The Man-Dog

My first encounter with the singular being known as "Du Chien, the Man-Dog," occurred while we were on duty in the Peché country, shortly after General Taylor's celebrated "Run on the Banks," near Mansfield. The cavalry had little to do other than to feed and await orders. As a result, many of the officers and men formed pleasant acquaintances with the hospitable planters in the neighborhood.

One of the planters I found most congenial was Captain Martas, a French Creole whose father had come from Languedoc. He was native-born, about fifty years of age, and had two sons by his first marriage who were serving in the Army of Virginia, and a two-year-old boy by his second wife, a young and beautiful lady. The housekeeper was a mulatto girl, physically almost perfect, even her small hands resembling exquisite waxwork. She had been taught, petted, and indulged perhaps more than a slave should have been, especially by Captain Martas, who spoke to her more like a father addressing a daughter than a master commanding a slave. She was always gentle and obedient, and the family prized her greatly; the little boy especially preferred her to his own mother.

It might be hard for later generations to understand how such a pleasant and beautiful confidence could exist between a slave and her owners, but it was not uncommon in the South before the war.

The family was so attractive that I visited often; but one evening, upon arrival, I found their peace disturbed by one of those painful occurrences that marred Southern happiness and constituted the curse of the "peculiar institution."

The day before, Captain Martas's beautiful and accomplished wife had, for some unexplained reason, flown into a rage with Celia, the mulattress, and ordered the overseer to give her a severe whipping. During the night, the girl had run off into the Black Swamp. Captain Martas, who imparted this information, was in terrible distress. He seemed unable to understand the cause of the trouble, yet he could not justify his slave without condemning his wife, whom he regarded with tender devotion. His dominant emotion was a heartbroken, hopeless grief.

I volunteered to search for the runaway. As I asked for details about the neighboring plantations and the vast wilderness known as the Black Swamp, I saw Celia slowly coming up the broad walk from the gate. She carried a branch of magnolia with a splendid blossom. She bowed slightly as she approached the portico, then passed around the corner and entered by a side door. Mrs. Martas was passionately devoted to magnolias, and from her exclamations of delight we knew Celia had brought the flower as a peace offering, and that it had been accepted. Soon the two women came nearer, and we could hear their conversation from the veranda. A terrible weight seemed lifted from Captain Martas's heart by the girl's return and the renewal of friendship between his wife and his even more beautiful slave.

"Yes," said Celia to Mrs. Martas, "it is an old, wide-spreading tree on the very edge of the water, and it is glorious with such blossoms as these. There must be more than three hundred clusters, and some I couldn't reach are much larger and finer."

"And you say," answered Mrs. Martas, "that the air is still, and the perfume broods all around? Oh, how sweet!"

"Yes," said Celia, "it is so strong you can taste as well as smell it. Few people could bear to stand beneath; it is almost overpowering."

"Oh, how I wish I could see it! How far is it, Celia?"

"Only four miles. You can go. It is deep in the swamp, but the pony can follow the ridge all the way. You could get home before dusk. I'd love for you to see it before a rain spoils the road or the winds scatter the perfume."

"I will go," she cried. "Tell Toby to bring out Selim, and you can take a horse. Let us go at once. It's getting late."

"I'd rather walk," said Celia, "so I can be sure not to miss the route on the way back, though I watched carefully and know I can find it on foot."

Soon a boy led up the pony, and Mrs. Martas mounted, followed by Celia on foot. As Celia held the stirrup, she looked back at Captain Martas with strange love, pity, and tenderness; but when her mistress called, her expression changed, and for an instant her eyes gleamed with the murderous glitter of a panther about to spring.

I was startled and troubled, and half moved to warn the lady, but a moment's reflection showed how foolish such interference would seem. A strange mistrust flitted through my mind, but I had no basis for it—only that I had seen a gladiator's eye and an assassin's lip in that smiling, dutiful girl. The thought was too foolish, so I held my peace.

