Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1836], A legend of the Santee, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf360v1].
To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
Front matter
Covers, Edges and Spine
-- --
[figure description] Top Edge.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Front Cover.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Spine.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Front Edge.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Back Cover.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Bottom Edge.[end figure description]
Preliminaries
-- --
[figure description] (360-001).[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Title page.[end figure description]
Title Page
MELLICHAMPE.
A LEGEND OF THE SANTEE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“THE YEMASSEE,” “GUY RIVERS.” &c.
“Valour may despair
His weapon, and give o'er the fierce display,
Beholding such devotedness of love,
Through danger, in the young and woman heart.”
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
NO. 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1836.
-- --
Acknowledgment
[figure description] Page ii.[end figure description]
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836,
By Harper & Brothers,
In the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.
-- --
ADVERTISEMENT.
[figure description] Page iii.[end figure description]
The story which follows is rather an episode in the
progress of the “Partisan,” than a continuation of that
romance. It has no necessary connexion with the
previous story, nor does it form any portion of that
series originally contemplated by the author, with the
view to an illustration of the several prominent periods
in the history of the revolution in South Carolina;
although it employs similar events, and disposes of
some of the personages first introduced to the reader by
that initial publication. The action of “Mellichampe”
begins, it is true, where the “Partisan” left off; and
the story opens by a resumption of one of the suspended
threads of that narrative. Beyond this, there
is no connexion between the two works; and the
reader will perceive that even this degree of affinity
has been maintained simply to indicate that the stories
belong to the same family, and to prevent the necessity
of breaking ground anew. Much preliminary
narrative has thus been avoided; and I have been
enabled to obey the good old, popular, but seldompractised
maxim, of plunging at once into the bowels
of my subject. The “Partisan” was projected as a
sort of ground-plan, of sufficient extent to admit of the
subsequent erection of any fabric upon it which the
caprice of the author, or the quantity of his material,
might seem to warrant and encourage.
-- iv --
[figure description] Page iv.[end figure description]
The two works which I projected to follow the
“Partisan,” and to complete the series, were intended
to comprise events more strictly historical than those
which have been employed in this “Santee legend.”
The reader must not, however, on hearing this, be
less inclined to accept “Mellichampe” as an historical
romance. It is truly and legitimately such. It is
imbued with the facts, and, I believe, so far as I
myself may be admitted as a judge, it portrays truly
the condition, of the time. The events made use of
are all historical; and scarcely a page of the work,
certainly not a chapter of it, is wanting in the evidence
which must support the assertion. The career of
Marion, as here described, during the precise period
occupied by the narrative, is correct to the very letter
of the written history. The story of Barsfield, so far
as it relates to public events, is not less so. The account
which the latter gives of himself to Janet
Berkeley—occurring in the fourteenth chapter of the
second volume—is related of him by tradition, and
bears a close resemblance to the recorded history of
the notorious Colonel Brown, of Augusta, one of the
most malignant and vindictive among the southern loyalists,
and one who is said to have become so solely
from the illegal and unjustifiable means which were
employed by the patriots to make him otherwise.
The whole history is one of curious interest, and, if
studied, of great public value. It shows strikingly the
evils to a whole nation, and through successive years,
of a single act of popular injustice. Certainly, as the
ebullitions of popular justice, shown in the movements
of revolution, are of most terrible effect, and of most
-- v --
[figure description] Page v.[end figure description]
imposing consequence; so the commission of a crime
by the same hands, must, in like degree, revolt the
sensibilities of the freeman, and inspire him with a
hatred which, as it is well founded, and sanctioned by
humanity itself, must be unforgiving and extreme.
The excesses of patriotism, when attaining power,
have been but too frequently productive of a tyranny
more dangerous in its exercise, and more lasting in its
effects, than the despotism which it was invoked to
overthrow.
The death of Gabriel Marion, the nephew of the
general, varies somewhat, in the romance, from the
account given of the same event by history; but the
story is supported by tradition. The pursuit of the
“swamp fox” by Colonel Tarleton—a pursuit dwelt
upon with much satisfaction by our historians, as an
admirable specimen of partisan ingenuity on both
sides, follows closely the several authorities, which it
abridges. The character of Tarleton, and his deeds
at this period, present a singular contrast, in some
respects, to what was known of him before. His
popularity waned with his own party, and his former
enemies began to esteem him more favourably. We
have, in Carolina, several little stories, such as that in
“Mellichampe,” in which his human feelings are allowed
to appear, at brief moments, in opposition to his
wonted practices, and quite at variance with his general
character. Nor do I see that there is any inconsistency
between these several characteristics. The
sensibilities are more active at one moment than at
another; and he whose mood is usually merciless and
unsparing, may now and then be permitted the
-- vi --
[figure description] Page vi.[end figure description]
blessing of a tear, and the indulgence of a tenderness,
under the influence of an old and hallowed memory,
kept alive and sacred in some little corner of the
heart when all is ossified around it.
The destruction of the mansion-house at “Piney
Grove” by Major Singleton, and the means employed
to effect this object, will be recognised by the readers
of Carolina history, and the lover of female patriotism,
as of true occurrence in every point of view; the
names of persons alone being altered, and a slight variation
made in the locality. Indeed, to sum up all in
brief, the entire materials of “Mellichampe,”—the
leading events,—every general action,—and the main
characteristics, have been taken from the unquestionable
records of history, and—in the regard of the novelist—
the scarcely less credible testimonies of that
venerable and moss-mantled Druid, Tradition. I have
simply forborne to call it an historical romance, as it
contained nothing which made an era in the time—
nothing which, in its character and importance, had a
visible effect upon the progress of the revolution. Let
us now pass to other topics.
It is in bad taste, and of very doubtful policy, for an
author to quarrel with his critics: the laugh is most
usually against him when he does so. I shall not
commit this error, and hope not to incur this penalty;
nor, indeed, have I any good cause to justify me in
the language of complaint. My critics have usually
been indulgent to me far beyond my merits; and I can
see a thousand imperfections in my own books which
they have either failed to discover, or forborne, in tenderness,
to dwell upon. Farther, I may confess—and
-- vii --
[figure description] Page vii.[end figure description]
I find no shame in doing so—whenever they have
dwelt upon deficiencies and defects, I am persuaded
that, in most cases, they have done so with perfect
justice. In many instances I have availed myself of
their opinions, and subsequent editions of my stories
have always borne testimony to the readiness with
which, whenever this has been the case, I have
adopted their suggestions. Sometimes, it is true, an
occasional personal and unfriendly reference—perhaps
a show of feelings even more equivocal in the
case of some random reviewer—has grazed harshly
upon sensibilities which are not legitimate topics of
critical examination; but even these evidences of unjust
assumption and false position have been more
than counteracted by the considerate indulgence of the
vast majority,—the kindness of the reader having
more than neutralized the asperities of the reviewer.
But while, in general, the opinions of the critic are
acknowledged with respect and held in regard, there
are one or two topics upon which I would willingly
be justified with him. One friendly reviewer—a gentleman
whose praise has usually been of the most
generous and least qualified character—one whose
taste and genius are alike unquestionable, and whose
own achievements in this department give him a perfect
right to be heard on all matters of romance—has
made some few objections to portions of the “Partisan,”
and—with all deference to his good judgment, and
after the most cautious consideration—I am persuaded,
with injustice. He objects to that story, in the first
place, as abrupt and incomplete. That it is unfinished—
that the nice hand has been wanting to smooth down
-- viii --
[figure description] Page viii.[end figure description]
and subdue its rude outlines into grace and softness in
many parts—I doubt not—I deny not. The work was
too rapidly prepared for that; and the finish of art can
only be claimed by a people with whom art is a leading
object. No other people are well able to pay for
it—no other people are willing to pay for it; and,
under the necessity of haste, the arts in our country
must continue to struggle on, until the wealth of the
people so accumulates as to enable the interior to react
upon the Atlantic cities. When the forests shall
cease to be attractive, we may look for society to become
stationary; and, until that is the case, we shall
look in vain for the perfection of any of the graceful
and refining influences of a nation. But the objection
of my friend was one of more narrowing compass: it
was simply to the story, as a story, that he urged its
want of finish—its incompleteness. This objection is
readily answered by a reference to the plan of the
“Partisan,” as set forth in the preface to that work.
The story was proposed as one of a series, the events
mutually depending upon each other for development,
and the fortunes of the personages in the one
narrative providing the action and the interest of all.
This plan rendered abruptness unavoidable; and nobody
who read the preface, and recognised the right
of an author to lay down his own standards and prescribe
his own plans, could possibly utter these objections.
The design may have been unhappy, and in
that my error may have lain; but, surely, no objection
can possibly lie to the incompleteness or abruptness
of the one and introductory story, if no exception was
taken to the plan at first.
-- ix --
[figure description] Page ix.[end figure description]
Another, and, perhaps, more serious cause of issue
lies between us. My friend objects to the preponderance
of low and vulgar personages in my narrative.
The question first occurs, “Does the story profess to
belong to a country and to a period of history which
are alike known—and does it misrepresent either?”—
If it does not, the objection will not lie. In all other
respects it is the objection of a romanticist—of one
who is willing to behold in the progress of society
none but its most lofty and elevated attributes,—who
will not look at the materials which make the million,
but who picks out from their number the man who
should rule, not the men who should represent,—who
requires every second person to be a demigod, or
hero, at the least,—and who scorns all conditions, that
only excepted which is the ideal of a pure mind and
delicate imagination. To make a fairy tale, or a tale
in which none but the colours of the rose and rainbow
shall predominate, is a very different, and, let me add,
a far less difficult matter, than to depict life as we
discover it—man in all his phases, as he is modified
by circumstance and moulded by education—and man
as the optimist would have, and as the dreamer about
inane perfectibility delights to paint, him. My object
usually has been to adhere, as closely as possible, to
the features and the attributes of real life, as it is to
be found in the precise scenes, and under the governing
circumstances,—some of them extraordinary and
romantic, because new,—in which my narrative has
followed it. In this pursuit, I feel confident that I
have “nothing extenuated, nor set down aught in
malice.” I certainly feel that, in bringing the vulgar
-- x --
[figure description] Page x.[end figure description]
and the vicious mind into exceeding activity in a story
of the borders, I have done mankind no injustice; and
while I walk the streets of the crowded city, and
where laws are said to exist, and in periods which, by
a strange courtesy, are considered civilized, I am still
less disposed to admit that my delineations of the species
in the wilds of our country, and during the strifes
of foreign and intestine warfare, are drawn in harsh
colours and by a heavy hand. I am persuaded that
vulgarity and crime must always preponderate—dreadfully
preponderate—in the great majority during a
period of war; and no argument would seem necessary
to sustain the assertion, when we look at the insolence
and brutality of crime, as it shows itself
among us in a time of peace. Certainly, if argument
be needed, we shall not have to look far from our
great cities for the evidence in either case.
It is true that the novelist is, or should be, an artist,
and his taste and judgment are alike required to select
from his materials, and choose, for his personages, judicious
lights. An undue preponderance of dark will
not do in a picture, unless to produce some such
pyrotechnic performances as John Martin delights in,—
vast dashes of glare and gloom, alternately shifting,
and an explosion of fireworks in a conspicuous centre.
The discriminating eye will require that the light and
shadow be so distributed that the one shall not be
oppressive nor the other dense. These are general
principles to be observed, not less by the poet than the
painter—not less by the novelist of real life than the
romancer who seeks only for extraordinary material.
But it is not merely as an artist that the historical
-- xi --
[figure description] Page xi.[end figure description]
novelist is to regulate his performances. He is required
to have regard to those moral objects which
should be in the eye of the painter also—though not to
the same extent,—since both these arts, along with
those of poetry and the drama, are never so legitimately
exercised as when they aim to refine the manners,
soften the heart, and elevate the general standards
of society and man. To paint morally, the historic
novelist must paint truly; and vice was never yet
painted truly, that it did not revolt the mind. One
error of our time is, not to paint it truly. If we tell of
the thousand crimes, we dwell with such emphasis
upon the solitary virtue, that they only serve as a
shadowy foil to its exceeding loveliness and light.
It is curious to perceive how completely this sort of
error has found its way into all our habits, not merely
those of thought and taste, but those of expression.
With what tenderness, nowadays, we speak of every
form of vice! A drunkard, unless he is very poor and
destitute, is seldom or never called a drunkard: he is
only a little excited. A debauchee and gambler is simply
a gay man; and a forger for millions is only guilty
of a sad mistake. We become wonderfully soon reconciled
to vice, when we mince the epithets which we
apply to it: the vice soon ceases to be held such
when we call it by a milder name.
The low characters predominate in the “Partisan,”
and they predominate in all warfare, and in all times
of warfare, foreign and domestic. They predominate
in all imbodied armies that the world has ever known.
War itself is a vice, though sometimes an unavoidable
one. The novelist would not draw truly, according
-- xii --
[figure description] Page xii.[end figure description]
to the facts, if he did not show that there are but few
men, calculated, by ability and force of character, to
lead the many; and this truth is of universal application.
It belongs to the million always, and will apply
to every existing nation on the surface of the globe.
The question which propriety may ask, having the
good of man for its object, is—“Has the novelist made
vice attractive, commendable, successful, in his story?
Is virtue sacrificed,—are the humanities of life and
society endangered, by the employment of such agents
as the low and vulgar? Is there any thing in the progress
of the vicious to make us sympathize with them—
to make us seek for them?” These are the proper
questions, and they are such as the “Partisan” must
answer for itself. Some of our critics and novelists,
wanting though they may be in most standards of
discrimination, have, nevertheless, sympathies and
tastes in common; and, perhaps, if, instead of naked
vulgarity and barefaced crime, I had robed my villains
in broadcloth, adorned their fingers with costly
gems, provided them liberally with eau-de-Cologne,
and made them sentimental, I should have escaped
all objections of this nature. It is too much the fashion
to conceal the impurities which we should seek to
cleanse, as some people employ the chloride of lime
to sprinkle the nuisance which propriety would instantly
remove.
Le Roy Place, New-York, September 1, 1836.
Main text
-- --
CHAPTER I.
[figure description] Page 013.[end figure description]
The battle of Dorchester was over; the victorious
Partisans, successful in their object, and bearing away
with them the prisoner whom they had rescued from the
felon's death, were already beyond the reach of their
enemies, when Colonel Proctor, the commander of the
British post, sallied forth from his station in the hope to
retrieve, if possible, the fortunes of the day. A feeling
of delicacy, and a genuine sense of pain, had prompted
him to depute to a subordinate officer the duty of attending
Colonel Walton to the place of execution. The rescue
of the prisoner had the effect of inducing in his mind
a feeling of bitter self-reproach. The mortified pride
of the soldier, tenacious of his honour, and scrupulous
on the subject of his trust, succeeded to every feeling
of mere human forbearance; and, burning with shame
and indignation, the moment he heard a vague account
of the defeat of the guard and the rescue of Walton, he
led forth the entire force at his command, resolute to recover
the fugitive or redeem his forfeited credit by his
blood. He had not been prepared for such an event as
that which has been already narrated in the last pages of
“The Partisan,” and was scarcely less surprised, though
more resolute and ready, than the astounded soldiers
under his command. How should he have looked for
the presence of any force of the rebels at such a moment,
when the defeat and destruction of Gates's army,
so complete as it had been, had paralyzed, in the minds
-- 014 --
[figure description] Page 014.[end figure description]
of all, the last hope of the Americans? With an audacity
that seemed little less than madness, and was desperation,
a feeble but sleepless enemy had darted in between
the fowler and his prey—had wrested the victim of
the conqueror from his talons, even in the moment of
his fierce repast; and, with a wild courage and planned
impetuosity, had rushed into the very jaws of danger,
without shrinking, and with the most complete impunity.
The reader of the work of which the present is offered
as a continuation, will perhaps remember the manner
in which we found it necessary to close that story.
It was from a scene of bloody strife that we hurried the
chief personages of the narrative, and, only solicitous
for their safety, paused not to consider the condition of
the field, or of the other parties who remained behind.
To that field we will now return, and at a moment which
leaves it almost doubtful whether, in reality, the strife be
ended. The cry of men in their last agony—the panting
prayer for a drop of water from the gasping wretch,
through whose distended mouth the life-blood pours forth
more freely than the accents that implore Heaven and
man alike for succour and relief—the continued flight
of the affrighted survivers, and the approaching rush of
Proctor's troop—these speak as loudly for the dreadful
conflict as the shrill blast of the hurrying trumpet, or the
sharp clashing of conflicting steel. The beautiful town
of Dorchester, in a bright flame at several points, illumined
with an unnatural glare the surrounding fields and
foliage, and, with the shrieks of flying women and children,
still more contributed to the terrible force of the
picture. The ruddy light bathed and enveloped for
miles around, with a brilliancy deeper than that of the
sun, the high tops of the towering pines, while the thick
dense smoke, ascending over all, hung sluggishly and
dark in the slumberous sky of August, like some of
those black masses of storm that usually come in the
-- 015 --
[figure description] Page 015.[end figure description]
train, and burst in ruin over the southern cities with the
flight, of the sister month of September.
The hurry of Col. Proctor was in vain. He came
too late to retrieve the fortunes of the fight. The partisans
had melted away like so many shadows. Vain
were all his efforts, and idle his chagrin. He could only
gaze in stupid wonderment upon the condition of the
field, admiring and deploring that valour which had eluded
his own, and set at naught all his precautions.
Never had surprise been more complete; never had
enterprise been better planned or more perfectly executed,
with so much hazard and with so little loss. The
whole affair was one to annoy the British commander
beyond all calculation. There was nothing to remedy—
there was no hope of redress. The rebels were beyond
his reach, and, even were they not, the force under
Proctor was quite too small, and the condition of his
trust, in and about Dorchester, of too much hazard and
importance, to permit of his pursuing them. Convinced
of this, he turned his attention to the field of battle,
every step in the examination of which only contributed
the more to his mortification and regret. Several of his
best soldiers lay around him in the last agonies or the
final slumbers of death; several were maimed or
wounded, and the few who survived and had fled from
the unlooked-for combat had not, in every instance, escaped
unhurt. But few of the partisans had fallen, and
their wounds had all been fatal. They were no longer
at the mercy of any human conqueror. There was
none upon whom the mortified commander, had he been
so disposed, could wreak his vengeance, and punish for
the audacity of his rebel leader. The bitterness of his
mood increased with the conviction that there was no
victim upon whom to pour it forth. Revenge and regret
were alike unavailing.
While thus he mused upon the gloomy prospect and
the bloody field, the soldiers, who, meanwhile, had been
-- 016 --
[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]
dispersed about in the inspection of the adjoining woods
and scene of strife, came before him, bringing an individual
whom they had found, the only one who seemed
to have escaped unhurt in the combat. Yet he was
found where the strife appeared to have been hottest. A
pile of dead bodies was around him, and, when discovered,
he was employed in turning over the senseless carcasses
and dragging them apart, as if searching for
some particular object. The British colonel started
when he beheld him; and, as he gazed upon the bronzed,
sinister, and well-known features, and saw with what
calm indifference the blear eye of the Half-Breed Blonay
met his own, a doubt of his fidelity grew active at
the expense of one whose character had always been
too equivocal to be held above the commission of the
basest treachery. The brow of the Briton put on new
terrors as he surveyed him; and, glad of any victim, even
though not the most odious, he addressed the reckless
savage in the sternest language of distrust.
“What do you here, Blonay? Speak quickly, and
without evasion, or you shall swing, by Heaven, on that
gallows instead of him whom you have helped from it.
Tell out the whole story of this traitorous scheme—unfold
the share you had in it, and who were your abetters—
who rescued the prisoner—by whom were they commanded—
how many—and where are they gone? Answer,
fellow; answer, and without delay; out—speak
out.”
Proctor could scarcely articulate his own requisitions,
so intense were his anxiety and passion. The person
addressed seemed almost totally unmoved by an exhortation
so earnestly made, or only moved to defiance.
