Israel Potter by Herman Melville


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Page 10

From the friendly old ditcher, Israel learned the exact course he must
steer for London; distant now between seventy and eighty miles. He was
also apprised by his venerable friend, that the country was filled with
soldiers on the constant look-out for deserters whether from the navy or
army, for the capture of whom a stipulated reward was given, just as in
Massachusetts at that time for prowling bears.

Having solemnly enjoined his old friend not to give any information,
should any one he meet inquire for such a person as Israel, our
adventurer walked briskly on, less heavy of heart, now that he felt
comparatively safe in disguise.

Thirty miles were travelled that day. At night Israel stole into a barn,
in hopes of finding straw or hay for a bed. But it was spring; all the
hay and straw were gone. So after groping about in the dark, he was fain
to content himself with an undressed sheep-skin. Cold, hungry,
foot-sore, weary, and impatient for the morning dawn, Israel drearily
dozed out the night.

By the first peep of day coming through the chinks of the barn, he was
up and abroad. Ere long finding himself in the suburbs of a considerable
village, the better to guard against detection he supplied himself with
a rude crutch, and feigning himself a cripple, hobbled straight through
the town, followed by a perverse-minded cur, which kept up a continual,
spiteful, suspicious bark. Israel longed to have one good rap at him
with his crutch, but thought it would hardly look in character for a
poor old cripple to be vindictive.

A few miles further, and he came to a second village. While hobbling
through its main street, as through the former one, he was suddenly
stopped by a genuine cripple, all in tatters, too, who, with a
sympathetic air, inquired after the cause of his lameness.

"White swelling," says Israel.

"That's just my ailing," wheezed the other; "but you're lamer than me,"
he added with a forlorn sort of self-satisfaction, critically eyeing
Israel's limp as once, more he stumped on his way, not liking to tarry
too long.

"But halloo, what's your hurry, friend?" seeing Israel fairly
departing--"where're you going?"

"To London," answered Israel, turning round, heartily wishing the old
fellow any where else than present.

"Going to limp to Lunnun, eh? Well, success to ye."

"As much to you, sir," answers Israel politely.

Nigh the opposite suburbs of this village, as good fortune would have
it, an empty baggage-wagon bound for the metropolis turned into the main
road from a side one. Immediately Israel limps most deplorably, and begs
the driver to give a poor cripple a lift. So up he climbs; but after a
time, finding the gait of the elephantine draught-horses intolerably
slow, Israel craves permission to dismount, when, throwing away his
crutch, he takes nimbly to his legs, much to the surprise of his honest
friend the driver.

The only advantage, if any, derived from his trip in the wagon, was,
when passing through a third village--but a little distant from the
previous one--Israel, by lying down in the wagon, had wholly avoided
being seen.

The villages surprised him by their number and proximity. Nothing like
this was to be seen at home. Well knowing that in these villages he ran
much more risk of detection than in the open country, he henceforth did
his best to avoid them, by taking a roundabout course whenever they came
in sight from a distance. This mode of travelling not only lengthened
his journey, but put unlooked-for obstacles in his path--walls, ditches,
and streams.

Not half an hour after throwing away his crutch, he leaped a great ditch
ten feet wide, and of undiscoverable muddy depth. I wonder if the old
cripple would think me the lamer one now, thought Israel to himself,
arriving on the hither side.




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Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Mon 24th Feb 2025, 10:30