CHAPTER IX

A REIGN OF TERROR

"And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage ... and in all manner of service in the field."--Ex. i, 14

Days and weeks rolled into months, and the months into years. Mollie and Stephen gradually gave up hoping that those responsible for their imprisonment at the Grimes farm would ever come to release them. Children came and children were taken away, and others, like Buddy, just disappeared. For these Mollie grieved night and day.

She never told anyone but Stephen of her grisly discovery that day at the bog. It would make the little ones too afraid, the boy said. And some of them might say something that would let Peter know, then he would slay them all.

Cynthy's father sent small sums of money from time to time but of this she was unaware. The ogre, as all the children now termed Peter, never told her of the remittances, nor of the messages entrusted to him for delivery. She believed her parents had both been killed on their journey north. Once she tried to run away. Peter beat and kicked her till she fell unconscious. Mollie was terrified lest he destroy Cynthy as he had her little brother. Neither child nor parents dreamed that a few hard-earned dollars alone stood between the little girl and a horrible death.

All the children were herded like sheep in the barn loft. Their accommodations there were only such as they contrived themselves. Each child, upon arrival, was permitted to retain what personal effects its parent or guardian had sent with it. These ultimately wore out and were never replenished. If any person ever sent money for their replenishment it was appropriated by Peter. As a result the children were a motley assortment of little human scare-crows whose preternatural common sense and judgment seemed to increase in proportion to the physical restraints and burdens placed upon them.

For this Mollie and Stephen were largely responsible. Mollie had a vivid imagination. She could weave wonderful stories. From her sprite-like, adored mother she had inherited her great capacity to love, soothe and entertain children. They were never too dirty for her to kiss, never too naughty for her to quiet. It was a gift, an instinct, and the circumstances under which she was now forced to live developed it to an amazing extent.

Stephen's little store of knowledge and his fondness for books proved of incalculable benefit to all. But not one of the little band of waifs realized that the tired, broken-down boy who, in the security of the barn loft, taught them their letters, was eating his heart out in sombre brooding over his own bitter disappointment. The story books he had secreted were still cherished jealously. No one but Mollie was ever permitted to touch them. She could read every story they contained. At least she thought she could. In truth, she recited them glibly, not always in strict accord with the printed text and usually with many interpolations and quaint interpretations of her own.

Each child that arrived had a little something to add to the general fund of worldly wisdom, book lore and personal accomplishments. Mollie felt a great sympathy for the newcomers. She dried their tearful eyes, heard them say their prayers and tried to tuck them into bed as she herself had been tucked to rest in that dim, far-off life which was now beginning to seem almost like a dream.

Mollie measured herself every day. There was an upright beam in the loft against which she stood and had one of the children mark the exact spot to which the crown of her head came. Some of the children, when they arrived at the farm, were taller than she. Day by day she was creeping up, taller and taller. She had never wanted to be tall like her father. Her mother was a dear, little, fairy-like creature and Mollie had always declared that she, when she grew up, was going to look like her mother.

Since the day of her terrible discovery and subsequent fright under the shadows of the great trees by the bog she had changed her mind. She now wanted to be tall. Tall and strong enough to get away from the farm and to get the children away.

Something was certainly wrong. Probably the farm was bewitched. Everything good was frightened away from it. Occasionally there were sparrows about, but they always seemed to be just going somewhere else. Even those that used to be about the barn had disappeared.

"There must be a way out, Splutters," Mollie would tell Stephen, when the two chanced to have a moment or two for a little talk alone. "Ef I could only git near 'nough to hear what some of the men say thet come in to talk ter Pete, I mought larn sumpin', but I'm allus too busy gittin' th' young-uns inter th' loft."

It had not been difficult for Mollie to revert to the hill dialect. She had heard it all her life. Only her mother's careful training and guardianship had kept her diction pure. Lacking that mother's perpetual cautions and personal example the vivacious, fly-a-way little creature had quickly absorbed whatever spoken words came to her ears. In her eager haste to express thoughts and emotions she poured them glibly forth with such blissful disregard for the English language that anyone might easily have mistaken her for the offspring of the most illiterate mountaineer.

Stephen, more chary of words, slower and more orderly in his habits of thought and action, had not so completely abandoned his early training. The fact that he was several years Mollie's senior also had weight in preserving to him the correct speech to which he was accustomed before coming to the farm. There were times, however, when it was the part of wisdom to speak as did those about him. Not to do so would aggravate Peter.