His swarthy cheek grew even darker in its depth of
hue, and his lips were now resolutely fastened together,
as he listened to the language of his superior. His air,
full of scornful indifference, and his position, lounging
and listless, might have provoked Proctor to an act of
-- 017 --
[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]
violence, had they been maintained much longer. But,
as if moved by more prudent counsels from within, the
Half-Breed, in a moment after, changed his posture to
one of more respectful attention. The rigidity passed
away from his muscles—his high cheek-bones seemed
to shrink—his eyes were lowered,—and his head, which
had been elevated before into an unwonted loftiness, was
now suffered, in compliance with his usual habit, to fall
upon one shoulder. His mood grew more conciliatory
as he proceeded to reply to one, at least, of the several
questions which Proctor had asked him, almost in a
breath. Still, however, the reply of the Half-Breed
was found rather to accord with the first than the last
expression of his air and attitude.
“And if you was to hang me up, colonel, you
wouldn't be any the wiser, and would hear much less
than if you was to let me run.”
“No trifling, sirrah, but speak to the point, and quickly:
I am in no mood for jest. Speak out, and say what
is the part you have taken in this business. The truth,
sirrah,—the truth only will serve you.”
“I'm no rebel, colonel, as you ought to know by
this time. As for the truth, I'm sure I can tell it, if
you'd ax me one thing at a time. I aint sparing of the
truth when I've got it.”
“I do know you, sirrah, and know you too well to
trust you much. Briefly, then, and without prevarication,
do you know the parties who rescued Colonel
Walton? What do you know of the matter? The
whole truth; for I have the means of knowing whether
you speak falsely or not.”
“Well, now, colonel, I knows no great deal; but
what I knows is the truth, and that I'll tell. The men
who foul here were Marion's men, I reckon. I looked
out from the bay-bushes there;—I was doubled up in
a heap, and I seed the whole business, from the very
first jump.”
-- 018 --
[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]
“Relate the matter!”
“Relate—oh, ay—tell it, you mean. Why, then,
sir, the rebels came down the trace, from out the cypress,
I reckon, and—”
“Who led them?” demanded Proctor, impatiently.
“Why, I reckon 'twas Major Singleton.”
“Reckon! Do you not know, sir?”
“Well, yes, colonel, I may say I do, seeing that I
seed him myself.”
“And why, sirrah, did you not shoot him down? You
knew he was a rebel—that a price was set upon his
head—that you could have rendered no better service to
your king and to yourself, than by bringing in the ears
of a traitor so troublesome! Had you not your rifle,
sirrah? Why, unless you are a rebel like himself, did
you not use it?”
“Adrat it, colonel, it did go agin me not to pull
trigger; but, you see, colonel, 'twould ha' been mighty
foolish now. More than once I had the drop on both
of 'em, and could easy enough ha' brought down one or
t'other with a wink; but there was no fun in it to think
of afterward. I was only one shot, you see, sir, and
quite too close to get away. They were all round me,
and I had to lie mighty snug, or they'd ha' soon mounted
through the brush upon me like so many varmints; and
the swamp's a good mile off:—too far off for a man
that wants to hide his head in a hurry. It's no use,
colonel, you know, to lose one for one, when one's all
you've got.”
“Miserable coward!” exclaimed Proctor, with indignation.
“Miserable coward, to count chances at such
a moment; throwing away so good an opportunity. But
who was the other person? You spoke of another with
Singleton.”
“Eh,—what?” was the vacant and seemingly unconscious
reply of Blonay. The impatience of Proctor
appeared to increase.
-- 019 --
[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]
“The other—the person beside Singleton. You said
that your aim was upon both of them.”
A quick, restless, dissatisfied movement followed on
the part of the Half-Breed; and, before he replied, he
drew himself up to his fullest height, while a darker red
seemed to overshadow his features. His answer was
hurried, as if he desired to dismiss the subject from his
mind.
“T'other was Bill Humphries.”
“And why have you named him, in particular, with
Singleton?”
“'Cause I only seed him.”
“What! you do not mean to say that these two men
beat the guard and rescued the prisoner?” demanded
the Briton, with astonishment.
“Adrat it, colonel, no—I don't say so. There was
a matter of twenty on 'em and more; but I didn't stop
to look after the rest. I took sight at them two—first
one and then t'other; and, more than once, when they
were chopping right and left among the redcoats, I could
ha' dropped one or t'other for certain, and would ha' done
so if 'twan't for the old woman. She would go on the
hill, you see.”
“Who?” asked the officer.
“Why, sir, the old woman. Jist when I was going
to pull trigger upon that skunk Humphries, as he came
riding down the road so big, I heard her cry out, and I
couldn't help seeing her. She did try hard to get out
of the way of the horses, but old people, colonel, you
know, can't move fast like young ones, and I couldn't
help her, no how.”
“Of whom do you speak now?” demanded Proctor.
“What old woman are you talking of?”
Blonay simply lifted his finger, without changing
countenance or position, while he pointed to a mangled
carcass lying a few paces from the place of their conference.
It was there, indeed, that the soldiers of Proctor,
-- 020 --
[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]
on their coming up, had discovered him; and the eye
of the British colonel followed the direction of Blonay's
finger only to turn away in horror and disgust. The
miserable features were battered by the hoofs of the
plunging horses out of all shape of humanity, yet Proctor
was not slow to comprehend the connexion between
the vagrant before him and his hag-like mother. Turning
away from the spectacle, he gave directions to the
men to assist in removing the carcass, under the directions
of the son, whom he however proceeded to examine
still farther, and from whom, after innumerable questions,
he obtained all the leading particulars of the fray.
It seemed evident to Proctor, when his first feeling of
exasperation had subsided, that the bereaved wretch before
him was innocent of any participation in the assault
of the partisans, and he soon dismissed him to the performance
of those solemn offices of duty, the last which
were to be required at his hands for the parent he had
lost.
Obedient to the commands of their superior, the soldiers
drew nigh, and proceeded to transfer the corpse to
one of the carts, which they had now already filled in
part with the bodies of some of those who had been
slain. The son resisted them.
“You aint going to have her to Dorchester burying-ground—
eh?”
“To be sure—where else?” was the gruff reply of
the soldier having charge of the proceeding.
“Adrat it—she won't go there,” replied Blonay.
“And how the d—l can she help herself? She's as
dead, poor old creature, as a door-nail, and she's been
hammered much harder. See—her head's all mashed
to a mummy.” He raised the lifeless mass, and allowed
it to fall heavily in the cart, as if to convince the hearer,
however unnecessarily, that she no longer possessed a
will in the transaction. Blonay did not seem to heed
the soldier, but explained his own meaning in the following
words:—
-- 021 --
[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]
“There's a place nearer home the old woman wants
to be buried in. She aint guine to sleep quiet in the
churchyard, with all them people round her. If you
wants to help me, now, you must give me a cart on purpose,
and then I'll show you where to dig for her. She
marked it out herself long time ago.”
His wish was at once complied with, as the orders of
Colonel Proctor had been peremptory. An additional
cart was procured, into which the mangled remains were
transferred by the soldiers. In doing this, Blonay
lent no manner of assistance. On the contrary, his
thoughts and person were entirely given to another office,
which seemed to call for much more than his customary
consideration. Bending carefully, in all directions,
over the scene of strife, even as a hungry hound gathering
up from the tainted earth the scent of his selected
victim, he noted all the appearances of the field of combat,
and with the earnest search of one looking for the
ruined form of a lost but still remembered and loved
affection, he turned over the unconscious carcasses of
those who had fallen, and narrowly examined every several
countenance.
“He aint here,” he muttered to himself; and an
air of satisfaction seemed to overspread his face. “I
thought so—I seed him go to the cart, and he warn't
hurt then. I'll chaw the bullet for him yet.”
Thus saying, his search seemed to take another direction,
and he now proceeded to inspect the ground on
which the battle had taken place. In particular, he
traced out upon the soft red clay, which had retained
every impression, the various marks made by the hoofs
of the shodden horses. One of these he heedfully regarded,
and pursued with an air of intense satisfaction. The
impression was that of a very small shoe—a deer-like
hoof-trace—quite unlike, and much smaller than, those
made by the other horses. There was another peculiarity
in the shoe which may be noted. That of the
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
right forefoot seemed in one place to be defective. It
had the appearance of being either completely snapped
in twain, and the parts slightly separated directly in the
centre, or, by a stroke of the hammer, while the metal
was yet malleable, it had been depressed by a straight
narrow line evenly across. Whatever may have been
the cause, the impression of the shoe upon the earth
left this appearance of defect, making the track of its
owner sufficiently conspicuous to one having a knowledge
of, and on the look-out for, it. Having once satisfied
himself of the continued presence of the shoe, with
which he seemed to have been previously familiar, he
gave over his examination; and, as the cart was now
ready, and all preparations completed for the return of
the party to the village, he gathered up his rifle, drew
the 'coon-skin cap over his eyes, and, without a word, at
once fell in procession with the rest, following close behind
the body of his mother. Passing through the village
of Dorchester, where they only paused to procure
a coffin, which was furnished by the garrison, they proceeded
directly to the miserable cabin a few miles beyond,
which she had hitherto inhabited. Here, under a
stunted cedar, in a little hollow of the woods behind her
dwelling, a stake, already driven at head and foot, designated
the spot which she had chosen for her burial-place.
The spade soon scooped out a space for her reception,
and in a few moments the miserable and battered hulk
of a vexed and violent spirit was deposited in silence.
The son lingered but a little while after the burial was
over. He turned away soon after the rest; and, without
much show of sympathy, and with none of its feeling,
those who had thus far assisted left him to his own
mood in the now desolated abiding-place of his mother.
-- 023 --
CHAPTER II.
[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]
To estimate the solitude of such a creature as Blonay
under the present loss of his parent, by any of those
finer standards of humanity which belong to a higher
class and better habits, would be manifestly idle and erroneous.
But that his isolation previously from all others,
and his close dependance for sympathy upon the
one relative whom he had just lost, added largely to his
degree of suffering now, is equally unquestionable. Supposing
his mere human feelings to have been few and
feeble, they were yet undivided. Concentrating upon
the one object as they had done for so long a period,
they had grown steady and unwavering; and, if not very
strong or very active at any time, they were at least sufficiently
tenacious in their hold to make the sudden
wrenching of their bands asunder to be felt sensibly by
the surviver. But he did full justice in his deportment
to the Indian blood which predominated in his veins.
He had no uttered griefs; no tears found their way to
his cheeks, and his eyes wore their wonted expression
as he took his seat upon the floor of his lonely cabin,
and, stirring the embers upon the hearth, proceeded, with
the aid of the rich lightwood which lay plentifully at
hand, to kindle up his evening fire.
But, if grief were wanting to the expression of his
countenance, it did not lack in other essentials of expression.
Having kindled his fire, he sat for some time
before it in manifest contemplation. His brow was knitted,
his eyes fixed upon the struggling blaze, his lips
closely compressed, and a general earnestness of look
indicated a labouring industry of thought, which, were
he in the presence of another person, would never have
-- 024 --
[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]
been suffered so plainly to appear. For some time he
sat in this manner without change of position, and during
all this period it would seem that he was working out in
his mind some particular plan of conduct in the pursuit
of an object of no less difficulty than importance. Of
that object we can only conjecture the nature from a reference
to events, and to his actual condition. The vindictive
blood within him—his irresponsible position in
society—the severity of the treatment to which, justly
or not, he had been subjected by one of the parties between
whom the province was divided—and the recent
dispensation which had deprived him of the companionship
of one, who, however despicable and disgusting to
all others, was at least a mother to him—were circumstances
well calculated to arouse the savage desire of
vengeance upon those to whom any of his sufferings
might be attributed. That such were his thoughts,
and such the object of his deliberations, may safely
be inferred from the few words of muttered declamation
which fell from his lips at intervals while thus rapt in
his contemplations. It would be to no purpose to record
these words, since they do little more than afford a
brief and passing sanction to the opinion we have thus
ventured to entertain, and prove, at the same time, the
character of a mood seemingly hostile to humankind in
general. They were bitter and comprehensive, and
summed up, to the cost of humanity, all the wrongs to
which he had been subjected, and many others, wrongs
in his sight only, of which he but complained. Yet an
attentive listener might have observed that in what he
said there was an occasional reference to one individual
in particular, who was yet nameless; which reference,
whenever made, called up to his black, penetrating, but
blear eyes, their most malignant expression. All their
fires seemed to collect and to expand with a new supply
of fuel at such moments, and his swarthy skin glowed
upon his cheeks as if partaking with them a kindred
intensity of blaze.
-- 025 --
[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
He remained in this state of feeling and reflection
for some hours, indulging his usual listlessness of habit
while pursuing the thought which his mood had prompted;
when, at length, as if he had arrived at a full and
satisfactory conclusion, he arose from his place, supplied
the fire with new brands, and, as night had now set
in, proceeded to bring forth his supper from the little
cupboard where it usually stood. His fare was simple
and soon despatched. When this duty had been performed,
he next proceeded to such arrangements as
seemed to indicate his preparation for a long journey.
He brought forth from the recess which had supplied
him with his evening repast a small sack of corn-meal,
possibly a quart or more, and a paper containing at least
a pound of common brown sugar. A huge hoe, such
as is used in the corn-field, was then placed by him before
the blazing fire—the flour and sugar, previously
stirred together, were spread thickly over it, and, carefully
watching the action of the heat upon his mixture, he
took due heed to remove it at that period when he perceived
the flour to grow slightly brown, and the sugar to
granulate and form in common particles along with it.
It was then withdrawn from the fire, exposed for an hour
to the air, and afterward poured into a sack made of the
deerskin, which seemed to have been employed frequently
for a like purpose. To this, in another skin,
the remnant of a smoked venison ham was added, and
the two parcels, with one or two other items in the
shape of hoe-cake and fried bacon, were deposited in
a coarse sack of cloth, opening in the centre like a
purse, and so filled as to be worn across the saddle after
the fashion of the common meal-bag. This done, he
proceeded to what appeared a general overhaul of the
hovel. Various articles, seemingly of value, were
drawn out from their secret recesses; these were carefully
packed away in a box, and, when ready for removal,
their proprietor, honestly so or not, proceeded to secure
-- 026 --
[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]
them after his own manner. Leaving the cabin for an
instant, he went forth, and soon returned, bearing in his
hands a spade, with which, in a brief space, he dug a
hole in the centre of the apartment sufficiently large
to receive and conceal his deposite. Here he buried
it, carefully covering it over and treading down the
earth with his feet until it became as hard as that which
had been undisturbed around it. Placing every thing
which he was to remove ready for the moment of departure,
he threw himself upon the miserable pallet of his
hut, and soon fell into unbroken slumbers.
The stars were yet shining, and it lacked a good hour
of the daylight when he arose from his couch and began
to bestir himself in preparations for departure.
Emerging from the hovel with his bundles, as we have
seen them prepared the night before, he placed them under
a neighbouring tree, and, undoing the string from the
neck of the hungry cur that kept watch in his kennel
immediately beside the hovel's entrance, he left him in
charge of the deposite, while he took his way to the
margin of a little canebrake a few hundred yards off.
There, with a shrill whistle and a brief cry two or three
times repeated, he called up from its recesses a shaggy
pony—a creature of the swamps—a hardy, tough, uncouth,
and unclean little animal, which followed him like
a dog to the hovel which he had left. The hollow of a
cypress yielded him saddle and bridle, and the little goatlike
steed was soon equipped and ready for his rider.
This done, Blonay fastened him to a tree near his dog,
and without a word proceeded to apply the torch to several
parts of the building. It was not long before the
flames rose around it in every quarter; and, lingering
long enough to perceive that the conflagration must now
be effectual, the Half-Breed at length grasped his rifle,
mounted his tacky, and, followed by his ill-looking dog,
once more took his way to the village of Dorchester.
Moving slowly, he did not reach the village until the
-- 027 --
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
day had fully dawned. He then proceeded at once to
the garrison, and claimed to be admitted to the presence
of the commander. Proctor was too good a soldier, and
one too heedful of his duty, to suffer annoyance from a
visit at so early an hour; and, though not yet risen, he
gave orders at once for the admission of the applicant,
and immediately addressed himself to the arrangement
of his toilet. With a subdued but calm air of humility,
Blonay stood before the Briton—his countenance
as immoveable and impassive as if he had sustained no
loss, and was altogether unconscious of privation. Regarding
him with more indulgence than had hitherto been
his custom, Proctor demanded of him, first, if the soldiers
had properly assisted him in the last offices to his
mother; and next, his present business. Blonay had
few words, and his reply was brief.
“The old woman didn't want much help, and we
soon put her away. About what I want now, colonel, it
aint much, and it'll be a smart bit of time 'fore I come
back to trouble you again.”
“Why, where do you propose to go?” demanded the
Briton.
“I'm thinking to go up along by Black river, and so
up into Williamsburgh, and perhaps clear away to old
Kaddipah—Lynch's Creek, as they calls it now. I
don't know how long I may be gone, and it's to get a
paper from you that I'm come.”
“To Black river and Lynch's Creek—why, know
you not that the rebels are thick as hops in that quarter?
What carries you there?”
“There's a chap in that quarter stands indebted to me,
and I wants he should settle, seeing pay-day's come and
gone long ago. I aint'fear'd of the rebels, for I'm used
to the woods and swamps, and 'taint often I'll be in
their company. I'll keep out of harm's way, colonel, as
long as I can; and when I can't keep out any longer,
why, then I'll stand a shot, and have done with it.”
-- 028 --
[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
“And what sort of paper is it that you desire from
me?” asked Proctor.
“Why, sir—a little protection like, that'll be good
agin our own people, and stand up for my loyalty.
You can say I'm a true friend to his majesty, and how
you knows me; and that'll be enough, when you put
your own name to it in black and white.”
“But to show that to a rebel will be fatal to you.
How will you determine between them?”
“Every man has his own mark, colonel, same as
every tree; and where the mark don't come up clear to
the eye, it will to the feel or the hearing. I'm a born
hunter, colonel, and must take my chance. I aint
afear'd.”
“And yet, Blonay, I should rather not give you a
passport to go in that quarter. Can you not wait until
Lord Cornwallis takes that route? Is your claim so
very considerable?”
“'Taint so much, colonel, but I can't do so well
without it. I've been in want of it long enough, and
I'm dubous him that owes me will clear away and go
into North Carolina, and so I'll lose it. You needn't
be scared for me, colonel; I'm not going to put my head
in the bull's mouth because his hide has a price in market;
and I think, by the time I get up there, Marion's
men will be all off. I aint afeard.”
Proctor, after several efforts to dissuade him from his
purpose, finding all his efforts unavailing, gave him the
required passport, which he carefully concealed from
sight, and, with many acknowledgments and professions
of loyalty, took his departure. From Dorchester, proceeding
to the battle-ground, he again carefully noted
the tracks of the one shoe, which he followed with the
keen eye of a hunter, from side to side of the road, in
its progress upward to the cypress swamp. Sometimes
losing it, he turned to the bushes on either hand, and
where they seemed disordered or broken, he
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
continued the trail, until, again emerging from the cover, he
would find, and resume, the more distinct impression, as
it was made upon the clay or sandy road. In this way
he reached the broken ground of the swamp, and there
he lost it. Alighting, therefore, he concealed his pony
in a clump of bushes, and with his rifle primed and ready
for any emergency, he pursued his farther search into
the bosom of the swamp on foot. Here he still thought
that he might find the partisans—if not the entire troop
of Singleton, at least a portion of it; probably—though
on this head he was not sanguine—the very object of
his search. From point to point, with unrelaxing vigilance
and caution, he stole along until he reached the
little creek which surrounded and made an island of the
spot where Singleton had held his temporary camp. The
place was silent as the grave. He crossed the narrow
stream, and carefully inspected the ground. It bore
traces enough of recent occupation. The ashes of several
fires, still retaining a slight degree of warmth—the
fresh tracks of horses, that of the broken shoe among
them—hacked trees, and torn bushes all told of the
presence there, within a brief space, of the very persons
whom be now sought. The search of Blonay, worthy
of that of the ablest Indian hunter, was thorough and
complete. From the one island, he took his way to
sundry others which lay in its neighbourhood, susceptible
of occupation, in all of which he found traces of men
and horses, encouraging him to proceed farther and
with continued caution. At length he passed an oozy
bog, and stood upon a little hummock, which seemed
formed for a place of refuge and repose. An awful
silence rested over the spot, and the exceeding height of
the cypresses, and the dense volume of undergrowth
which surrounded and darkened the wide intervals between
them, seemed almost too solid to admit of his
progress. The gloom of the region had all the intensity
of night, and appeared to impress itself upon the feelings
-- 030 --
[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
of one even so habitually wanting in reverence as the
Half-Breed. He paused for an instant, then moving
forward by a route which he seemed to adopt with confidence,
he rounded the natural obstruction of woods
and thicket, and an amphitheatre opened before him, not
so spacious as it was perfect. He paused suddenly—
he heard a footstep—there was evidently a rustling in
the woods. He stole behind a tree for an instant,
sank upon his knee, lifted his rifle, which he cocked with
caution, and watched the quarter intently from which the
sound had arisen. A shrill scream rose upon the air,
and in the next instant he beheld a monstrous wild-cat,
startled like himself, and by him, bound forward to an
opposite point of the area, and leap into the extending
arms of a rotten tree, that shook under its pressure.