The women passed out the gate toward the Black Swamp. Martas and I resumed our conversation. Hours passed; the sun grew large and low, and still she did not return. At dusk, Captain Martas sent Toby to the edge of the wood, but he soon came back, having seen only the pony's tracks and the pony returning riderless. Then Martas mounted and I followed. He took a conch shell, and we rode into the dark forest as long as we could trace the pony's steps, blowing the shell repeatedly, seeking to apprise his wife that we were there; but nothing came of it.

"They could hear the shell," he said, "on a still night like this for three or four miles." But no answer came, and the moonless night descended upon the great Black Swamp. The darkness became almost visible, shutting off vision like a vast black wall.

Martas sent Toby back for fire, blankets, and more men. Soon a roaring blaze mounted skyward, and every few minutes the conch was blown. Nothing more could be done. I remained with the sorely troubled husband through the night. At dawn we had breakfast brought out, and as soon as it was light enough, we searched for and found the pony's track. We followed the traces left in the soft soil. The chase led with marvelous turns along a little ridge of firmer land that wound between boundless morasses, trending deeper and deeper into the unknown swamp. The pony had followed its own trail out, which made it easier to follow. At last we came to dark, sluggish water. It was a point of solid ground, less than an acre, a foot or two above the water, almost circular, nearly surrounded by the lagoon. Near the center rose a grand magnolia, such as Celia had described.

At its root, bathed in the overpowering perfume, lay the dead body of the beautiful woman—her clothes disordered, her hair disheveled, a coarse, dirty handkerchief stuffed into her mouth, all evidence of a despairing struggle and a desperate crime. Captain Martas was overcome with anguish, and after one agonized look around, he sat down beside the body and gazed upon his murdered wife in silent, helpless grief.

I asked all the men to stay, except Toby, whom I ordered to follow me. Then, starting at the little ridge by which we had come, I followed the edge of the ground completely around, seeking in the soft mud for a footprint or the mark of a canoe, any evidence of how the murderer had reached the spot or how Celia had left it.

We found perfect tracks of all animal life, even the tiny lines of birds' feet, but no trace of a human foot. A snail could not have passed without leaving a mark. The thing was inexplicable. Where was Celia? How had she gone without a trace? Had she been there at all? Who had murdered Mrs. Martas? Surely some man or devil had committed the crime. How had the villain escaped leaving no clue?

I reported to Captain Martas and said I didn't know what to do unless we could get bloodhounds. He said there were none within sixty miles; all the planters preferred to lose a runaway rather than track with dogs. Rumors of the loss had spread; two or three soldiers rode out and joined us. One said: "If there are no hounds, send to camp for old Du Chien. He is better than any dog."

The remark was so singular that I asked: "What do you mean by 'better than any dog'?"

"I mean he can follow a scent better than any hound I ever saw—and I've seen hundreds. I've seen him smell a man's clothes, then go blindfolded into a regiment and pick out that man by scent. I've seen him smell a sheep's wool and pick out the identical sheep from fifty others. I've known him to smell a blanket a slave slept in, then follow him four or five miles by scent through cotton, corn, and woods. He is better than a dog."

The man seemed honest and intelligent, and though I could hardly credit such an abnormal development of nasal power, there was nothing else to do. I told him to ride to camp as quickly as possible and bring Du Chien.

We made a litter and bore the corpse back to the plantation, where horrified neighbors had gathered. Captain Martas insisted on staying with me to await Du Chien.

More than two hours passed before the soldier returned with that strange creature. He surely deserved his name. He must have been six feet tall, but so lank, loose, flabby, and jumbled that it was hard to guess his stature. His legs were long, his hands hung to his knees. A bristly shock of red hair grew nearly to his eyebrows, and his head slanted back to a point, sugar-loaf fashion. His chin seemed to have slid back into his neck, and his face looked as if it stopped at the round, red, slobbering mouth. His nose was not remarkably large, but the sloping of all facial lines from it gave it peculiar prominence. When he walked, every bone and muscle drooped forward, as if he were about to fall and travel on hands and feet.