That repellant individual was daily becoming more brutal--more obnoxious. The realization of his supreme power over his small domain stimulated Peter to demonstrate that power ever more crushingly. He gloated over the little band of captives like a fiend. It gave him indescribable pleasure to see their fear of him demonstrated. He would punish a child for no cause whatever, merely to cow the others and make them tremble or flee at his approach.

Stephen, by the passive, submissive manner in which he always labored in the accomplishment of almost Herculean tasks had managed fairly well to escape much physical violence. He had quickly grasped the routine of farm life and Peter knew that he could be depended upon to look after the stock as well as he, himself.

It had been Peter's original intention to fetch to the farm a more stalwart youth or girl for this heavy labor. Fate having willed otherwise, he was now content with the present arrangement. An older child would menace the secrecy and security of the infant slave industry which had now developed to such proportions that farm and stock interests became secondary in consideration.

But Stephen was finding the work more and more difficult. If the other children had not surreptitiously come to his assistance he would not have been able to keep up the appearance of its accomplishment. The boy worried deeply over the matter. He did not feel ill. Merely tired. His thin arms would not permit him to carry a bucket of water unaided. He knew there was no money coming regularly to Peter for him as there was for Mollie. When he became unable to work--if he fell ill--he could see nothing ahead but the bog! Brooding so much made his head ache. His violet blue eyes were sunken and feverishly bright. He found himself more and more nervous and fearful, less agile in mounting the ladder, less adept in eluding the ever-tormenting Ambrose.

Mollie was now some inches taller than Stephen, quick, capable, resourceful; one moment soothing and encouraging the children like a little mother, the next helping him about the barn, then running toward house or garden to meet and distract the attention of Peter or Ambrose; into the kitchen to filch some portion of food, then back to the children again, all in less time than it took Stephen to measure out some feed for the horse.

For the children no longer ate in the kitchen with the family. They subsisted as best they could upon the scraps and leavings which were vouchsafed them after the Grimes trio had eaten. Mollie usually went to the kitchen for these rations and carried them to the barn in a large tin pan or pail. Maria treated her no worse than she would have treated her had Mollie been her daughter. She wanted her to perform those tasks which she was too lazy to perform herself and, if Mollie failed in their performance, Maria's own dread of her lord and master compelled her to scold and punish the child or be knocked down herself for her laxity.

After a few experiences Mollie never failed.

She was worried, however, about Stephen. From the day of their arrival at the terrible farm he had taken the place of both her father and mother. He was her confidant and advisor. He was always ready to comfort and encourage her, and he thought out all her perplexing problems. If anything happened to Splutters it would seem, Mollie thought, like the end of the world. Yet she knew, and Stephen knew, that any day, any moment his life might be in jeopardy.

He still carried with him the letter addressed to the master of the school which his benefactress had entrusted to him for delivery and the small photograph, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, which he had secreted the night his arrival at the farm. These treasures he now wore about his waist under his tattered shirt. They were carefully wrapped in a piece of old oilcloth and the packet slipped into a pocket, torn from an old coat.

[Illustration: _Scene from Mary Pickford's Photoplay_. _Sparrows_. THE ESCAPE THROUGH THE SWAMP.]

Among the children's prized possessions was a sewing-kit. It had been found in Stephen's traveling bag. Mollie and Cynthy both knew how to sew doll clothes. Using this knowledge they sewed Stephen's precious documents securely in the folded cloth and fastened strings to it so he could tie them about his waist. Thus they escaped discovery.

"Ef I ever git away from here," the boy sagely remarked, "they'll help folks to find out about the mistake."

But the chance of escape grew more and more remote. Mollie, standing ever between the children and the ogre, was desperate. Something, she declared, must be done before any harm came to Splutters. It was Stephen, himself, who suggested the kite. But so far as the children could judge that first kite never reached its destination.

At the very moment of its ascension Stephen, who was holding the cord, heard Peter shout for him.

"Steve--hey, yo' Steve, whyn't yo' answer when I call! Come hyar an' 'tend ter this shoat."

In nervous haste the boy released the cord. But he was not quick enough. The ogre, coming into view at the moment, had a glimpse of the kite disappearing just beyond the tree tops. Never in their recollection had the children seen him display such rage.

"Loafin', war yo'," he roared, making a lunge after Stephen to clutch him by the neck. "I'll l'arn yo'," and he struck out wildly, right and left, the children dodging from under the flail-like arms and scurrying like rabbits to places of momentary safety. That night Stephen received the worst beating of his life.