Perching upon the very edge of a broken limb which
jutted considerably out, it looked down with threatening
glance upon his approach. He rose from his knees, and
advanced to the spot from whence the animal had fled,
and over which it still continued to brood with flaming
eyes and an aroused appetite. It was not long before
Blonay discovered the occasion of its presence. The
figure of a man, huge of frame, but seemingly powerless,
lay stretched upon the ground. The Half-Breed soon
recognised the person of the maniac Frampton. He
lay upon the little mound which covered the remains of
his wife. To this he seemed to have crawled with the
latest efforts of his strength. That strength was now
nigh exhausted. His clothes were in tatters, and covered
with traces of blood and mire. His bloodshot eyes
were glazing fast. The curtain of death was nearly
drawn over them, but his feeble hand was uplifted occasionally
to the tree where the wild-cat sat watching hungrily
for the moment when the restless but feeble motion
of the dying man should cease. Blonay approached,
and, as his eye glanced from man to beast, he lifted his
rifle, intending to shoot the monster. The action seemed
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
to irritate the creature, whose half-suppressed scream, as
Blonay advanced his foot towards him in the act to fire,
appeared to defy and threaten him.
“The varmint!” exclaimed the Half-Breed, “I could
shoot him now easy enough, but it's no use. There's
plenty more on 'em in the swamp to come after him, and
I don't love them any better than him. There's no reason
why I should keep the meat from him, only for
them. It's the natur of the beast to want its fill, and
what the wild-cat don't eat the buzzards must. The varmint
won't touch him so long as he can move a finger,
and when he can't he won't mind much how many of
'em get at him.”
So speaking, he turned from the animal to the maniac.
The hand was uplifted no longer. The eye had nothing
of life's language in it. The last lingering consciousness
had departed for ever; and Blonay looked up to the
watching wild-cat as he turned the body with his foot,
muttering aloud as he did so—“Adrat it, you may soon
come down to dinner.”
The animal uttered a short, shrill cry, two or three
times repeated, and with a rising of its bristles, and such
a flashing of its eyes, that Blonay half determined to
shoot it where it stood, for what appeared to him its determined
insolence. Once, indeed, he did lift his rifle,
but, with the thought of a moment, he again dropped it.
“It's only a waste,” he muttered to himself, “and can
do no good. Besides, it's a chawed bullet. It's of no
use to bite lead when a wild-cat's to be killed. Smooth
bullet and smooth bore will do well enough, and them I
hain't.”
Such were his words as he turned away from the spot,
and departed for the place where his horse was fastened,—
such was his philosophy. The bullet, marked for vengeance
by the impression of his teeth, was not to be
thrown away upon mere pastime; and, though feeling a
strong desire to destroy the cat, he was yet able to
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
forbear. He hurried through the quagmire, but had not
gone far when the repeated screams of the animal, calling
probably to its fellows, announced to the Half-Breed
that he had already begun to exult in the enjoyment of
his long withheld and human banquet.
CHAPTER III.
Blonay emerged from the swamp only to commence
a journey of new difficulties, the termination of which
he could not foresee. Leaving him upon the road for a
while, we will now change the scene to that beautiful
tract of country lying close along the borders of the
Santee, and stretching thence, in a northwardly direction,
across the present district of Williamsburg to the
river Kaddipah—a stream which, according to modern
usage, has shared the fate of most of our Indian waters,
and exchanging that more euphonious title, conferred
upon it by the red man, is now generally known to us as
Lynch's Creek. With a patriotic hardihood, that will be
admitted to have its excuse if not its necessity, we
choose to preserve in our narrative the original Indian
cognomen whenever we may find it necessary to refer to
it; and the reader, whose geographical knowledge might
otherwise become confused, will henceforward be pleased
to hold the two names as identical, if not synonymous.
To the Santee, extending from point to point in every
direction leading to the Kaddipah, the action of the Carolina
partisans was for a long time limited. Our narrative
will be confined within a like circuit. The entire
region for nearly two hundred miles on every hand was
in the temporary and occasional occupation of Marion
and his little band. With the commission of the state,
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
conferring upon him the rank of a brigadier in its service,
Governor Rutledge had assigned to the brave partisan
the entire charge in and over all that immense
tract comprehended within a line drawn from Charleston
along the Atlantic to Georgetown, inclusive,—thence in
a westerly direction to Camden, and thence in another
line, including the Santee river, again to Charleston.
This circuit comprehended the most wealthy and populous
portion of the state, and could not, under existing
circumstances, have been intrusted to better hands.
And yet, not a foot of it but was in actual possession
and under the sway of the invader. His forts and garrisons
at moderate intervals covered its surface, and his
cavalry, made up chiefly of foreign and native mercenaries,
constantly traversed the entire space lying between
them. The worthy governor of South Carolina, thus
liberal in appropriating this extensive province to the
care of the partisan, dared not himself set foot upon it
unless under cover of the night; and the brave man to
whom he gave it availed himself of the privileges of
his trust only by stratagem and stealth. Fortunately,
the physical nature of the country so bestowed was well
susceptible of employment in the hands of such a warrior
as Marion. It afforded a thousand natural and almost
inaccessible retreats, with the uses of which the
partisan had been long familiar. The fastnesses of
river and forest, impervious to the uninitiated stranger,
were yet a home to the “swamp fox.' He doubled
through them, night and day, to the continual discomfiture
and mortification of his pursuers. From the Santee
to the Black river, from Black river to the two Peedees,
through the Kaddipah, from thence to Waccamah,
and back again to the Santee, he led his enemies a long
chase, which wearied out their patience, defied their
valour, and eluded all their vigilance. Availing himself
of their exhaustion, he would then suddenly turn upon
the pursuing parties, watch their movements, await the
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
moment of their neglect or separation, and cut them up
in detail by an unlooked-for blow, which would amply
compensate by its consequences for all the previous annoyance
to which he might have been subjected in the
pursuit.
It was to his favourite retreat at Snow's Island that
Major Singleton followed his commander after the successful
onslaught at Dorchester. Himself familiar with
the usual hiding-places, he had traced his general with
as much directness as was possible in following one so
habitually cautious as Marion. He had succeeded in
uniting with him, though after much difficulty; and, as
the partisan studiously avoided remaining very long in
any one place, the union had scarcely been effected before
the warriors were all again in motion for the upper
Santee. This river, bold, broad, rapid, and full of
intricacies, afforded the finest theatre for the sort of warfare
which they carried on. Its course, too, was such as
necessarily made it one of the great leading thoroughfares
of the state. Detachments of the enemy's troops were
continually passing and repassing it, in their progress
either for the seacoast or the interior. Supplies and recruits
to Cornwallis—then in North Carolina — despatches
and prisoners in return from him to the Charleston
garrison, made the region one of continual life, and,
to Marion, of continual opportunity. Hanging around
its various crossing-places like some vigilant and vengeful
hawk in confident expectation of his prey, he kept
an unsleeping watch, an untiring wing, an unerring weapon.
In its intricacies we shall find him now—the
swamps not less his home than the element of his peculiar
genius. His scouts are dispersed around him in all
directions and in all disguises—lying in the bush by the
wayside—crouching in the oozy mire in close neighbourhood
with the reptile—watchful above, and buried in the
thick overhanging branches of the tree—crawling around
the cottage enclosure, in readiness and waiting for the
foe.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
The scene to which we would now direct the eye of
our reader is sufficiently attractive of itself to secure his
attention. The country undulates prettily around us, for
miles, in every direction: now rising gently into slopes,
that spread themselves away in ridges and winding lines,
until the sight fails to discover the valleys in which they
lose themselves—and now sinking abruptly into deepening
hollows and the quietest dells, whose recesses and
sudden windings, thickly covered with the massive and
umbrageous natural growth of the region, terminate at
last, as by a solid wall, the long and variously-shadowed
prospect. On the one hand a forest of the loftiest
pines, thousands upon thousands in number, lies in the
deep majesty of unappropriated silence. In the twilight
of their dense and sheltered abodes, the meditative and
melancholy mind might fitly seek, and readily obtain, security
from all obtrusion of uncongenial objects. Even
the subtile and oppressive beams of the August sun
come as it were by stealth, and tremblingly, into their
solemn and sweet recesses. Their tops, gently waving
beneath the pressure of the slight breeze as it hurries
over them, yield a strain of murmuring song like the
faint notes of some spirit mourner, which accords harmoniously
with the sad influence of their dusky forms.
The struggling and stray glance of sunlight, gliding
along their prostrated vistas, rather contributes to increase
than remove the sweet gloom of these deep
abodes. The dim ray, like an intrusive presence, flickering
between their huge figures with every movement
of the declining sun, played, as it were, by stealth,
among the brown leaves and over the gray bosom of the
earth below. Far as the eye can extend, these vistas, so
visited, spread themselves away in fanciful sinuosities,
until the mind becomes unconsciously and immeasurably
uplifted in the contemplation of the scene, and we feel
both humbled and elevated as we gaze upon the innumerable
forms of majesty before us, rising up, it would
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
seem, without a purpose, from the bosom of the earth—
living without notice and without employ—uncurbed in
their growth—untroubled in their abodes—and perishing
away in season only to give place to succeeding myriads
having a like fortune. On the other hand, as it were, to
relieve the mind of the spectator from the monotonous influence
of such a survey, how different is the aspect of
the woods—how various the other features of the scene
around us. Directly opposed to the pine groves on the
one hand, we behold the wildest and most various growth
of the richest southern region rising up, spreading and
swelling around in the most tangled intricacy—in the
most luxurious strength. There the hickory and gum
among the trees attest the presence of a better soil for
cultivation, and delight the experienced eye of the planter.
With these, clambering over their branches, come
the wild vines, with their thorny arms and glowing vegetation.
Shrubs gather in the common way; dwarf trees
and plants, choked and overcome, yet living still, attest
the fruitfulness of a land which yields nutriment but denies
place; and innumerable species of fungi, the yellow
and the purple fringes of the swamps, the various
mosses, as various in hue as in form and texture—parasites
that have no root, and, like unselfish affections,
only claim an object upon which to bestow themselves—
these, crowding about and clustering in gay confusion
along the dense mass, swelling like a fortress before
the eye, seem intended to form a labyrinthine retreat for
the most coy of all selfish creations.
Immediately beyond this dense and natural thicket,
the scene—still the same—presents us with another aspect.
A broken and dismantled fence, the rails half
rotten and decaying fast on all sides, seems to indicate
the ancient employment of the place by man. The
period must have been remote, however, as the former
product of the spot thus enclosed had been superseded
by the small-leafed or field pine-tree, in sufficient size
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
and number almost to emulate the neighbouring and
original forest. There was little here of undergrowth,
and yet, as the pine thus occupying it is of inferior and
frequently of dwarf size, the thicket was sufficiently
dense for temporary concealment. It had a farther advantage
in this respect, as it sunk rapidly in sundry places
into hollows, that lay like so many cups in the bosom
of crowding hills, and had for their growth, like the original
wood we have just passed over, a tangled covering
of vines and shrubbery.
It was on the side of one of these descents, about
noon, on the third day after Blonay's departure from
Dorchester, that we find two persons reclining, sheltered
by a clump of the smaller pines of which we have spoken,
and sufficiently concealed by them and the shrubbery
around, to remain unconcerned by the near proximity of
the highway. The road ran along, and within rifle distance,
to the south, below them. The elder of the two
was a man somewhere between thirty and forty years of
age. His bulky form, as it lay extended along the grass,
denoted the possession of prodigious strength; though the
position in which he lay, with his face to the ground, and
only supported by his palms, borne up by his elbows
resting upon the earth, would incline the spectator to
conceive him one not often disposed for its exercise.
An air of sluggish inertness marked his manner, and
seemed to single him out as one of the mere beef-eaters,—
the good citizens, who, so long as they get wherewithal
to satisfy the animal, are not apt to take umbrage at
any of the doings of the world about them. His face,
however, had an expression of its own; and the sanguine
flush which overspread the full cheeks, and the quick,
restless movement of his blue eye, spoke of an active
spirit, and one prompt enough at all times to govern
and set in motion the huge bulk of that body, now so
inert and sluggish. His forehead, though good, was not
large; his chin was full, and his nose one of length and
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
character. He was habited in the common blue and
white homespun of the country. A sort of hunting-shirt,
rather short, like a doublet, came over his hips, and was
bound about his waist by a belt of the same material.
A cone-crowned hat, the rim of which, by some mischance,
had been torn away, lay beside him, and formed
another portion of his habiliments. Instead of shoes,
he wore a rude pair of buckskin moccasins, made after
the Indian manner, though not with their usual skill, and
which lacked here and there the aid of the needle. His
shirt-collar lay open, without cravat or covering of any
kind; and, by the deeply-bronzed colour of the skin beneath,
told of habitual exposure to the elements. A rifle
lay beside him—a stout instrument,—and in his belt a
black leather case was stuck conveniently, the huge
knife which it protected lying beside him, as it had just
before been made subservient to his mid-day meal.
His companion was a youth scarcely more than
twenty years of age, who differed greatly in appearance
from him we have attempted to describe. His eye was
black and fiery, his cheek brown and thin, his hair of a
raven black like his eye, his chin full, his nose finely
Roman, and his forehead imposingly high. His person
was slender, of middle height, and seemed to indicate
great activity. His movements were feverishly restless—
he seemed passionate and impatient, and his thin, but
deeply red lips, quivered and coloured with every word
and at every movement. There was more of pretension
in his dress than in that of his companion, though they
were not unlike in general structure and equipment.
Like him he wore a hunting-shirt, but of a dark green,
and it could be seen at a glance that its material had
been of the most costly kind. A thick fringe edged
the skirts, which came lower, in proportion to his person,
than those of his companion. Loops of green cord fastened
the coat to his neck in front, and a belt of black
polished leather confined it to his waist. He also
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
carried a rifle,—a Spanish dirk, with a broken handle of
ivory, was stuck in his belt, and a pouch of some native
fur, hanging from his neck by a green cord, contained his
mould and bullets. This dress formed the uniform of
a native company. His powder-horn had been well
chosen, and was exceedingly and curiously beautiful.
It had been ingeniously wrought in scraping down, so as
to represent a rude but clear sketch of the deer in full
leap, a hound at his heels, and a close thicket in the
perspective, ready to receive and shelter the fugitive.
These were all left in relief upon the horn, while every
other part was so transparent that the several grains of
powder were distinctly visible within to the eye without.
The youth was partially reclining, with his back against
a tree, and looking towards his elder companion. His
face was flushed, and a burning spot upon both cheeks
told of some vexing cause of thought which had been
recently the subject of conversation between them. The
features of the elder indicated care and a deep concern
in the subject, whatever it may have been, but his eye
was mild in its expression, and his countenance unruffled.
He had been evidently labouring to sooth his more
youthful comrade; and though he did not seem to have
been, as yet, very successful, he did not forego his efforts
in his disappointment. The conversation which
followed may help us somewhat in arriving at a knowledge
of the difficulty before them.
“I am not more quick or impatient,” said the youth
to his companion, as if in reply to some remark from
the other, “than a man should be in such a case. Not
to be quick when one is wronged, is to invite injustice;
and I am not so young, Thumbscrew, as not to have
found that out by my own experience. I know no good
that comes of submission, except to make tyrants and
slaves; and I tell you, Thumbscrew, that so long as my
name is Mellichampe, I shall never submit to the one,
nor be the other.”
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
“A mighty fine spirit, Airnest; and, to speak what's
gospel true, I likes it myself,” was the reply of the other,
who addressed the first speaker with an air of respectful
deference, as naturally as if he had been taught to regard
him as a superior. “I'm not,” he continued, “I'm
not a man myself to let another play tantrums with me;
and, for sartain, I sha'n't find fault with them that's most
like myself in that partic'lar. If a man says he's for
fight, I'll lick him if I can;—if I can't—that's to say, if
I think I can't—I'll think longer about it. I don't see
no use in fighting where it's ten to one—where, indeed,
it's main sartain—I'm to be licked; and so, as I says, I'll
take time to think about the fighting.”
“What! until you're kicked?” replied the other, impetuously.
“No, no, Airnest—not so bad as that comes to, neither.
My idee is, that fighting is the part of a beast-brute,
and not for a true-born man, that has a respect for
himself, and knows what's good-breeding; and I only
fights when there's brutes standing waiting for it. Soon
as a man squints at me as if he was going to play beast
with me, by the eternal splinters, I'll mount him, lick or
no lick, and do my best, tooth, tusk, and grinders, to
astonish him. But, afore that, I'm peaceable as a pine
stump, lying quiet in my own bush.”
“Well, but when you're trodden upon?” said the other.
“Why, then, you see, Airnest, there's another question—
who's atop of me? If it's a dozen, I'll lie snug until
they're gone over: I see nothing onreasonable or onbecoming
in that—and that, you see, Airnest, is jist what I
ax of you to do. They aint treading on you 'xactly, tho'
I do confess they've been mighty nigh to it; but then,
you see, there's quite too many on 'em for you to handle
with, onless you play 'possum a little. There's no
use to run plump into danger, like a blind bull into a
thick fence, to stick fast there and be hobbled; when,
if you keep your eyes open, and a keen scent, you can
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
track all your enemies, one by one, to his own kennel,
and smoke 'em out, one after another, like a rabbit in a
dry hollow. Hear to my words, Airnest, and don't be
vexed now. Dang my buttons, you know, boy, I love
you the same as if you was my own blood and bone,
though I knows my place to you, and know you're come
of better kin, and are better taught in book-larning;
but, by God! Airnest, you haven't larned, in all your
larning, to love anybody better than I love you.”
“I know it, Thumby, I know it—I feel it,” said the
other, moved by the earnestness of his companion, and
extending his hand towards him, while his eyes filled
with ready tears. “I know it—I feel it, my friend;—
forgive me if I have said any thing to vex you. But my
heart is full, and my blood is on fire, and I must have
utterance in some way.”
“Never cry, Airnest—don't, I tell you,—'taint right—
it's onbecoming, Airnest, but—dang it!” he exclaimed,
dashing a drop from his own eye as he spoke, “dang it!
I do believe I've been about to do the same thing. But
it's all the fault of one's mother, as larns it to us so
strong when we're taking suck, that we 'member it for
ever after. A man that's got a-fighting, and in the wars
with tories one day and British the next, it's onbecoming
for him to cry; and, Airnest, though things are black
enough about home, it's not black enough to cry for.
It'll come light again before long, I'm sartain. I've
never seed the time yet when there wasn't some leetle
speck of light on the edge of the cloud somewhere—it
mought be ever so leetle, or ever so fur off, but it was
there somewhere: it mought be in the east, and that
showed the clearing away was further off; or it mought
be in the northward, and that wasn't the best place either
for it to break in, but it was somewhere for certain—that
leetle speck of white; jist like a sort of promise from
God, that airth should have sunshine again.”
“Would I could behold it now,” responded the other,
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
gloomily, to the cheering speech of his companion;
“would I could behold it now; but I see nothing of this
promise—there is no bright speck in the dark cloud
which now hangs about my fortunes.”
“You're but young yet, Airnest, and it aint time yet
for you to talk so. You haven't had a full trial yet, and
you're only at the beginning—as one may say, jist at
the threshold of the world, and hain't quite taken your
first step into it. Wait a little; and if you've had a little
nonplush at the beginning, why man, I tell you, larn from
it—for it's a sort of lesson, which, if you larn it well,
will make you so much the wiser to get on afterward,
and so much the happier when the storm blows over.