I briefly explained the situation. Du Chien, a man of few words, said: "Stay where you are for a minute." Then he set off at his singular dog-trot, following the edge of the water all the way around, as I had done, lightly and with wonderful celerity. Returning, he looked puzzled. I handed him the coarse, dirty handkerchief from the dead woman's mouth. He buried his nose in it and snuffed long and vigorously, then said: "Nigger."

"No," I said, thinking of Celia, "a mulatto."

"No," he answered with quiet assurance, "not mulatto; nigger—black, wool-headed, and old—a buck nigger."

"What can you do?" I asked.

"Wait a minute," said Du Chien. He made another circuit of the peninsula, more slowly now, throwing his head from side to side like a hound, smelling at every tree and shrub. About halfway around, he stopped at a mighty tree leaning over the water where it was narrowest, its branches mingling with those of a similar tree on the opposite bank. He walked up to it, saying, "Nigger went up here!" and began to climb. The trunk's incline and low branches made it easy. Almost instantly, we followed—Captain Martas, I, and two or three soldiers. Du Chien climbed about thirty feet, then slid along a great limb over the water, moving into the lateral branches of the other tree, then down to the trunk and to the opposite bank, where he waited for us. We followed as quickly as possible. Once we landed safely, Du Chien said, "Single file, all!" and started off, smelling the trees and bushes as he went.

The spot was another hummock, less regular. The way became more difficult; often the next step seemed to lead into dark water, but Du Chien would smell the leaves and hurry on, stepping on clumps, logs, and strips of solid ground, going deeper into the most pathless parts of the swamp.

For nearly two hours we followed. At last we came to a considerable elevation of ground with a V-shaped valley formed by a branch draining into the swamp. It was a clearing of about two acres, but a dense growth of sweet gum, holly, and magnolia formed a hedge across the opening toward the swamp, beyond which we could not see.

With quickened steps, like a hound on a hot trail, Du Chien followed the hedge-like line and stopped at its far end. There, within three feet of the water, was an opening. He slipped through cautiously, and we followed in silence.

It was a little garden in the heart of the swamp, between hills and water. At the apex of the valley stood a miserable cabin with fruit trees around it. We gazed in astonishment.

"Do you know anything of this place, Captain Martas?" I whispered.

"No," he replied. "Several years ago one of my field hands, a gigantic Abyssinian, was whipped and ran away. I never followed him. I've heard rumors from the negroes, but I suppose he's been living here ever since."

"The nigger is there," said Du Chien, sniffing the handkerchief again. "If there are a dozen, I can tell the right one."

"If it's old Todo," said Martas, "he's powerful and desperate. We must be cautious."

We formed a line and approached slowly. Within ten or twelve feet of the door, we saw a gigantic, half-clad negro spring from the floor, gaze at us with fierce, startled eyes, and with a yell like a wild beast, seize an axe and whirl it over his head, darting straight at Captain Martas. It seemed to me the huge, black form was actually in the air, springing toward its enemy, when one of the soldiers fired, sending a ball through old Todo's skull. With a savage, beastly cry, the giant fell headlong to the earth.

"It is a pity," said Martas. "I wished to burn the black devil alive."

At that instant, Du Chien shouted, "Look there!" Extending his arm toward the top of the ridge, he started off at full speed. We all looked up and saw Celia flying for dear life toward the forest. We joined the chase. It was perhaps forty yards up the slope to the highest part, and about the same distance down the other side to the water's edge. As we reached the crest, Celia, already at the water's edge, leaped lightly into a small canoe and began to paddle vigorously. She sent the frail bark gliding swiftly away from shore, looking back at us with a wicked smile. In a moment more she would be beyond reach, and the soldier who had shot Todo leveled his revolver at her head. But Captain Martas knocked the weapon up, saying in a voice choked with emotion: "No, no! Let the girl go! She is my daughter."

Swiftly and silently the slight canoe swept away over the dark waters of the great, black swamp, now hidden in shadow, now catching a patch of sunlight, always receding farther and farther, until it was seen no more.