boding shapes on every side. Hope was faint in the heart of the fugitive.
Relieved from the engrossment of the immediate peril, his spirit began to
come under the sole dominion of the brooding horrors around him, and as
he vainly pondered on the dark problem of his deliverance, Death seemed
ever gathering slowly toward him, and Liberty lessening in ever-growing
distance.
Liberty or Death. The historic phrase came to him again like a voice that
urged him forward. He paused only a little longer, to tear a strip from
his coarse shirt and tie the bowie-knife at the back of his neck to the
iron collar. Then tearing another strip, he pulled off his heavy brogans,
shook the mud out of them, and passing the strip through the eyelets, he
also secured them to the collar, one on each shoulder. So accoutred, he
braced himself anew for effort, and taking up a slender sapling from
the ground to beat the pools between him and the bayou—for he now feared
the moccasins—in a few moments he was in the water, steadily swimming
forward, with the sapling held in his teeth.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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