Now, I don't think it so bad for them that has misfortunes
from the jump. They are always the best people after
all; but them that has sunshine always at first, I never
yet knew one that could stand a shower. They're always
worried at every thing and everybody—quarrelling
with this weather, and quarrelling with that, and never
able to make the most of what comes up to 'em. Hold
on, Airnest—shut your teeth, and keep in your breath,
and stand to it a leetle longer. That's my way; and,
when I keep to it, I'm always sure to see that leetle
white speck I've been telling about, wearing away all
round, till it comes right before my eyes, and there it
sticks, and don't move till the sunlight comes out again.”
“You may be right in your philosophy,” responded
the youth, “and I would that I could adopt it for my
own; but my experience rejects, and my heart does not
feel it. These evils have come too fast and too suddenly
upon me. My father cruelly murdered—my mother
driven away from the home of my ancestors—that
home confiscated, and given to the murderer—and I, a
hunted, and, if taken, a doomed man! It is too much
for my contemplation. My blood boils, my brain burns—
I cannot think, and when I do it is only to madden.”
The speaker paused in deepest emotion. His hand
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
clasped his forehead, and he sank forward, with his face
prone to the earth upon which he had been reclining.
His companion lifted his hand, which he took into his
own, and, with a deep solicitude of manner, endeavoured,
after his own humble fashion of argument and speech, to
exhort his youthful and almost despairing associate to
better thoughts and renewed energy.
“Look up, Airnest, my dear boy,—look up, and listen
to me, Airnest. It's onbecoming to be cast down
like a woman, because trouble presses upon the heart.
I know what trouble is, and, dang my buttons, Airnest,
I feel for you all over; but I don't like to see you cast
down, because then I think you aint able to turn out to
have satisfaction upon the enemy for what they've done
to you. Now, though I do say you're to keep quiet,
and lie snug at the present, that isn't to say that you're
to do nothing. No, no,—you're to get in readiness for
what's to come, and not be wanting when you have a
chance to turn your enemy upon his back. It aint revenge,
but it's justice, and my lawful, natural right, that
I fights for; and you mustn't be cast down, Airnest, seeing
that then you moughtn't be ready to take the benefit
of a good opportunity.”
“It's revenge not less than justice,” said the youth,
impatiently. “I must have the one, whether the other
be obtained or not. I will have it—I will not sleep in
its pursuit; and yet, Thumbscrew, I will take your advice—
I will be prudent in order to be successful—I will
pause in order to proceed. Do not fear me now—I
shall do nothing which will risk my adventure or myself:
but I will temper my mood with caution, and seek for
that vengeance, which shall be the white speck among
the clouds of which you have spoken.”
“Well, now, that's what I call becoming, and straight-forward
right. I'm for—but hush! don't you hear
something like a critter? and—that was the bark of a
cur, I'll be sworn to it.”
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
The sturdy woodman thrust his ear to the earth, and
the sound grew more distinct.
“Keep close, Airnest, now, and I'll look out, and make
an examination. There's only one horse, I reckon,
from the sound; but I'll see before I leave the bush. I'll
whistle should I want you to lend a hand in the business.”
Seizing his rifle as he spoke, with an alacrity which
seemed incompatible with his huge limbs, and must
have surprised one who had only beheld him as he lay
supine before, he bounded quickly, but circumspectly, up
the hill, and through the copse towards the highway
from whence the sounds that had startled them appeared
to proceed. The cause of the disturbance may very
well be reserved for explanation in another chapter.
CHAPTER IV.
Before reaching the road the sturdy woodman became
yet more cautious, and, stealing from cover to
cover, thus eluded any eye that might be approaching
upon it. He gained the cover of a little hedge, formed
of the tallow-bush and myrtle, and crouched cautiously
and silently out of sight, as he perceived, from the short,
quick cry of the cur, that he was advancing rapidly.
He had scarcely done so, and arranged an aperture in
the copse through which he might observe the road,
when he beheld the cause of the uproar which the dog
was making. Leaping in irregular bounds, and evidently
nearly exhausted, a frightened rabbit came down the
trace, inclining from the opposite and open ground of
pine forest, to the close bushes in which he was himself
concealed.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
“Poor Bon,” exclaimed the woodman, “it's a bad
chance for her this time. I only hope she won't pop
into this quarter, or it will be a bad chance for some of
her friends.”
The muttered apprehensions of the woodman were
realized. His eye had scarcely noted the pursuing dog,
which emerged from the wood closely upon the rabbit's
heels, when the poor thing rushed to the very shelter in
which he stood, and, darting between his legs, was there
secured by their involuntary pressure together. He
stooped to the earth, and took up the trembling animal,
which lay quivering in his grasp, preferring, by the natural
prompting of its instinct, to trust the humanity of
man rather than the well-known nature of the enemy
which had pursued it.
“Poor Bonny,” said the woodman, soothingly, as he
caressed it. “Poor Bon—you couldn't help it, Bonny—
you were too mighty frightened to know the mischief
you're a-doing. Ten to one you've got us into a hobble,
now; but there's nothing to be done but to see it out.”
The dog by this time rushed into the brush, and recoiled
instantly as he beheld the stranger. The quick,
rapid cry with which he had pursued the rabbit, was exchanged
for the protracted bark with which he precedes
his assault upon the man. His white teeth were displayed,
and, as if conscious of approaching support, he
advanced boldly enough to the attack. The woodman
grew a little angry, and lifting his rifle in one hand, while
maintaining the terrified but quiet rabbit in the other, he
made an exhibition of it which prompted the cur to give
back. It was then that, through the bushes, he saw a
person approaching along the road whom he readily
took to be the owner of the dog. He dropped his rifle
instantly, which he suffered to rest, out of sight, against
a tree which stood behind him; and, hallooing to the
new-comer, he advanced without hesitation from his
place of concealment into the road.
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
Blonay—for it was he—drew up his tacky, and the
rifle which he carried across the saddle, in his hand, was
grasped firmly, and, at the first moment, was partially
uplifted; but, seeing that the stranger was unarmed, he
released his hold, and saluted him with an appearance of
as much good-humour as he could possibly put on.
Thumbscrew advanced to him with the trembling rabbit,
which he made the subject of his first address.
“How are you, stranger? I reckon this is some of
your property that I've got here—seeing as how your
dog started it. I cotched it 'twixt my legs—the poor
thing was so scared, it didn't know—not it—that 'twas
going out of the frying-pan into the fire. It's your'n
now; though, dang it, stranger, if so be you don't want
it much, I'd rether now you'd tell me to put it down in
the bush and let it run, while you make your dog hold
in. It's so scared, you see, and it's a pity to hurt any
thing in natur when you see it scared.”
He patted the feeble and trembling animal encouragingly
as he spoke, and Blonay was surprised that so
large a man should be so gently inclined. He himself
cared little, at any time, about the feelings and the fears
of yet larger objects. His reply to the application for
mercy was favourable, however.
“Well, if you choose, my friend, you can let it go. I
don't want it. The dog only started it for his own fun,
seeing that it's the nature of the beast. Here, Hitch'em,
Hitch'em! lie down, nigger—and shut up. You can let
her go now, my friend.”
Blonay quieted his dog, and Thumbscrew took his
way into cover, watched his moment, and, with a parting
pat upon its back, and a cheering “hurrah Bon, run for
it with your best legs,” dismissed the little captive, once
more in safety, to its forest habitations. He then returned
to the spot where Blonay remained in waiting, and,
in his blunt, good-humoured way, at once proceeded to
commence a conversation with him, after the manner of
the country, with a direct question.
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“Well, now, stranger, you've been travelling a bit—
can you tell me, now, if you've seed anywhere in your
travels a man or boy that looks very much like a thief,
riding upon a fine dark-bay nag, that looks like he was
stolen?”
“No, that I haven't, friend—I'm much obliged to you,
but I haven't seen any,” was the reply of Blonay.
“Well, you needn't be obliged to me, stranger, seeing
it's no sarvice to you, the question I ax'd you. But
if it aint axing you too much, I should like to know
which road you come.”
“Well, to say truth, now, my friend, I don't know the
name it goes by—it's a main bad road, you see.”
“I ax, you see, because, when you tells me you aint
seed the nag and them that's riding him on the road you
come, it's a clear chance they've gone t'other. So, now,
if you'll only but say which road you tuk, I'll take the
contrary.”
The reasoning was so just, and the air of simplicity
so complete, which the inquirer had put on, that Blonay
saw no necessity for keeping concealed so unimportant
a matter as the mere route which he had been travelling;
so, without any farther scruple, he gave the required
information.
“Well, then, I reckon, stranger, you're all the way
from the big city, clear down to the salt seas. There's
a power of people there now, aint there?”
“I aint from Charleston,” coldly replied the Half-Breed.
“Oh, you aint—but, do tell—you hear'd about a man
that was hung at Dorchester—reckon you seed it?”
“He worn't hung—he got off.”
“What! they pardoned him—and so many people as
was guine to see him dance upon nothing? What a
disappointment! I was a-guine down myself, but, you
see, I lost my critter, and so I couldn't; and now I'm
glad I didn't, if so be, as you say, he worn't hung.”
-- 048 --
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
“No, he worn't hung—there was a fight, and he got
away. But this is only what they tell me; I don't know
myself.”
“Who tell'd you?”
“The people.”
“What, them that seed it? Perhaps them that did it—
eh?”
This was pushing the matter quite too far, and Blonay
began to be uneasy under so leading a question.
He replied quickly, after the evasive manner which was
adopted between them,
“No! I don't know, they told me they heard it, and
I didn't ax much about it, for it worn't my business, you
see.”
“Oh! that's right,—everybody to his own business,
says I; and, where people's a-fighting, clean hands and
long distance is always best for a poor man and a stranger.
They gits a-fighting every now and then in these
here parts, and they do say they're a mustering now
above, the sodgers.”
“What soldiers?” demanded Blonay, with an air of
interest.
“Eh! what sodgers?—them that carries guns and
swords, and shoots people, to be sure—them's sodgers,
aint they?”
“Yes! but have they got on uniforms, or is it only
them that carries rifle, or a knife, or perhaps a rusty
sword, or a hatchet. Some soldiers, you know, has fine
boots and shoes, with shining buttons, and high caps and
feathers; and some haint got shoes, and hardly breeches.”
Blonay had become the examiner, and had begun
with a leading question also. He had fairly described
the British and tory troops in his enumeration of the one,
and the rebels, or whigs, in the description of the latter
class. The former were usually well provided with
arms, ammunition, and every necessary warlike equipment;—
the whigs were simply riflemen, half the time
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
without powder and lead, and, during the greater part
of the war, without necessary clothing. To tell Blonay
which of these two classes was in the neighbourhood,
was no part of Thumbscrew's policy; and his
reply, though unsatisfactory, was yet given with the most
off-handed simplicity.
“They're all the same to me, stranger, breeches or
no breeches, boots or no boots, high caps and feathers,
or a ragged steeple like mine—they're all the same to
me. A sodger's a sodger—any man that can put a bullet
into my gizzard, or cut me a slash over my cheek,
up and down, without any marcy for my jaw-bone—he's
a sodger for me, and I gits out of his way mighty soon
now when I hear of his coming. It's a bad business
that, stranger, and I hope you don't deal in it. I say I
hope so, for I don't like to see a man I may say I know,
chopped up and down, and bored through his head, or
his belly, without any axing, and perhaps onbeknown to
him.”
No interest could be, seemingly, so earnest, as that
which Thumbscrew manifested, as he thus expressed
his anxiety on the score of Goggle's connexion with
the military. He put his hand warmly, as he spoke,
upon the neck of the little tacky which the other bestrode—
a movement which the rider did not seem very greatly
to approve, as he contrived, in the next moment, by a
sudden jerk, to wheel the animal away from the grasp
of the stranger, and to present himself once more in
front of him. Thumbscrew did not appear to charge
the movement so much upon the rider as the horse.
“Well, now, stranger, your nag is mighty skittish.
It's a stout pony that, and smells, for all the world, as
if it had fed on cane-tops and salt-marsh all its life.
Talking about horses, now, I've hear'd say that they
were getting mighty scarce down in your parts, where
the troops harry them with hard riding. Some say that
they were buying and stealing all they could, to bring
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
troops up into this quarter. You aint hear'd any say
about it, I reckon?”
The inquiry was adroitly insinuated, but Blonay was
not to be caught, even had he been in possession of the
desired information. He availed himself of the question,
however, to suggest another, by which, had his
companion been less guarded, he might have discovered
to which party he belonged.
“What troops?” he asked, carelessly.
“Why, them that fights, to be sure. Troops, if I'm
rightly told, is them men that rides on horseback, and
fights with swords and pistols, and the big cannon.”
“Yes, troopers,” said Blonay, tired, seemingly, of
putting questions so unprofitably answered.
“Ay—troopers, is it?—I always called them troops
But you aint telled me if they're coming in these parts.
You aint seed any on the road, I reckon?—for you aint
hurt, that I can see. But, maybe you out-travelled 'em—
they shot at you, though?”
The volubility of Thumbscrew carried him so rapidly
on in his assumptions, that it was with difficulty Blonay
kept himself sufficiently reserved in his communications.
He was at some pains, however, to assure him that he
had neither seen any troops, nor been pursued, nor shot
at by them. That his whole journey hitherto had been
unmarked by any other adventure of more importance
than the catching of the single rabbit, in which Thumbscrew
had himself so largely assisted. This reference
drew the attention of Thumbscrew to the ragged and
mean-looking cur that followed the stranger. He admired
him exceedingly, and, at length, proceeded to ask—
“Won't you trade him, now, stranger? I want a hunting-dog
mightily.”
Blonay declined, and was so pleased and satisfied
with the simplicity of his new acquaintance, that he ventured
to ask some direct questions, taking care, however
that none of them should convey any committal of his
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
sentiments. He stated, for himself, that he was on his
way to Black river and the Santee—that he was looking
after a person who was indebted to him—that he was a
peaceable man, and wanted to get on without fighting,
and he was therefore desirous of avoiding all combatants.
In order to do this, he would like to know where
Gainey's men were (tories), and Marion's men—if they
were likely to lie in his way by pursuing such and such
routes, all of which he named, and seemed to know,
and how he should best avoid them. In making these
inquiries, Blonay had well adopted the manner of one
solicitous for peace, and only desirous of getting to the
end of his journey without difficulty or adventure. In
referring to the different leaders of the two parties in that
section of country, he took especial care, at the same
time, to utter no word, and exhibit no look or gesture,
which could convey the slightest feeling of partiality or
preference, on his part, for either; and all that Thumbscrew
could conjecture from the inquiry, supposing that
the traveller was disguising the truth, was, that, so far
from his wishing to avoid all of these parties, by obtaining
a knowledge of their lurking-places, he was rather
in search of one or the other of them. His scrutiny
failed utterly when he strove to find out which. He did
not long delay to answer these inquiries, which he did in
the unsatisfactory fashion of all the rest.
“Well, now, stranger, you ax a great deal more than I
have to answer. These here people that you talk about,
I hear, every day, something or other said of them, but
nothing very good, now, either way. It's now one, and
now another of them that shoots the poor folk's cattle,
and maybe shoots them too, and there's no help for it.
Sometimes Guiney's people run over the country, burning
and plundering—then Marion's men comes after,
burning and plundering what's left. So that, between
the two, honest, quiet, good-natured sort of people, like
you and me, stranger—we get the worst of it, and must
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
cut strap and take the brush, rather than lose life with
property. It's a sad time, now, stranger, I tell you.”
“But you aint heard of either of 'em in these parts
lately, have you?” inquired Blonay.
“Dang it, stranger, they're here, there, and everywhere:
they're never long missing from any one place,
and—dang my buttons! I think I hear some of them
coming now.”
Thumbscrew turned as he spoke, and appeared to listen.
Sounds, as of horses' feet, were certainly approaching,
and perceptible to Blonay not less than to his dog.
With the confirmation of his conjecture, the woodman
turned quickly to the forest cover, and, shaking his head,
cried to his companion, as he bounded into its depths—
“Look to yourself, stranger, for, as sure as a gun,
some of them sodgers is a-coming. They'll shoot you
through the body, and chop you into short meat, if you
don't cut for it.”
He disappeared on the instant, but not in flight. His
purpose was to mislead Blonay, and it was sufficient for
this that he simply removed himself from sight. Keeping
the edge of the forest, as close to the road as he
well might, to avoid discovery from it, he now chose
himself a station from which he might observe the approaching
horsemen, and, at the same time, remain in
safety. This done, he awaited patiently their approach.
His late companion, in the meanwhile, whose policy was
a like caution, quickly followed the suggestion and
example of the woodman, and sank into the forest immediately
opposite that which the latter had chosen for
his shelter. Here he imbowered himself in the woods
sufficiently far for concealment, and, hiding his horse,
and placing his dog in watch over him, he advanced on
foot within a stone's cast from the road, to a spot commanding
a good view of every thing upon it. Here, in
deep silence, he also stood—a range of trees between
his person and that of the approaching horsemen, and
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
his form more immediately covered by the huge body of
a pine, from behind which he occasionally looked forth
in scrutinizing watchfulness.
CHAPTER V.
The two watchers had not long to wait in their several
places of concealment. The sound which had disturbed
their conference, and sent them into shelter, drew
nigher momentarily, and a small body of mounted men,
emerging at length from a bend in the irregular road
over which they came, appeared in sight. They were
clothed in the rich, gorgeous uniform of the British army,
and were well mounted. Their number, however, did
not exceed thirty, and their general form of advance and
movement announced them to be less thoughtful, at that
moment, of the dangers of ambuscade and battle, than
of the pleasant cheer and well-filled larder of the neighbouring
gentry. Two officers rode together, in advance
of them some little distance, and the free style of their
conversation, the loud, careless tones of their voices,
and the lounging, indifferent manner in which they sat
upon their horses, showed them to be, if not neglectful
of proper precautions, at least perfectly unapprehensive
of any enemy. A couple of large military wagons,
drawn each by four able-bodied horses, appeared in the
centre of the cavalcade, the contents of which, no doubt,
were of sufficient importance to call for such a guard.
Yet there was little or nothing of a proper military discipline
preserved in the ranks of the troop. Following
the example of the officers who commanded them, and
who seemed, from their unrestrained mirth, to be engaged
in the disoussion of some topic particularly agreeable to
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
both, the soldiers gave a loose to the playfullest moods—
wild jest and free remark passed from mouth to mouth,
and they spoke, and looked, and laughed, as if their
trade was not suffering, and its probable termination a
bloody death. Their merriment, however, as it was subdued,
in comparison with that of the officers, did not
provoke their notice or rebuke. The whole party, in all
respects, seemed one fitted out for the purposes of pleasure
rather than of war. Elated by the recent victories
of Cornwallis over Gates, and Tarleton over Sumter,
together with the supposed flight of Marion into North
Carolina, and the dispersion of his partisans, the British
officers had foregone much of that severe, but proper
discipline, through which alone they had already been
able to achieve so much. The commander of the little
troop before us moved on with as much indifference as
if enemies had ceased to exist, and as if his whole business
now was the triumph and the pageant which should
follow successes so complete.
“Gimini!” exclaimed Thumbscrew, as he beheld, at
a distance, their irregular approach. “Gimini! if the
major was only here now, jist with twenty lads only—
twenty would do—maybe he wouldn't roll them red-jackets
in the mud!”
The close approach of the troop silenced the farther
speculations of the woodman, and he crouched among
the shrubbery, silent as death, but watchful of every
movement. The person of the captain who commanded
them was rather remarkable for its strength than symmetry.
He was a man of brawn and muscle—of broad
shoulders and considerable height. His figure was unwieldy,
however, and, though a good, he was not a graceful
horseman. His features were fine, but inexpressive,
and his skin brown with frequent exposure. There was
something savage rather than brave in the expression
of his mouth, and his nose, in addition to its exceeding
feebleness, had an ugly bend upwards at its termination,
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
which spoke of a vexing and querulous disposition. His
companion was something slenderer in his person, and
considerably more youthful. There was nothing worthy
of remark in his appearance, unless it be that he was
greatly given to laughter—an unprofitable habit, which
seemed to be irresistible and confirmed in him, and which
was not often found to await the proper time and provocation.
He appeared of a thoughtless temper—one who
was content with the surfaces of things, and did not disturb
the waters with a discontented spirit, seeking for
more pleasure than the surface gave him. At the moment
of their approach the good-humour of the two was
equally shared between them. The subject upon which
they had been conversing appeared to have been productive
of no small degree of merriment to both, and of
much undisguised satisfaction to the elder. He chuckled
with uncontrollable complacency, and, long after the
laugh of his companion had ceased, a lurking smile hung
upon his lips, that amply denoted the still lingering
thought of pleasure in his mind. Though ignorant of
the occasion of their mirth before, we may now, as they
approach, hear something of the dialogue, which was renewed
after a brief pause between them; and which,
though it may not unfold to us the secret of their satisfaction,
may at least inform us, in some degree, of much
that is not less necessary for us to know. The pause
was broken by the younger of the two, whose deferential
and conciliatory manner, while it spoke the inferior, was,
at the same time, dashed with a phrase of fireside familiarity,
which marked the intimacy of the boon companion.
“And now, Barsfield, you may laugh at fortune for
ever after. You have certainly given her your defiance,
and have triumphed over her aversion. You have beaten
your enemy, won your commission, found favour in the
sight of your commander, and can now sit down to the
performance of a nominal duty, with a fine plantation,
and a stout force of negroes, all at your command and
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
calling you master. By St. George and the old dragon
himself, I should be willing that these rebels should denounce
me too as a tory, and by any other nickname, for
rewards like these.”
“They may call me so if they think proper,” said the
other, to whom the last portion of his comrade's remark
seemed to be scarcely welcome; “but, by God! they
will be wise not to let me hear them. I have had that
name given me once already by that insolent boy, and I
did not strike him down for it—he may thank his good
fortune and the interposition of that fellow Witherspoon
that I did not—but it will be dangerous for any living
man to repeat the affront.”
“And why should you mind it, Barsfield?” responded
his companion. “It can do you no mischief—the term
is perfectly innocuous. It breaks no skin—it takes away
no fortune.”
“No! but it sticks to a man like a tick, and worries
him all his life,” said the other.
“Only with your thin-skinned gentry. For such an
estate as yours, Barsfield, they might be licensed to
call me by any nickname which they please.”
“I am not so indulgent, Lieutenant Clayton,” replied
the other; “and, let me tell you, that you don't know the
power of a nickname among enemies. A nickname is
an argument, and one of that sort, too, that, after once
hearing it, the vulgar are sure never to listen to any
other. It has been of no small influence already in
this same war—and it will be of greater effect towards
the conclusion, if it should ever so happen that the war
should terminate unfavourably to the arms of his majesty.”
“But you don't think any such result possible?” was
the immediate reply of Clayton.
“No—not now. This last licking of Sumter, and
the wholesale defeat of Gates, have pretty well done up
the rebels in this quarter. Georgia has been long shut
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
up, and North Carolina will only wake up to find her
legs fastened. As for Virginia, if Cornwallis goes on
at the present rate, he'll straddle her quite in two weeks
more. No! I think that rebellion is pretty nigh wound
up; and, if we can catch the `swamp fox,' or find out
where he hides, I'll contrive that we shall have no more
difficulty from him.”
“Let that once take place,” replied his companion,
“and you may then retire comfortably, in the enjoyment
of the otium cum dignitate, the reward of hard fighting and
good generalship, to the shady retreats of `Kaddipah.'
By-the-way, Barsfield, you must change that name to
something modern—something English. I hate these
abominable Indian names—they are so uncouth, and so
utterly harsh and foreign in an English ear. We must
look up a good name for your settlement.”
“You mistake. I would not change the name for the
world. I have always known the place by that name,
long before I ever thought to call it mine; and the name
sounds sweet in my ears. Besides, I like these Indian
names, of which you so much complain. They sound
well, and are always musical.”
“They are always harsh to me, and then they have
no meaning—none that we know any thing about.”
“And those that we employ have as little. They are
generally borrowed from individuals who were their proprietors,
and this is the case with our Indian names,
which have the advantage in softness and emphasis.
No! `Kaddipah Thicket' shall not lose its old name in
gaining a new owner. It wouldn't look to me half so
beautiful if I were to give it any other. I have rambled
over its woods when a boy, and hunted through them
when a man, man and boy, for thirty years—known all
its people, and the name seems to be a history, and
brings to me a whole world of recollections, which I
should be apt to lose were I to change it.”
“Some of them, Barsfield, it appears to me that you
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
should prefer to lose. The insult of old Mellichampe,
for example.”
“I revenged it!” was the reply, quickly and gloomily
uttered. “I revenged it in his blood, and the debt is
paid.”
“But the son?—did you not, only now, complain of
him also?—did he not call you—”
“Tory! I'll finish the sentence for you, as I would
rather, if the word is to be repeated in my ears, have the
utterance to myself. You are an Englishman, and the
name does not and cannot be made to apply to you here,
and you cannot understand, therefore, the force of its application
from one American to another. He called me
a tory! denounced, defied, and struck at me, and I would
have slain him—ay, even in the halls which are henceforward
to call me master—but that I was held back by
others, whose prudence, perhaps, saved the lives of both
of us; for the strife would have been pell-mell, and that
fellow Witherspoon, who was the overseer of old Mellichampe,
had a drawn knife ready over my shoulder, at
the moment that mine was lifted at the breast of the
insolent youngster. But this is a long story, and you
already know it. I have been revenged on the father,
and have my debt against the son—that shall be cancelled
also, in due course of time.”
“And where is the youngster now, Barsfield? Have
you any knowledge of his movements?”
“None—his mother has fled to the Santee, where
she is sheltered by Watson. But of the son I know
nothing. He is not with her, that's certain; for Evans,
whom I sent off in that direction as a sort of scout and
watch over her, reports that he has not yet made his appearance.”
“He must be out with Marion, then?” was the suggestion
of the other.
“We shall soon see that, for our loyalists are all ready
and earnest for a drive after the `fox;' and it will be a
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
close swamp that will keep him away from hunters such
as ours. These arms will provide two hundred of them,
and we have full that number ready to volunteer. In a
week more I hope to give a good account of his den,
and all in it.”
While this dialogue was going on, the speakers continued
to approach the spot where Thumbscrew lay in
hiding. It was not long, as they drew nigh, before he
distinguished the person of Barsfield, and a fierce emotion
kindled in his eye as he looked out from his shelter
upon the advancing figure of the successful tory. His
whole frame seemed agitated with the quickening rush of
the warm blood through his veins—his teeth were
gnashed for a moment fiercely, and, freeing a way
through the bushes for his rifle-muzzle, in the first gush
of his excited feelings, he lifted the deadly weapon to
his eye, brought back the cock with the utmost precaution,
avoiding any unnecessary click, and prepared to
plant the fatal bullet in the head of the unconscious victim.
But the tory rode by unharmed. A gentler, or, at
least, a more prudent feeling, got the better of the woodman's
momentary mood of passion; and, letting the
weapon fall quietly into the hollow of his arm, he muttered
in a low tone to himself—
“Not yet, not yet—let him pass—let him git on as
he can. It ain't time yet—he must have a little more
swing for it before I bring him up, for 'tain't God's pleasure
that I should drop him now. I don't feel like it, and
so I know it can't be right. It's a cold-blooded thing,
and looks too much like murder; and, God help me, it
ain't come to that yet, for Jack Witherspoon to take it
out of his enemy's hide without giving him fair play for
it. Let him go—let him go. Ride on, Barsfield; the
bullet's to be run yet that bothers you.”
And, thus muttering to himself, the woodman beheld
his victim pass by him in safety, his troop and wagons
following. He was about to turn away and seek his
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
comrade in the wood, when he saw his travelling acquaintance,
Blonay, emerge from the opposite quarter,
and place himself before the British officers. This
movement at once satisfied the doubts of Thumbscrew
as to the politics of the low-countryman.
“As I thought,” said he to himself, “the fellow's a
skunk, and a monstrous sly one. He knows how to
badger, and can beat the bush like a true scout. It's a
God's pity that a fellow that has good qualities like that,
shouldn't have soul enough to be an honest man. But
no matter—pay-day will come for all; and truth will
have to wait in the swamp till cunning can go help her
out.”
Thus moralizing, the woodman went back from his
hiding-place, and soon joined his now impatient companion.
Blonay, in the meanwhile, had made the acquaintance
of the British party. Confirmed by their uniform, he
boldly advanced, and presented himself before the captain.
“Who the devil are you?” was the uncourteous salutation.
A grin and a bow, with a few mumbled words, was
the sort of reply manifested by the Half-Breed, who followed
up this overture by the presentation of the passport
furnished by Proctor. Barsfield read the scroll, and
threw it back to him.
“And so you are going our way, I see by your paper.
It is well—you will prefer, then, falling in with us,
and taking our protection?”
Blonay bowed assent, and muttered his acknowledgments.
“And, perhaps,” continued the tory captain, “as you
are a true friend to his majesty's cause, you will not object
to a drive into the swamps along with us after these
men of Marion, who are thought to be lurking about
here?”
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
The Half-Breed gave his ready assurance of a perfect
willingness to do so.
“Well said, my friend; and now tell us, Mr. Blonay,
what have been your adventures upon the road? What
have you seen deserving of attention since you came
into this neighbourhood?”
The person addressed did not fail to relate all the
particulars of his meeting, but a little before, with the
woodman, as the reader has already witnessed it. Barsfield
listened with some show of attention, and only interrupted
the narrator to ask for a description of the
stranger's person. This was given, and had the effect
of producing an expression of earnest thought in the
countenance of the listener.
“Very large, you say—broad about the shoulders?
And you say he went into this wood?”
“Off there, cappin, close on to them bays, and in
them bushes.”
Barsfield looked over into the thick-set and seemingly
impervious forest, and saw at a glance how doubtful
and difficult would be the pursuit, in such a place, even
were the object important, of a single man. After a
momentary pause of action and speech, he gave orders
suddenly to move on in the path they were pursuing.
Taking the direction of his finger, Blonay fell behind,
and was soon mingled in with the party that followed.
“You shall see my fair neighbour,” said the tory captain
to his companion, when the party resumed its progress,
as if in continuation of the previous discourse;
“she is as beautiful and young, Clayton, as she is pure
and intellectual. She is the prize, dearer and richer than
all of my previous attainment, for which I would freely
sacrifice them all. You shall see her, and swear to what
I have said.”
“You will make her your own soon, then, I imagine,”
said the other, “esteeming her so highly.”
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
“If I can—be sure of it,” responded Barsfield. “I
will try devilish hard for it, I assure you; and it will be
devilish hard indeed, if, with a fine plantation, and no little
power—with a person which, though not superb, is at
least passable”—and the speaker looked down upon his
own bulky frame with some complacency—“it will be
devilish hard, I say, if I do not try successfully. Her
old father, too, will back me to the utmost, for he is devilish
scary, and, being a good loyalist, is very anxious to
have a son-in-law who can protect his cattle from the
men of Marion. They have half frightened him already
into consent, and have thus done me much more service
than they ever intended.”
“But your maiden herself, the party chiefly concerned?”
said Clayton, inquiringly.
“She fights shy, and does not seem over-earnest to
listen to my courtier speeches; but she is neither stern
nor unapproachable, and, when she replies to me, it is
always gently and sweetly.”
“Then she is safe, be sure of it,” was the sanguine
response of the other.
“Not so,” said the more sagacious Barsfield; “not
so. I am not so well satisfied that because she is gentle
she will be yielding. She cannot be otherwise than
gentle—she cannot speak otherwise than sweetly, even
though her words be those of denial. I would rather a
cursed sight that she should wince a little, and tremble
when I talk to her; for then I should know that she was
moved with an interest one way or the other. Your cool,
composed sort of woman is not to be surprised into any
foolish weakness. They must listen long, and like to
listen, before you can do any thing with them. But you
shall see her soon, for here her father's fields commence.
A fine clearing, you see, and the old buck is tolerably
well off—works some eighty hands, and has a stock
would fit out a dozen Scotch graziers.”
Thus discussing the hopes and expectations which
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
make the aim and being of the dissolute adventurer,
they pricked their way onward with all speed to the
dwelling of those who were to be the anticipated victims.
CHAPTER VI.
Slowly, and with an expression of sorrow in his
countenance, corresponding with the unelastic and measured
movement of his body, Thumbscrew took his way
back to the hollow where he had left his more youthful
companion.
“Well, what have you seen to keep you so long,
Thumbscrew?” was the impatient inquiry of the youth.
The answer of the woodman to this interrogatory was
hesitatingly uttered, and he first deliberately told of his
encounter with Blonay, and the nature of the unsatisfactory
dialogue which had taken place between them. He
dwelt upon the cunning with which the other had kept
his secret during the conference; “but I found him out
at last,” said he, “and now I knows him to be a skunk—
a reg'lar built tory, as I mought ha' known from the
first moment I laid eyes on him.”
“Well—and where is he now, and how did you discover
this?” was the inquiry of the other.
This inquiry necessarily unfolded the intelligence
concerning the troop of horse, whose number, wagons,
and equipments he gave with all the circumspectness
and fidelity of an able scout; and this done, he was silent;
with the air, however, of one who has yet something
to unfold.
“But who commanded them, Thumbscrew?” asked
the other, “and what appeared to be their object? You
are strangely limited in your intelligence, and, at this
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
rate, will hardly justify the eulogy of Major Singleton,
who considers you the very best scout in the brigade.
Can you tell us nothing more? What sort of captain
had they?”
“A stout fellow, quite as broad, but not so tall as me,
with a skin brown, like mine, as a berry; a hook nose,
and a mouth more like the chop of a broad-axe than
any thing else.”
He paused, and the eyes of the scout and those of
his young comrade met. There was a quickening apprehension
of the truth in those of Mellichampe, which
made them kindle with successive flashes, while his
mouth, partaking of the same influence, quivered convulsively,
as, bending forward to his more sedate companion,
he demanded, with a stern, brief manner—
“You are not speaking of Barsfield, surely?”
“I am—that's the critter, or I'm no Christian.”
The youth seized his rifle as he replied—“And you
shot him not down!—you suffered him to pass you in
safety!—my father's blood yet upon his hands—unavenged—
and he going now, doubtless, to reap the reward
of his crime and perfidy! But he cannot have
gone far—he must be yet within reach, and, by the
eternal! he shall not escape me now. Hold me not
back, Thumbscrew—hold me not back! I deem you no
friend of mine that suffered the wretch to pass on in
safety, and I shall deem you still less my friend if you
labour to restrain me now. Hold me not, I tell you,
Witherspoon, or it will be worse for you.”
The youth, as he spoke, leaped upon his feet in a convulsion
of passion, that seemed to set at defiance all
restraint. His eyes, that before had sent forth only irregular
flashes of light and impulse, were now fixed in a
steady, unmitigated flame, that underwent no change.
Not so his lips, which quivered and paled more fitfully
than ever. He strove earnestly with his strong-limbed
comrade, who had grasped him firmly with the first
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
ebullition of that passion which he seemed to have anticipated.
“What would you do, Airnest?—don't be foolish,
now, I beg you; running your head agin a pine knot
that you can't swallow. It's all foolishness to go on so,
and can do no good. As to shooting that skunk, I
couldn't and wouldn't do it, though I had the muzzle up,
and it was a sore temptation, Airnest; for I remembered
the old man, and his white hair, and it stood before my
eyes jist like a picture, as I seed it last when it was
thickened together with his own blood.”
“Yet you could remember all this, and suffer his murderer
to escape?” reiterated the other.
“Yes! for it goes agin the natur of an honest man to
bite a man with cold bullet when the tother ain't on his
guard agin it. I'll take a shot any day with Barsfield,
man to man, or where a fight's going on with a hundred,
but, by dogs! I can't lie at the roadside, under a sapling,
and send a bullet at him onawares as he's riding down the
trace. It's an Ingen way, and it's jist as bad as any
murder I've ever hearn tell of their doing. No, no,
Airnest; there's a time coming! as I may say, the day of
judging them's at hand; for here, you see, is this chap,
going down now, snug and easy, with a small handful
of troops, to take possession of Keddipah. Let him set
down quietly till the `fox' gits up his men, and I'll lay
you what you please we git our satisfaction out of him
by fair fight. We'll smoke him out of his hole 'fore
Sunday next, if I'm not monstrous wide in my calkilation.”
“And where is the difference between shooting him
now and shooting him then? I see none. Release me,
Mr. Witherspoon,” cried the other, his anger now beginning
to turn upon the tenacious Thumbscrew, who
held upon his body with a grasp that set at defiance all
his efforts. In the next moment he was released as he
had desired, and, with a deference of manner, a subdued
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
and even sadder visage, the countryman addressed the
youth—
“You're gitting into a mighty passion, Airnest, and,
what's worse, you're gitting in a passion with me, that
was your friend and your father's friend ever since I
know'd you both, though, to be sure, I never could do
much for either of you in the way of friendship.”
“I am not angry with you, Witherspoon—only, I am
no child to be restrained after this fashion. I know you
are my friend, and, God knows! I have too few now to
desire the loss of any one of them—and particularly of
one who, like yourself, has clung to me in all trials; but
there is a certain boundary beyond which one's best
friend has no right to go.”
“Oh, yes! I understand all that, Airnest. I'm your
friend so long as I don't think or act contrary to your
thinking and acting. Now, to my thinking, that's a bargain
that will only answer for one side, and I never yet
made a bargain in my life under them sort of tarms. If I
sells a horse or buys one, I does it because I thinks there'll
be some sort of benefit or gain to myself. I don't want
to take ondue advantage of the other man, but I expects
to git as good as I gives. That's the trade for me;
whether it be a horse that I trades, or my good word
and the heart, rough or gentle, all the same, that I bring
to barter with my friend. When I makes sich a trade,
I can't stand and see the man I trade with making light
of the article I gives him. If it's my friendship and
good word, he mustn't make them a sort of plaything, to
sport which way he pleases; and, so long as I say I'm
his friend, he sha'n't butt a tree if I can keep his head
from it, though I have to take main force to hold him in.
On them same tarms, Airnest, I stood by the old 'squire
your father when he got into difficulties about the line
of his land with Hitchingham; when the two got all
their friends together, and fout, as one may say, like so
many tiger-cats, along the rice-dam, for two long hours
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
by sun. You've hearn tell of that excursion, I'm thinking.
That was a hard brush, and I didn't skulk like a
skunk then, as they will all tell you that seed it. But
that worn't the only time—there was others, more than
a dozen beside that, and all jist as tough, when Thumbscrew
hung on to the 'squire as if he was two other legs
and arms of the same body, and nobody could touch
the one without touching the tother. Then came that
scrape with Barsfield; and now I tell you, Airnest, it
worn't a murder, as you calls it, but a fair fight, for both
the parties was fairly out; and, though the old 'squire
your father was surprised, and not on his proper guard,
yet it was a fair-play fight, and sich as comes about, as
I may say, naturally, in all our skrimmages with the tories.
They licked us soundly, to be sure, 'cause they
had the most men; but we fout 'em to the last, and 'twas
a fair fight from the jump.”
“And what of all this, now—why do you repeat this
to me here?” said the other, with no little imperiousness.
“Why, you see, only to show you, Airnest, as a sort
of excuse and apology for what I did in trying to keep
you from going after Barsfield—”
“Apology, Witherspoon!” exclaimed the other.
“Yes, Airnest, apology—that's the very word I makes
use of. I jist wanted to show you the reason why I tuk
the liberty of trying to keep an old friend's son out of
harm's way, that's all. I promise you, Airnest, I won't
make you angry agin, though I don't see yet the harm
of liking a body so much as to do the best for 'em.”
The woodman turned away as he spoke, lifted his rifle,
and seemed busy in rubbing the stock of it with the
sleeve of his hunting-shirt. The youth seemed touched
by this simple exhortation. Without a word he approached
his unsophisticated companion, whose face
was turned from him, and placing his hand affectionately,
with a gentle pressure, upon his shoulder, thus addressed
him:—
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
“Forgive me, Jack—I was wrong. Forgive me,
and forget it. I am rash, foolish, obstinate—it's my
fault, I know, to be so, and I try to control my disposition,
always, when I'm with you. You know I wouldn't
hurt your feelings for the world. I know you love me,
Jack, as if I were your own brother; and, believe me,
my old friend—my father's friend—believe me, I love
you fully as much. Say, now, that you forgive me—do
say!”
“Dang my eyes! Airnest, but, by the powers! you
put it to me too hard sometimes. Jist when I'm doing
the best, or trying to do the best, you plump head over
heels into my teeth, and I'm forced to swallow my own
doings. It ain't right—it ain't kind of you, Airnest; and,
dang it, boy, I don't see why I should keep trying to do
for you, to git no thanks, and little better than curses for
it. I'm sure I gits nothing by sticking to you through
thick and thin.”
Half relenting, and prefacing his yielding mood only
by this outward coating of obduracy, the woodman thus
received the overtures of his companion, who was as
ready to melt with generous emotion as he was to seek
for strife under a fierce and impetuous one. The youth
half turned away as the latter reply met his ears, and,
removing his hand from the shoulder where it had rested,
with a freezing tone and proud manner, he replied, while
appearing to withdraw—
“It is indeed time, Mr. Witherspoon, that company
should part, when one reproaches the other with his poverty.
You certainly have said truly, that you have nothing
to gain by clinging to me and mine.”
“Oh, Airnest, boy—but that's too much,” he cried,
leaping round and seizing the youth's hands, while he
pressed his eyes, now freely suffused, down upon them.
“I didn't mean that, Airnest—I'm all over foolish to-day,
and done nothing but harm. It was so from morning's
first jump; I've been fooling and blundering like a
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
squalling hen in an old woman's cupboard. Push me on
one side, I'm sure to plump clear to the other end, break
all the cups and dishes, and fly in the old wife's face,
before I can git out. It's your turn to forgive me, Airnest,
and don't say that we must cut each other. God
help me, Airnest, if I was to dream of sich a thing, I'm
sure your father's sperrit would haunt me, with his white
hair sticking all fast with blood, and—”
“No more, Jack, old fellow—let us talk no more of
that, but sit down here, and say what we are to do now
about that reptile, Barsfield.”
“Bless you, Airnest, what can we do till the `fox'
whistles? We'll have news for him to-morrow, and
must only see where Barsfield goes to-night, and larn
what we can of what he's going to do. I suspect that
them wagons have got a plenty of guns and bagnets,
shot and powder for the tories; and if so, there'll be a
gathering of them mighty soon in this neighbourhood.
We shall see some of the boys to-morrow—Humphries
and `Roaring Dick' ride on this range, and we may hear
their whistle in the `Bear Brake' before morning.”
“We must meet them there, then, one or other of us,
certainly. In the meantime, as you say, we must trail
this Barsfield closely, and look where he sleeps, since
you will not let me shoot him.”
“And where's the use? I could ha' put the bullet
through his scull to-day, but the next moment the dragoons
would have made small work of a large man.
They'd ha' chopped me into mince-meat. There's no
difficulty in killing one, but small chance to git away
after it, when there's so many of them upon you; and,
as I said afore, this shooting a man from the bush onawares,
when he's travelling in quiet, looks too much like
cold-blooded Ingin murder. It's like scalping and tomahawk.
Give the enemy a fair field, says I, though it
be but a bow-legged nigger that's running from you in
the swamp.”
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
And, thus conferring, the two followed the route pursued
by Barsfield and his party, until the shades of evening
gathered heavily around them.
CHAPTER VII.
The British troopers, meanwhile, pursued their journey.
With an humility that knew its place, Blonay followed
with the hindmost, and showed no annoyance,
though exposed to the continual and coarse jests of
those about him. He was becomingly indifferent, as he
seemed perfectly insensible. The termination of the
day's journey was at length at hand. The zigzag fences
rose upon both sides of the road. The negro settlement,
some thirty or forty log-dwellings, forming a square
to themselves, and each with its little enclosure, well
stocked with pigs, poultry, and the like, came in sight;
and beyond, the eager eye of Barsfield distinguished,
while his hand pointed out to his companion, the fine old
avenue, long, overgrown, and beautifully winding, which
led to the mansion-house of the Berkeley family.
“There,” said he, “is `Piney Grove'--such is the
name of the estate; a name which it properly takes from
the avenue which leads to it, the chief growth of which,
as you will see, is the field-pine. You will not see many
like it in the country.”
The troop halted at the entrance, which was soon
thrown open; and, narrowing the form of their advance,
they were in a moment after hurrying along the shady
passage which led to the hospitable dwelling. Barsfield
had said rightly to his companion—there were not many
avenues in the country like that which they now pursued.
A beautiful and popular feature, generally, in all the old
-- 071 --
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
country estates of Carolina, the avenue in question was
yet of peculiar design. In the lower regions, where the
spreading and ponderous live-oak presents itself vigorously
and freely, and seems by its magnificence and
shade expressly intended for such a purpose, no other
sort of tree can well be employed. Here, however, in
the region which we now tread, wanting in that patriarchal
tree, the field-pine had been chosen as the substitute,
and nothing surely could have been more truly
beautiful than the one in question. A waving and double
line, carried on in sweeping and curious windings for
two thirds of a mile, described by these trim and tidy
trees, enclosed the party, and formed a barrier on either
hand, over which no obtrusive vine or misplaced scion
of some foreign stock was ever permitted to gad or
wander. Some idea may be formed of the pains and
care which had been taken in thus bending the free forests
in subservience to the will of man, when we know
that, though naturally a hardy tree of the most vigorous
growth, the pine is yet not readily transplanted with success,
and is so exceedingly sensitive in a strange place,
as in half the number of instances to perish from such a
transfer. A narrow but deep ditch formed an inner parallel
line with the high trees along the avenue; and the
earth, thus thrown up into a bank beneath the trees,
gave ample room and nutriment to a crowded hedge of
greenbrier and gathering vines, interspersed, during a long
season, with a thousand various and beautiful flowers.
Emerging from the avenue, the vista opened upon a lovely
park, which spread away upon either hand, and was
tastefully sprinkled here and there, singly and in groups,
with a fine collection of massive and commanding water-oaks,
from around the base of which, every thing in
the guise of shrubbery and undergrowth, the thick long
grass excepted, had been carefully pruned away. A few
young horses were permitted to ramble about and crop
the verdure on one side of the entrance, while on the
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
other a little knot of ruminating milch-cows, to which a
like privilege had been given, started up in alarm, and
fled at the approach of strangers so numerous and so
gorgeously arrayed. Throwing aside the heavy swinging
gate before them, the troopers passed through a trace
leading forward directly to the dwelling. On either side
of this passage a fence of light scantling, which had
once been whitewashed, proved a barrier against any
trespass of the cattle upon a province not their own.
The dwelling of Mr. Berkeley lay centrally before this
passage and at a little distance in the rear of the park.
It was an ancient mansion, of huge and clumsy brick—
square and heavy in its design, though evidently well
constructed. It was built about the time of the Yemassee
war, after the fashion of that period, and was meant
to answer the purposes of a fortress against the savage,
not less than a dwelling for the civilized man. On one
occasion the Edistohs had besieged it with a force of
nearly two hundred warriors, but the stout planter who
held it at the time, old Marmaduke Berkeley, with the
aid of his neighbours, and a few trusty Irish workmen,
who had been employed upon the estate, made a sturdy
defence, until the friendly Indians, who were the allies of
the whites, and, consequently, foes to the Edistohs, came
to their relief, and beat off the invaders. The external
aspect of the edifice bore sufficient testimony of its antiquity.
The bricks were dark and mouldy in appearance,
and the walls in several places had begun to crumble
and crack beneath their own cumbrousness. Clambering
parasites on the northern side had run at liberty
over its surface, still holding on, even in corresponding
ruin, when half withered and sapless themselves. Little
tufts of dank moss protruded here and there from dusty
apertures; and a close eye might even find an insidious
and lurking decay thriving fast in the yielding frame
which sustained this or that creaking shutter. The
mansion attested not merely its own, but the decline of
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
its proprietor. A man of energy, character, and due
reflection, would have found little difficulty in maintaining
a resolute and successful defence against the bold
assault of the tempest, or the insidious gnawings and
sappings of time. The present owner, unhappily, was
not this sort of man. He was prematurely old, as he
had been constitutionally timid and habitually nervous.
His life, so far, had passed in a feverish and trembling
indecision, which defeated all steady thought and prompt
action. He was one of those who, having the essentials
of manhood, has yet always been a child. He had tottered
through life with no confidence in his arms, and as
if his legs had been crutches, borrowed from a neighbouring
tree rather than limbs of a native growth, and destined
to the performance of his will. Gladly, at all times,
would he prefer to lean upon the shoulders of his neighbour,
rather than trust independently to his own thews
and sinews. In politics he could be none other than the
truckler to the existing authority, having preferences, however,
which he dared not speak, vacillating between extremes,
temporizing with every party, yet buffeted by all.
The appearance of the troop brought the old gentleman
down his steps to receive them. Barsfield only advanced,
leaving Clayton to quarter the troop on the
edge and within the enclosure of the park. Mr. Berkeley's
manner was courteous and cordial enough, but
marked by trepidation. His welcome, however, was unconstrained,
and seemed habitual. Like the major part
of the class of which he was a member, the duties of
hospitality never suffered neglect at his hands. Like
them, he delighted in society, and was at all times ready
and pleased at the appearance of a guest. Nor did the
perilous nature of events at the period of which we write,
his own timidity, and the doubtful character of the new-comer,
tend, in any great degree, to chill the freedom,
and check the tendency of his habit in this respect.
Accustomed always to wealth and influence, to the
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
familiar association with strangers, and to a free intercourse
with a once thickly-settled and pleasant neighbourhood,
a frank, open-hearted demeanour became as
much his characteristic as his jealous apprehensions.
This was also his misfortune, since, without doubt, it increased
the natural dependance of his mind. The habit
of giving a due consideration to the claims of others,
though a good one, doubtless, has yet its limits, which
to pass, though for a moment only, is to stimulate injustice,
and to encourage the growth of a tyranny to our
own injury. In his connexion with those around him,
and at the period of which we write, when laws were
nominal, and were administered only at the caprice of
power, the virtue of Mr. Berkeley became a weakness;
and he was accordingly preyed upon by the profligate
and defied by the daring—compelled to be silent under
wrong, or, if he resented it, only provoking thereby its
frequent repetition. His mild blue eye spoke his feelings—
his nervousness amply announced his own consciousness
of imbecility, while his pale cheek and prematurely
white hair told of afflictions deeply felt, and
of vexing and frequent strifes, injuries, and discontent.
On the present occasion he received his guest with a
kindly air of welcome, which was most probably sincere.
He was quite too feeble not to be glad of the presence
of those who could afford him protection; and there was
no little truth in the boast of the tory captain to his
companion, when he said that the timidity of Berkeley
would be one of the probable influences which might facilitate
his progress in the courtship of his daughter.
The manner of Barsfield was influenced somewhat by
his knowledge of the weakness of Mr. Berkeley, not
less than by his own habitual audacity. He met the old
gentleman with an air of ancient intimacy, grasped the
proffered hand with a hearty and confident action, and,
in tones rather louder than ordinary, congratulated him
upon his health and good looks.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
“I have not waited, you see, Mr. Berkeley, for an
invitation. I have ridden in and taken possession without
a word, as if I was perfectly assured that no visiter
could be more certainly welcome to a good loyalist like
yourself, than one who was in arms for his majesty.”
“None, sir—none, Captain Barsfield—you do me
nothing more than justice. You are welcome—his majesty's
officers and troops are always welcome to my
poor dwelling,” was the reply of the old man, uttered
without restraint, and seemingly with cordiality; and yet,
a close observer might have seen that there was an air
of abstraction indicative of a wandering and dissatisfied
mood, in the disturbed and changing expression of his
features. A few moments elapsed, which they employed
in mutual inquiries, when Lieutenant Clayton, having
bestowed his men, their baggage, and wagons agreeably
to the directions given him, now joined them upon the
steps of the dwelling, and was introduced by Barsfield,
in character, to his host. Clayton reported to his captain
what he had done with the troop, their disposition,
and the general plan of their arrangement, in obedience
to orders; turning to Mr. Berkeley at the conclusion,
and politely apologizing for the unavoidable disturbance
which such an arrangement must necessarily occasion in
his grounds. The old man smiled faintly, and murmured
out words of approbation; but, though he strove to be
and to appear satisfied, he was evidently ill at ease.
The invasion of his beautiful park by a prancing and
wheeling troop of horse—its quiet broken by the oaths,
the clamour, and the confusion common to turbulent
soldiers, and the utter dispersion of his fine young horses,
which had leaped the barrier in their fright, and were
now flying in all directions over the plantation, brought
to his bosom no small pang, as they spoke strongly for
the extent of his submission. He controlled his dissatisfaction,
however, as well as he could, and now urged
his guests, with frequent entreaties, to enter his mansion
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
for refreshment. They followed him from the piazza
into a large hall, such as might have answered the purposes
of a room of state, calculated for the deliberations
of a thousand men. It was thus that our ancestors built,
as it were, with a standard drawn from the spacious wilds
and woods around them. They seemed also to have
built for posterity. Huge beams, unenclosed, ran along
above, supporting the upper chambers, which were huge
enough to sustain the weight of a palace. The walls
were covered with the dark and durable cypress, wrought
in panels, which gave a rich, artist-like air to the apartment.
Two huge fireplaces at opposite ends of the
hall attested its great size, in one of which, even in the
month of September, a few broken brands might be
seen still burning upon the hearth. A dozen faded
family pictures, in massive black frames, hung around—
quaint, rigid, puritanical faces, seemingly cut out of
board, after the fashion of Sir Peter Lely, with glaring
Flemish drapery, and that vulgar style of colouring
which makes of red and yellow primary principles,
from the contagion of which neither land, sea, nor sky
is suffered in any climate to be properly exempt. The
furniture was heavy and massive like the rest—suitable
to the apartment, and solid, like the dwellings and desires
of the people of the by-gone days.
Seats were drawn, the troopers at ease, and the good
old Madeira of the planter soon made its appearance, to
which they did ample justice. The generous liquor
soon produced freedom of discourse; and, after a few
courteous and usual overtures, consisting of mutual inquiries
after the health of the several parties present,
their relations, friends, and so forth, the conversation
grew more general, and, perhaps, more important, as it
touched upon the condition of the country.
“You have quiet now, Mr. Berkeley,” said Barsfield.
“The rousing defeats which the rebels have recently
sustained have pretty well done them up on every side.
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
The game is very nigh over, and we shall soon have little
else to do than gather up the winnings. The drubbing
which Cornwallis gave that conceited fellow, Gates, and
the surprise of Sumter, both events so complete and
conclusive, will go very far towards bringing the country
back to its loyalty.”
“God grant it, sir,” was the ardent response of Mr.
Berkeley, “for we shall then have peace. These have
been four miserable years to the country, since the beginning
of this war. Neighbour against neighbour,
friend against friend, and sometimes even brother arming
and going out to battle with his brother. It has been an
awful time, and Heaven grant, sir, it may be as you say.
Heaven restore us the quiet and the peace which have
been for so long strangers in the land.”
“You shall have it, sir, I promise you, after this;
though I should think, by this time, you have been perfectly
freed from the incursions of that skulking fellow,
Marion. The report is that he has disbanded his men,
and has fled into North Carolina. If so, I shall have
little use for mine; and these arms, which I have brought
for distribution among your loyal neighbours, will scarcely
be necessary to them. Have you any intelligence on
this subject, Mr. Berkeley?”
“No, sir—no, none! I am not in the way, Captain
Barsfield, of hearing intelligence of this nature. I know
nothing of the movements of either party.”
This reply was uttered with some little trepidation;
and, as the old gentleman spoke, he looked apprehensively
around the apartment, as if he dreaded to see the
redoubtable “swamp fox” and all his crew, “Roaring
Dick,” “Thumbscrew,” and the rest, fast gathering at his
elbow. Barsfield smiled at the movement, and crossing
one leg over another, and slapping his thigh with an air
of unmitigated self-complaisance as he spoke, he thus
replied, rather to the look and manner than the language
of his host:—
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
“Well, sir, I hope soon to rid you of any apprehensions
on the subject of that marauding rebel. I am
about to become your near neighbour, Mr. Berkeley.”
The old gentleman bowed in token of his satisfaction
at the intelligence. Barsfield continued—
“You have heard, doubtlessly, that I am now the proprietor
of the noble estate of `Kaddipah,' formerly the
seat of Max Mellichampe, and confiscated to his majesty's
uses on account of that arch-traitor's defection.
Having had the good fortune to slay the rebel with my
own hand, his majesty has been pleased to bestow upon
me the estate which he so justly forfeited.”
There was some emotion of an equivocal sort visible
in the countenance of Berkeley, as he listened to this
communication. A shade of melancholy overspread his
face, as if some painful memory had suddenly grown active;
and a slight suffusion of his eyelashes was not entirely
undistinguished by his guests. Struggling with his
feelings, however, whatever may have been their source,
the old man recovered himself sufficiently to reply,
though in a thick voice, which left his language but half
intelligible,
“Yes—yes, sir—I did hear—I'm glad, sir—I shall be
happy—”
And here he paused in the imperfect speech which
Barsfield did not leave him time to finish.
“There will be nothing then, sir, that any of us will
have to fear from these outliers in the swamps; when
that takes place, `Kaddipah,' sir, so long as the war continues,
will be a place of defence, sufficiently well
guarded as a post to resist any present force of Marion;
and, as I shall have charge of it, I think it safe to say,
from what they know of me, they will not often venture
even within scouting distance. Talking of scouts, now,
Clayton, where's the fellow we picked up to-day, having
a pass from Proctor? He looks as if he would make
an admirable one. If his eyes only see as far as they
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
seem willing to go, he is certainly a very valuable acquisition.”
A distinct hem from another quarter of the hall attracted
all eyes in that direction, and there, squat upon
the hearth of one of the fireplaces, sat the form of Blonay.
He had piled the dismembered brands together,
and sat enjoying the fire, unperceived, and certainly unenvied.
At what time he had so secretly effected his
entrance, was utterly unknown to any of the party.
Barsfield started as he beheld him, and, seeming to forget
his host, hastily addressed him:—
“Why, how now, fellow?—you seem to make yourself
at home. Why are you here?—why did you not
remain with the troop?”
“Why, cause I ain't one of them, you see, cappin,
and they all pokes fun at me.”
The simplicity of his reply disarmed Barsfield of his
anger, and his presence gave him a new subject upon
which to enjoy himself. The Half-Breed was now made
to undergo another examination, conducted by both the
officers, who mingled freely with their inquiries sundry
poor jests at his infirmity, all of which fell upon the
seemingly steril sense of the subject as if he had been
so much marble. While thus engaged an inner door
was thrown open, and the guests started involuntarily to
their feet.
“My daughter, gentlemen, Miss Berkeley—my niece,
Miss Duncan,” were the words of the old man, uttered
with an air of greater elevation than was his wont. The
two ladies were provided with seats, and in the momentary
silence which followed their first appearance, we
may be permitted to take a passing glance at their persons.
Our opinions may well be reserved for another
chapter.
-- 080 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]
The appearance of Janet Berkeley fully justified the
high encomium which Barsfield had passed upon her
beauties; yet nothing could be more unassuming than
her deportment—nothing more unimposing than her entire
carriage. A quiet ease, a natural and seemingly
effortless movement, placed her before you, and, like
all perfect things, her loveliness was to be studied before
it could be perceived. It did not affront you by an
obtrusion of any thing remarkable. Her features were
all too much in unison with one another—too symmetrically
unique, to strike abruptly: they seemed rather
to fill and to absorb the mind of the spectator than to
strike his eye.
Her person was rather small and slender: her features,
though marked by health, were all soft and delicate.
A pale, high forehead, from beneath which a pair
of large black eyes flashed out a subdued, dewy, but
rich, transparent light—a nose finely Grecian—cheeks
rather too pale, perhaps, for expression—and a mouth
which was sweetly small and delicately full,—were the
distinguishing features of her face. Her chin, though
not prominent, did not retreat; and her neck was white
and smoothly round, as if a nice artist had spent a life
in working it to perfection. Her hair, which was long
and dark, was gathered up and secured by a white fillet,
without study, yet with a disposition of grace that seemed
to denote the highest efforts of study. It was the art
which concealed the art—the fine taste of the woman
naturally employed in adorning the loveliest object in
creation—herself. It was the fashion of the time to
pile the hair in successive layers upon the crown, until
-- 081 --
[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]
it rose into a huge tower, Babel-like and toppling.
Janet was superior to any such sacrifice of good sense
and good taste, simply in compliance with a vulgar rage.
Her long tresses, simply secured from annoyance, were
left free to wander where they would about her neck, to
the marble whiteness of which they proved an admirable
foil; while the volume was so distributed about the head
as to prevent that uncouth exhibition of its bulk in one
quarter which is too much the sin of taste in the sex
generally. So admirably did the features, the dress, and
the deportment of Janet Berkeley blend in their proper
effects together, that the dullest sense must have felt
their united force, even though the eye might not have
paused to dwell upon any one individual beauty. Her
carriage denoted a consciousness of her own strength,
which spoke forcibly in contrast with the equally obvious
feebleness of her father's spirit. Perhaps, indeed,
it was the imbecility and weakness of his, which had
given strength and character to hers. It is not uncommon
for the good natural mind to exercise itself in those
attributes which, in others, they perceive inactive and
wanting to their owners. She had seen too many evil
results from her father's indecision and imbecility, not to
strive sternly in the attainment of the faculty in which
he was so lamentably deficient; and she had not striven
in vain. Though yet unenforced to open exercise and
exhibition of its strength by controlling and overcoming
dangers, the heart of Janet Berkeley was strong in her,
and would not have been unprepared for their encounter.
Her untroubled composure of glance, her equanimity of
manner, her unshrinking address, and the singular ease
with which, without tremour or hesitation, her parting lips
gave way to the utterance of the language she might
deem necessary to the occasion, were all so many proofs
of that strength of soul which, associated as it was with
all the grace and susceptibility of woman, made her a
creature of moral, not less than of physical, symmetry,—
-- 082 --
[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]
the very ideal of a just conception of the noblest nature
and the gentlest sex. The deportment of Mr. Berkeley
was unconsciously elevated as he surveyed hers: such
is the influence of the pure heart and perfect character.
His pride grew lifted in the contemplation; and, timid
and tame, and without a manly spirit, as he was, he felt
that he could willingly die to serve and to preserve her.
“She is indeed a jewel, Barsfield!” said Clayton,
in a whisper, aside to his superior; “she is a jewel,—
you are a lucky man.”
“A goddess!” was the quick reply, in similar tones,—
“a goddess!—she will make Kaddipah a very heaven
in my sight.”
“Let it be a Christian heaven, then, I pray you, by
dropping that abominable heathen name.”
The other maiden, whom we have seen introduced as
Miss Duncan, was an orphan, a niece of Mr. Berkeley,
and, for the present, residing with her cousin. She was
pretty, and her eyes danced with a lively play of light,
that spoke a gay heart and cloudless disposition. Perhaps,
at the first glance, she would have been found
more imposing than Janet; there was more to strike
the eye in her features and deportment, as there was
more inequality—more that was irregular—none of that
perfect symmetry, which so harmonizes with the observer's
glance and spirit, as not often to arrest, at first, his
particular attention. A study of her face, however,
would soon disinthral, though it would not offend, the observer.
It wanted depth—profundity—character. At
a glance you beheld its resources. There was nothing
more to see; and you would turn away to her more
quiet companion, and find at every look, in every passing
shade of expression, every transition of mood, that there
was more hidden than revealed—that the casket was
rich within—that there was a treasure and a mystery,
though it might demand a power of the purest and the
highest to unlock its spells, and to remove the sacred
seal that was upon it.
-- 083 --
[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]
A few moments had elapsed after the entrance of the
ladies, when a servant announced the supper to be in
readiness, after the wholesome fashion of the country.
A table was spread in an adjoining apartment, and now
awaited the guests. Barsfield would have offered his
arm to Janet, but she had already possessed herself of
her father's. Lieutenant Clayton had already secured
the company of Miss Duncan; and they were soon
seated around the hospitable board. But where was
Blonay—the despised—the deformed—the desolate?
Miss Berkeley, presiding at the head of the table, remarked
his absence, and her eye at once addressed her
father.
“The other gentleman, father?” she said, inquiringly.
“Gentleman indeed!” was the exclamation of Barsfield,
accompanied by a rude laugh, which was slightly
echoed by his companion; “Gentleman indeed! give
yourself no manner of concern on his account, Miss
Berkeley. He is some miserable overseer—a sand-lapper
from Goose Creek, of whom we know nothing,
except that Proctor, the commandant at Dorchester, has
thought proper to give him a passport to go where he
pleases.”
“He is my father's guest, sir,” was the dignified and
rebuking reply; “and we can take no exception to his
poverty, or his occupation, or the place from which he
comes. We have not heretofore been accustomed to
do so, and it would be far less than good policy now,
when the vicissitudes of the times are such, that even a
person such as you describe him to be may become not
only our neighbour, but our superior, to-morrow.”
Mr. Berkeley started from his chair in some little
confusion. He felt the truth of what his daughter said,
yet he saw that her speech had touched Barsfield to the
quick. The red spot was on the cheek of the tory, and
his lips quivered for an instant.
“Janet is right, Captain Barsfield; the hospitality of
-- 084 --
[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]
Piney Grove must not be impeached. Its doors must
be open to the poor as well as the rich; we cannot discriminate
between them;”—and, so speaking, he hurried
out to look after the Half-Breed. He had not far to
look. To the great surprise of the old man, he found
Blonay a listener at the door of the apartment. He
must have heard every syllable that had been spoken.
He had been practising after his Indian nature, and was
not sensible of any impropriety in the act. Revolting
at the task before him, Mr. Berkeley, with as good a
grace as possible, invited the scout into the apartment—
an invitation accepted without scruple, and as soon as
given; and he sidled into a seat, much to the annoyance
of Barsfield, directly in front of him. This little
occurrence did not take place without greatly disquieting
the host. He saw that Barsfield felt the force of the
sarcasm which his daughter had uttered, and he strove,
by the most unwearied attentions on his own part, to do
away with all unpleasant feelings on the part of the tory
captain. Janet, however, exhibited no manner of change
in her deportment. She did not seem conscious of
any departure from prudence, as she certainly had been
guilty of no departure from propriety; but, when she saw
the indefatigable and humiliating industry with which her
father strove to conciliate a man whom she had good
reason to despise as well as hate, the warm colour
stole into her cheeks with a flash-like indignation, and
her upper lip took its expression from the bitter scorn in
her bosom, and curled into very haughtiness as she surveyed
the scene. The expression passed away in an
instant, however; and when, a little more composed
himself, Barsfield ventured to cast a sidelong glance at
the maiden, and saw how subdued, how gentle, how utterly
wanting in malignity were her features, he dismissed
from his mind the thought that what she had said,
so directly applying as it did to himself—he having
sprung from the dregs of the people, and such
-- 085 --
[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
having been his fortunes—was intended for any such application.
The angry scowl with which the tory might have regarded
the maiden, was turned, however, upon the Half-Breed;
who, as he beheld its threatening expression,
would have been glad to have taken to his heels, and to
have hidden his disquiet in the surrounding woods. But
the kind look of Janet reassured him, and he turned his
frightful and blear eyes in no other direction. His mind,
probably for the first time, seemed to take in a new sentiment
of the loveliness of virtue. Though blear-eyed,
he was not blind; and, as she did not seem to behold his
deformity, he was able to examine her beauty. In morals,
the German theory of the senses is more than half
right. The odour and the colour are in us, rather than in
the objects of our survey; and yet, unless acted upon
by external influences, the latent capacity might never expand
into energy and consciousness. To bring out this
capacity is the office of education, and this art had never
so far acted upon the Half-Breed as to show him how
much there was of a good nature dormant, and silent,
and mingled up with the evil within him. His education,
in a leading respect, was yet to begin.
CHAPTER IX.
Let us back to the woods and their wild inhabitants.
We have seen the success of the woodman in dissuading
his young companion from the idle and rash demonstration
which he sought to make upon the person of the
tory captain. Prevented from any attempt upon the
life of Barsfield, Mellichampe nevertheless determined
upon watching his footsteps. In this design he was
-- 086 --
[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]
readily seconded by Witherspoon. This, indeed, was a
duty with them both. They were then playing the part
of scouts to Marion. Taking their way on foot, immediately
after their enemies, they kept the cover of the
forest, with the caution of experienced woodmen, venturing
only now and then upon the skirts of the road, in
such contiguity as to enable them to command a full
view, for some distance on either hand, of every thing
that took place upon it. Familiar with the neighbourhood,
they availed themselves of each by-way and footpath
to shorten the distance; and thus, gaining ground
at every step, they were readily and soon enabled to
come in sight of the persons they pursued.
The fierce spirit of the youthful Mellichampe could
scarcely be restrained by a wholesome prudence, while
he saw, at moments, through the leaves, the person of
his enemy. It was with no small increase of vexation,
when they came in sight of Piney Grove, that he saw
the troop of the tory turning into the avenue. Could he
have listened to the dialogue between the tory captain
and his lieutenant at this time, his fury would scarce
have been restrainable. It would have been a far more
difficult matter for his companion then to have kept him
from his meditated rashness. A passing remark of
Thumbscrew, as the course of Barsfield grew obvious,
seemed to add new fuel to the fire already burning in
his bosom.
“So-ho! he's for Piney Grove to-night! Well, Airnest,
that knocks up your business. There's no gitting
to see Miss Janet while Barsfield's there, I reckon.”
“And why not?” was the fierce demand?—“why
not? I will see her to-night, by Heaven! though I die
for it. I have promised her, and God help me as I
shall keep that, and every promise that I have made, or
shall ever make, to her. Do you think, Thumbscrew,
that I fear this scoundrel? Do you think that I would
not the rather go, if I thought that it was possible to
-- 087 --
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
encounter him alone? I have prayed for such a chance,
and I would pray for it now, even were the odds more
numerously against me.”
“Don't be rash, Airnest—don't be headstrong and
contrary, boy. It'll be mighty onwise and redic'lous
for you to go to Piney Grove to-night, though you did
make a promise: there's no use for it; and it's like
going into the lion's den, as a body may say. Barsfield,
you may be sure, will put out his sentries; and them
tories, like the smallpox they have in Charleston now,
are mighty catching. You can't go there with any
chance of clearing the bush; and if that chap gets you
in his gripe, it'll go monstrous hard with you. He
knows you've got no reason to love him; and he's
hearn, long ago, how you've swore agin him; and he'd
like nothing better now, do you see, than to set finger
upon you. You can't think how pleasant it would make
him feel to put a grape-vine round your neck: so, you
must keep quiet, and not think of seeing Miss Janet
to-night.”
“But I must and will think of it. I will see her at
every hazard, and you need say nothing more on the
subject, Thumbscrew, unless you change very greatly
the burden of what you say. This caution—caution—
caution—nothing but caution—is the dullest music: it
sickens me to the soul. You are too careful of me, by
half, Thumbscrew; I can't move but you follow and
counsel me—striving to guard me against a thousand
dangers and difficulties which nobody ever dreams of
but yourself.”
“That's because I loves you, Airnest, much better
than anybody else, and much better, when the truth's
spoken, than you loves yourself,” replied the woodman,
affectionately putting his arms around the neck of his
youthful companion: “I loves you, Airnest, and I
watches you like an old hen that's got but one chicken
left, and I clucks and scratches twice as much for that
-- 088 --
[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]
very reason. If there was a dozen to look after, now,
the case would be different; I wouldn't make half the
fuss that I make about the one; but, you see, when it
so happens that the things a man's got to love gits fewer
and smaller, they gits more valuable, Airnest, in his
sight; for he knows mighty well, if he loses them, that
he's jist like an old bird that comes back to the tree
when the blossoms and the flowers have all dropped off
and are rotting under it. It's mighty nigh to winter in
his heart then, Airnest—mighty nigh—and the sooner
he begins to look out for a place to sleep in, the wiser
man you may take him to be. But, Airnest, 'taint altogither
that I loves you so that makes me agin your
going to-night to see the gal—”
“Stop, Thumbscrew, if you please,” were the words
of interruption sternly uttered by the youth; “you will
change your mode of speech in speaking of Miss Berkeley,
and, when you refer to her in my hearing, you will
please do so with becoming respect.”
“Swounds, Airnest, don't I respect her? Don't
you know that I respects her? Don't I love her, I ax
you, a-most as much as I loves you? and wouldn't I
do any thing for you both, that wasn't a mean, cowardly
thing? You know I doesn't mean to be disrespectful
in what I says consarning her; and you mustn't talk
so as if you thought I did. I says I'm agin your going
to see her, or anybody at Piney Grove, not because it's
you that's going, but because I wouldn't have anybody go,
that b'longs to Marion's men, into the clutches of them
there thieves and murderers. It'll be as much as your
neck's worth to go there, for Barsfield is something of
a sodger, and will be sure to put out scouts and sentries
all round the house. If he don't he's no better than a
nigger, and desarves to be cashiered.”
“Danger or no danger, Thumbscrew, I'll go to Piney
Grove this night, as I have promised. You may spare
yourself all farther exhortation: I keep my word, though
death be in the way.”
-- 089 --
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
“Well, now, Airnest, that's what I call pervarsion and
mere foolishness. She won't look for you, Airnest.
She's a lady of sense and understanding, and won't so
much as dream to see you after Barsfield's coming.”
“Say no more,” said the youth, decisively; “I will
go. Let us now return to our horses, and you can then
go on to Broom Hollow, where I'll meet you by midnight.”
The youth turned away while speaking, and the woodman
followed him, though slowly, and with looks of
deepest concern.
“You wants to see her, Airnest, that's it—it ain't so
much because you promised, as because you wants to
keep your promise. Ah, Airnest, this love in you
young people—it ain't sensible, and I say it ain't strong
and lasting. No love is strong and lasting if it ain't
sensible. This what you has now is only a sulky autumn
fever, Airnest; it'll burn like old vengeance for a
month or so, and everybody that don't know any thing
about it might reckon it hot enough to set the woods
a-fire; but it goes off monstrous quick after that, for you
see it burns its substance all away, and then comes on
the shaking ague, and it sticks to you, God only knows,
there's no telling how long!”
The youth smiled, not less at the earnestness of his
companion's manner, than at the grotesqueness of his
comparisons. He contented himself, as they pursued
their way back to the cover which they had left, by insisting
upon the superior nature of his affection to that
which he had described.
“Not so with me, Thumbscrew; I know myself
too well; and, if I did not, I certainly know Janet too
well ever to love her less than now, unless some
change of which I dream not, and which I believe impossible—
some strange change—shall come over both
of us. But no more of this; let us see to our horses,
and with the dark you can go on to Broom Hollow,
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
where I will seek you as soon after I leave `Piney
Grove' as I can.”
The woodman shook his head and muttered to himself,
with an air not less of decision than of dissent. If
his companion was fixed in his determination, Thumbscrew
was not less resolved in his; but of this he said
nothing. Quietly enough, and with the composure and
intimacy of two relying friends, they sought out their retreat,
behind which, some hundred yards, a close bay
gave shelter to their horses—two noble animals, well caparisoned,
which bounded away beneath them with a
free step and a graceful movement, though the darkness
already covered the highway, making the path doubtful,
if not dangerous, in some places, to riders less experienced
and bold than themselves. They retraced the
ground which they had just left, and when they had reached
the avenue leading to “Piney Grove” they sunk into
the contiguous woods, and there Mellichampe, alighting,
prepared himself for that visit to his mistress from which
his comrade had so earnestly endeavoured to dissuade
him. Nor did he now forbear his solicitations to the
same effect. He urged his objections more gently, yet
with his former earnestness, only to meet with the same
stern decision.
“Well, now, Airnest,” said the faithful woodman,
“sence you're bent to go, like a wilful fox that's still
got a tail worth docking, suppose you let me go along
with you? You'd better, now; I can keep watch—”
“Pshaw! Thumbscrew, what nonsense! I need no
watch, and certainly would not permit your presence at
such a time. You know I go to meet with a lady.”
“Swounds, Airnest! but she sha'n't see me.”
“Why, man, of what do you speak? Would you
have me guilty of a meanness, Thumbscrew?”
“Dang it, Airnest! I see it's no use to talk. You're
on your high horse to-day, and nobody can take you
down. I'll leave you; but, Airnest, boy, keep a bright
-- 091 --
[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
look-out, and stick to the bush close as a blind 'possum
that's lame of a fore-paw. You're going among sharp
woodmen, them same tories; and they'll give you a
hard drive if they once sets foot on your trail. When
do you say you'll come?”
“About midnight—but don't wait for me. Go to
sleep, old fellow, for I know you need it.”
“Good-by, Airnest! God bless you!”
“Good-by.”
“And, Airnest—”
“What now, Thumby?”
Keep snug, that's all, and don't burn daylight—that's
to say, don't waste time. Good-by.”
The youth, leaving his horse carefully concealed and
fastened in a well-chosen spot, hurriedly plunged forward
into the woods with a precipitation seemingly intended
to free him from the anxieties of his companion, who
watched his progress for a few moments as he divided
the bushes in his flight. Thumbscrew looked after him
with all the concern of a parent in a time of trying
emergency. He shook his head apprehensively, as,
leading his own steed forth towards the highway, he
seemed to prepare for his departure in the direction assigned
him. He had scarcely reached the road, however,
when the approach of a driving horseman struck
his senses and arrested his progress. The scout drew
back instantly into the cover of the bush, and, placing
himself in a position which would enable him to retreat
at advantage, should the horseman prove other than he
wished, he whistled thrice in a manner peculiar to the
men of Marion. He was instantly answered in the
same manner by the horseman, who drew up his steed
with the exchange of signals. Thumbscrew at once
emerged from the copse, and was addressed by the
stranger in a dialect adopted among the partisans for
greater security. Thumbscrew replied by what would
seem a question.
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
“Owls abroad?”
“Owls at home!” was the immediate response of
the stranger, by which the calling in of the scouts to the
main body was at once signified to his comrade. He
continued, as they approached each other—
“What owl hoots?”
“Thumbscrew,” was the reply of Witherspoon, giving
the familiar name by which his companions generally
knew him.
“Ah, Witherspoon,” said the other, who proved to be
Humphries, “is that you?”
“A piece of me—I ain't altogether myself, seeing
that I ain't in a good humour quite.”
“Well, stir up, for you're wanted. The boys have
work on hand, and the `fox' has got news of a tory
gathering, so he's gone to drinking vinegar, and that's
sign enough to show us that we must have a brush.
Major Singleton has ordered in our squad, and looks
out for a squall. So there's news for you.”
“I reckon I've got quite as much, Humphries, to give
you back for it in return. What would you say, now, if
I tell you that Barsfield is here, within five hundred
yards of us, with a smart company of red-jackets, and
two big wagons of baggage?”
“No!”
“But I say yes!” and the scout then proceeded to
inform his comrade of those matters in reference to
Barsfield's arrival at Piney Grove with which the reader
has been already made acquainted.
Humphries listened attentively, then exclaimed—
“I see it, Thumby; Barsfield is to meet these same
tories, and probably take the lead of them. We heard
from a boy that they were to gather, but he could not
say who was to command 'em; and the general thought
he could dash in among 'em before they could get arms
and ammunition for a start. He'll have more work
now than he thought for.”
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
“Well, and where are you bent now, Humphries?—
ain't you going back with this news I tell you?”
“Yes, to be sure; but you must go in yourself at
once. I am pushing on for Davis, and Baxter, and little
Gwinn: they are all out on your line. We want all
the muzzles we can muster. Where's Mister Mellichampe?”
The scout answered this question gloomily, as he told
of the adventurous movement of the youth in visiting
the “Piney Grove” while it was in the possession of the
enemy, and of his own urgent entreaties to prevent it.
“It's an ugly risk he's taking,” said Humphries;
“but what can you do—you can't help it now?”
“Why, yes, I think I can,” said the other, quickly.
“I can't find it in my heart to leave the boy in the hands
of them Philistines, and so, you see, Humphries, soon
as I can hide my horse in the hollow, I'm going back
after him. I won't let him see me, for he's mighty
ticklish and passionate, and may get in a bad humour;
but I can keep close on his skirts and say nothing—
only, if harm comes, I can lend him a helping hand, you
see, when he don't look for it.”
“Well, you've little time, and, soon as you let him
know that he's wanted, you must both push off for the
swamp. There's a branch broke across the road at
`My Lady's Fancy,'—the butt-end points to the right
track; and, on the same line, after you get into the bush,
you'll see another broken branch just before you,—go
to the bush-end, and keep ahead—that'll lead you down
to the first sentry, and that's McDonald, I think. But
the two branches ain't thirty yards from each other; so
that, if the one in the road should be changed by anybody,
you'll only have to look round in the woods till
you find the other.”
Having given these directions, he stooped and whispered
the camp passward for the night in the ears of his
attentive comrade—
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
“Moultrie!”
Putting spurs to his steed, in another instant he had
left the place of conference far behind him. Thumbscrew,
then, returning to the wood, carefully placed his
horse in hiding, and proceeded, according to the silent
determination which he had made, upon the path taken
by his young companion. He was soon in the thicket
adjoining the plantation, and resolute to do his best to
save the youth, over whom he kept a watch so paternal,
from any of the evil consequences which he feared
might follow from his rashness.
CHAPTER X.
At the hospitable board of Mr. Berkeley, to which
we now return, the parties appear seated precisely as
we left them. Their condition is not the same, however.
They have done full justice, during our absence, to the
repast, and to their own appetites, rendered more acute
from their active travel of the day. The first rude demands
of hunger had been satisfied; the urgent business
of the table was fairly over; and nothing now remained
to prevent the tory captain from playing the double part
of social guest and earnest lover. His position might
well have prompted him to an unwonted effort in the
presence of one whose favour he sought to win. Not
so, however. Barsfield, though bold and insolent
enough with a rude troop and in the forest, was yet
abashed in the presence of the beautiful and innocent
Janet. He was one of those instances, so frequently
to be met with, of a man possessed of energies of mind
calculated to reach distinction, but wanting in that delicacy
of feeling and demeanour, the result only of polished
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
society, which alone can sustain him there unembarrassed
and at ease. Too harsh in his habits to conciliate
without an effort, he was, at the same time, too
little familiar with the nice delicacies and acute sensibilities
of the female heart to make the attempt with
judgment; and we find him, accordingly, the welldressed
boor, in a strange circle, endeavouring to disguise
his own consciousness of inadequacy by a dashing
and forward demeanour, which had all the aspect of impertinence.
He made sundry efforts to engage the
maiden and her young companion in the toils of conversation,
but proved far less successful than his second
in command, who led the way in the suggestion of topics,
caught up the falling ends of chit-chat, and, with all
the adroitness of an old practitioner, knotted them together
as fast as his superior, in his clumsy efforts to do
likewise, tore them asunder. Clayton was a lively,
brisk, ready youth, not over-well informed, but with just
sufficient reading and experience to while away a dull
hour with a thoughtless maiden. Janet heard him with
respect, but said little. Rose Duncan, however, had
few restraints—certainly none like those restraining the
former,—and she chatted on with as thoughtless a spirit
as if there had been no suffering in the land. Barsfield
envied his lieutenant the immense gift of the gab which
the latter possessed, and his envy grew into a feeling of
bitter mortification, when every effort of his own to
engage Janet in dialogue failed utterly, and, evidently,
quite as often from his own inefficiency, as from the
maiden's reluctance, to maintain it. A quiet “Yes” or
“No” was the only response which she appeared to
find necessary in answer to all his suggestions; and
these, too, were uttered so coldly and so calmly, as to
discourage the otherwise sanguine tory in the hope that
maiden bashfulness alone, and not indifference, was the
true cause of her taciturnity. The old man, her father,
as he saw the anxiety of Barsfield to fix his daughter's
-- 096 --
[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
attention, and, as he hoped to conciliate one having a
useful influence, strove to second his efforts by so directing
the course of the conversation as to bring out
the resources of the maiden; but even his efforts proved
in a great degree unsuccessful. Her mind seemed not
at home in all the scene, and exhibited but little sympathy
with those around her. To those who looked
closely, and could read so mysterious a language as that
of a young maiden's eye, it might be seen that, in addition
to her reluctance to converse with Barsfield, there
was also a creeping fear in her bosom, which chilled
and fevered all its elasticity. As the hour advanced,
this feeling showed itself by occasional unquiet movements
of her eye, which glanced its sweet fires fitfully
around, as if in searching for some object which it yet
dreaded to encounter. This state of disquietude did not
fail to strike the keen watchfulness of Barsfield, whose
own imperfect success only made him the more jealously
observant. Though unable to win the heart of a fair
lady, he was yet not altogether incapable of perceiving
its movements; and he soon discovered that, in addition
to the dislike which Janet entertained for his pretensions,
there was ground enough to imagine that she
had far less aversion to those of another. He watched
her the more closely from this reflection, and soon had
assurance doubly sure on the subject of his conjecture.
In the meanwhile the supper things had undergone
removal; the several persons of the party were disposed
about the room, the two ladies occupying the sofa, at
one arm of which, and immediately beside Rose Duncan,
sat Lieutenant Clayton, bending forward, and exchanging
with her a free supply of chit-chat, sentimental
and capricious. Barsfield, on the other hand, addressed
his regards only to Janet, who sat, statue-like and pale,
seemingly unmoved by all she heard, and with that air
of abstraction and anxiety which shows the thought to
be far distant. There was a dash of apprehension also
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
in her air, such as the young fawn, skirting the roadside
for the first time, might be supposed to exhibit,
under the suggestion of its own timid spirit, rather than
of any real danger from the approach of the hunter.
This expression of countenance, however the maiden
might labour for its concealment, was yet sufficiently
evident to one so jealously aroused and suspicious as
the tory captain; and he could not forbear, at length, as
he found that all other topics failed to bring about a
regular conversation with her, to insinuate his own doubts
of that perfect composure of her mind which, in reply to
his inquiry, her language had expressed, but which he
did not think, at the same time, that she really entertained.
“Something surely has occurred to trouble you, Miss
Berkeley—some unlucky disaster, no doubt? Your favourite
nonpareil has broken bonds, perhaps—your
mocking-bird has sung his last song before strangling
himself between his wires,—something equally, if not
more sad, has fastened itself upon your spirits, and taken
the wonted colour from your cheeks. Let me sympathize
with you in your misfortune, I pray you; let me
know the extent and the cause of your affliction.”
How bitterly ironical was the glance which accompanied
this speech.
“Rather say,” replied the laughing Rose, quickly
and archly, as she beheld the annoyance which the
words of the tory had brought to her cousin,—“rather
say that she dreads some danger to her favourite—that
she has seen some threatening hawk hovering over her
dovecot, and dreads momently that he will pounce
upon the covey, and—”
“Rose! Rose Duncan!” hurriedly exclaimed Janet,
with a most appealing glance of her eye, for she knew
the playful character of her companion; “No more of
this, Rose, I beg you. I am not in the humour for
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
sport this evening. I beg that you will desist. I am
not well.”
“Oh, if you beg so prettily, and so humbly too, I
have done, coz. I would not vex you for the world,
particularly when you surrender so quietly at discretion.
But, really, I have no other way to revenge myself for
the sarcasms I am made to endure by Mr. Clayton; he is
really so witty—so very excruciating.”
She turned, as she spoke, with a full glance of her
arch blue eye upon Clayton, and with an expression of
face so comically sarcastic, that she even succeeded in
diverting the glance of Barsfield from the face of her
cousing to that of his lieutenant. Clayton laughed sillily
in reply, and strove to meet the sarcasm with as much
good-nature as would disarm it. He replied at the
same time playfull to Rose, and the conversation
went on between them. This little episode—the allusion
of Rose, though innocently made on her part, was
calculated to increase as well the apprehensions of Janet
as the suspicions of Barsfield; and he determined
not to yield the point, but, if possible, pressing it still
more home, to see if he could not elicit some few more
decided proofs of that disquiet of the heart under
which Janet so evidently laboured. He was not troubled
with those gentlemanly scruples which should have
produced a pause, if not a direct arrest, of such a determination.
On the contrary, he knew of no principles
but those which were subservient to the selfish purposes
of a coarse, unpolished soul.
“This allegory of your fair friend, Miss Berkeley,
would seem not altogether wanting in some direct application,
if one may judge from the degree of annoyance
which it occasions you. Is it true that some favourite
dove is in danger—does the hawk really hang
over head; and am I to trace in the likeness of the one,
a wild rebel, an outlaw of the land—some sentimental
robber of the swamp—and, in the other, the vigilant
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
sentinel of an indulgent monarch, keeping watch over
the fold and protecting it against the excursive marauder?
If so, in which of these two shall I hold Miss
Berkeley to be so greatly interested?”
Mr. Berkeley eagerly bent forward to hear the answer
of his daughter; and even Blonay, who had
withdrawn himself humbly into a corner of the room,
seemed to comprehend something of the matter in hand,
and stretched out his long neck, while his blear eyes
peered into those which the maiden now fixed upon her
questioner.
“I am not good, sir, at solving riddles,” was her
calm reply; “and really cannot undertake to say to
what your present remark should refer. Perhaps you
are right, however, in comparing to the innocent bird,
in danger from the lurking fowler, the outlaw whom you
call the rebel. The hawk, sir, stands well enough for
the pursuer. But, if these comparisons be true, there
is no danger to us, I assure you, as I myself believe,
even should the outlaw become the marauder.”
And here she paused, and her eyes were withdrawn
from the person to whom she had spoken. The tory
bit his lip; and, though he strove with that object, failed
to suppress the dissatisfaction which her speech had occasioned.
Taking up her reply, which had been evidently
left unfinished, he proceeded to carry out the
sentence.
“But there is danger, you would say, from the latter.
Let me remove your fears, Miss Berkeley. The hawk
will watch over his charge without preying upon it, as
you shall see. I am not unwilling to appear before you
as one of the brood, and you and yours shall be secure
in the protection I shall bring you against any lurking
rebel in your swamps.”
“I believe not that we have much to fear from that
quarter, Mr. Barsfield, provided none but Marion's men
get into them. They never trouble us.”
-- 100 --
[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
“But, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “we are
none the less indebted to Captain Barsfield for his aid
and assistance. It is true, captain, we have not suffered
much if any loss yet from the people who are out;
but times may change, captain, and there's no knowing
how soon your kind assistance may be of the utmost
importance. We should not be ungrateful, Janet.”
“I would not, father,” responded the maiden, meekly;
“Captain Barsfield has my thanks for the aid he
has proffered us, though I still think we shall not find it
necessary. Our home has always been a quiet one, and
has been respected by all parties. My father,” and
here she turned to Barsfield with a free and fearless
glance, “My father is an invalid, and cannot take any
part in the war which is going on; and while he extends
his hospitality to all, without distinction, he may well
hope to need little of the aid of either in defending him
from any. It is as little, under these circumstances, as
we can require, that our guest shall forbear the use of
language which might either give us pain, as it refers
contemptuously or unjustly to our friends and those whom
we esteem, or must involve us in the controversy which
we should better avoid. Captain Barsfield will forgive
me if I am unwilling to listen to the abuse of my countrymen.”
The manner of the maiden was so dignified as to silence
farther controversy. Barsfield submitted with a
very good grace, though inwardly extremely chafed at
the resolute and unreserved manner in which she spoke
of those whom he had denounced as rebels, and to
whose patriotic conduct his own had been so unhappily
opposed. He strove, however, not merely to subdue
his ill-humour, but to prove to her that it had given way
to better feelings; and, with a due increase of courtesy,
he arose, and would have conducted her to the fine
old harpsichord, which formed a most conspicuous article
of the household furniture in the apartment. She
-- 101 --
[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]
declined, however, to perform, in spite of every compliment
which he could bestow upon her skill and voice,
with both of which he appeared to be familiar. Her
father added his solicitations also; but she pleaded unpreparedness
and her own indisposition so firmly, that
the demand was at length given up. The lieutenant,
however, was more successful with the inconsiderate and
laughing girl who sat beside him. She offered no scruples—
said she loved to play and sing of all things in the
world; and, taking her seat in the midst of her own jest
and laughter, touched the keys with a free finger, that
seemed perfectly at home, while she sang the following
little ditty, with a fine clear voice which filled the
apartment:—
I.
Though grief assail thee, young heart,
And doubt be there,
And stone-eyed care,
And sickness ail thee, young heart,
Love on—love on.
II.
A greater anguish, young heart,
Than these can be,
Should love, in thee,
For ever languish, young heart!—
Love on—love on.
III.
Life's choicest pleasure, young heart,
Can only wait
On her whose fate
Makes love her treasure, young heart!—
Love on—love on.
IV.
And know that sorrow, young heart,
And wo, and strife,
Belong to life,
And are love's horror, young heart—
Love on—love on.
V.
They fear his glances, young heart,
And fleet away
As night from day,
When he advances, young heart—
Love on—love on.
-- 102 --
[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]
VI.
A happy comer, young heart,
Love's earliest bird
May now be heard,
With voice of summer, young heart—
Love on—love on.
VII.
Around thee springing, young heart,
Bird, leaf, and flower,
That fill thy bower,
Are ever singing, young heart
Love on—love on.
While the song of Rose was yet trilling in their ears,
a faint but distinct whistle penetrated the apartment.
The quick and jealous sense of Barsfield was the
very first to hear it; and, from the corner where he sat
crouching, the long neck of Blonay might have been
seen suddenly thrust out, as his head leaned forward to
listen. The eye of the tory captain involuntarily turned
upon the face of Janet Berkeley: a deeper paleness
had overshadowed it; and, though she did not, and dared
not, look in the direction of her observer, she well knew
that his gaze was fastened upon her, and this knowledge
increased her confusion. The suspicions of Barsfield,
always active, were doubly aroused at the present moment,
though, with the policy of a practised soldier, he
yet took especial care to conceal them.
It was curious to look on the Half-Breed all the while.
The instinct of the scout had awakened into a degree of
consciousness with that whistle, which all the sweet
music of Rose Duncan, to which he had been listening,
could never have provoked. His thought was already
in the woods; and, like some keen hound, his mood
began to grow impatient of restraint, and to hunger after
the close chase and the bloody fray. The eye of Barsfield,
turning from the face of the maiden, was fixed
upon him, and, with his habitual caution, Blonay, as he
saw himself observed, drew in his head, which now
rested with his usual listlessness upon his shoulder,
-- 103 --
[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]
while he seemed to lapse away into his accustomed
stupor.
The signal, if such it were, was again repeated, and
closer at hand. A faint smile curled the lips of the
tory captain, and his glance again settled upon the face
of Janet. She strove to encounter that glance of inquisitive
insolence, but her heart was too full of its fears.
She could not—her eye sank away from the encounter,
and the suspicions of the tory were confirmed.
“There's a signal for somebody,” was his careless
remark.
“A signal!” exclaimed Clayton and Rose, in the same
breath.
“A signal!” said Mr. Berkeley, in alarm.
“Yes, a signal—and the signal of one of Marion's
men,” was the reply of Barsfield. “He has strayed
this time into the wrong grounds, and will be laid by his
heels if he heed not his footsteps.”
The hands of Janet were clasped involuntarily, and a
prayerful thought was rapidly springing in her mind,
while her heart beat thick with its apprehensions.
“Why do you think it a signal of Marion's men, captain?”
was the inquiry of Clayton; “may it not be the
whistle of some idler among our own?”
“No; he might run some risk of a bullet if that were
the case. Our loyalists know these sounds too well not
to prick their ears when they hear them. That whistle
is peculiar, and not so easily imitated. There—you
hear it again! The enemy is daring, if he be an enemy;
if a friend, he is not less so.”
“It may be one of the negroes,” was the timidly-expressed
suggestion of Mr. Berkeley.
“Miss Berkeley will scarcely concur with you in that
conjecture,” was the sarcastic response of Barsfield,
while his eye scrutinized closely and annoyingly the
rapidly changing colour upon her cheeks. As he gazed
her emotion grew almost insupportable, and her anxiety
-- 104 --
[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
became so intense as to be perceptible to all. Her eyes
seemed not to regard the company, but were fixed and
wild in their frozen stare upon a distant window of the
apartment. That glance, so immoveable and so full of
earnest terror, proved a guide to that of the tory. He
read, in its intensity of gaze, a farther solution of the
mystery; and, turning suddenly in the same direction,
the secret was revealed. The distant, but distinct and
well-known features of Ernest Mellichampe were clearly
seen through the pane, looking in over the head of
Blonay, from the piazza to which he had ascended.
The movement of Barsfield was instantaneous. With a
fierce oath he dashed from his seat, and, seizing his
sabre, which lay upon a neighbouring table, rushed
towards the entrance. The movement of Janet Berkeley
was not less sudden. She darted with a wild cry, something
between a shriek and a prayer, and stood directly
in his pathway—her eye still fixed upon the window
where her lover stood,—her heart still pleading for his
safety,—her arm uplifted for his defence.
“Let me pass, Miss Berkeley,” were the hurried
words and stern demand of the tory.
“Never—never—I will perish first,” she exclaimed,
incoherently and unconsciously, in reply.
He extended his arm to put her aside, and by this
time the whole party had arisen from their seats, wondering
at what they saw, for they were ignorant of the
knowledge possessed by the tory. The father of the
maiden would have interposed, and Rose Duncan, surprised
and terrified, also came forward; but Janet
Berkeley heeded them not. Furious at the interruption,
Barsfield cried out to Clayton to pursue.
“The rebel Mellichampe!” was his cry;—“he is in
the piazza now,—he was but this instant at the window.
Pursue him with all the men—cut him to pieces—give
him no quarter—fly!”
The form of Janet filled the doorway: her arms were
extended.
-- 105 --
[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
“Mercy!” she cried,—“mercy—mercy! Fly not,—
pursue him not: he is gone,—he is beyond your reach.
Mercy—have mercy!”
They put her aside, and Barsfield hurried through the
door. She caught his arm with a nervous grasp, and
clung to him in the fervour of a desperation growing
out of her accumulating terrors. He broke furiously
away from her hold, and she sank, fainting and exhausted,
but still conscious of her lover's danger, at full
length along the floor. They were gone in the pursuit,
the tory captain and his lieutenant; but Blonay, though
he had risen with the rest, still remained in the apartment.
The old father tottered to his daughter in consternation,
and strove, with the assistance of Rose, to
lift her from the ground. In his own rude way, and
trembling, too, at the idea of his near approach to one
so superior, Blonay proffered his assistance.
“The poor gal,” he exclaimed, in tones of unwonted
pity, while lifting her to the sofa,—“the poor gal, she's
main frightened now, I tell you!”
“My child—my child!—speak to me, my Janet!—
look upon me!—it is your father, Janet!—look up to
me, my daughter!”
Her eyes unclosed, and her lips were moved in correspondence
with the agonizing thoughts and apprehensions
of her soul.
“Mellichampe—rash, rash Mellichampe!—oh, father,
they will take—they will murder him!”
“Fear not, my child, fear not,” was the father's reply,
his own accents full of that very fear which he required
that she should not feel. Fear nothing; this is
my house—these are my grounds. They shall not—
no, my daughter, they dare not—touch a hair of the
head of Mellichampe.”
But the daughter knew better than her father his own
weakness and the insecurity of her lover, and she shook
her head mournfully, though listening patiently to all his
-- 106 --
[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
efforts at consolation. In that moment the father's love
of his child grew conspicuous. He hung over her, and
sobbed freely like an infant. He said a thousand
soothing things in her ears; predicted a long life of happiness
with her lover; strove to reassure her on every
topic of their mutual apprehension; and, on his own
tottering frame, with the assistance of Rose Duncan,
helped her to the chamber whose repose she seemed so
imperatively to require.
CHAPTER XI.
The movement of Barsfield was almost as soon perceived
by Mellichampe as it had been by Janet Berkeley.
He saw, at a glance, the abrupt spring which the
tory made from his chair, and, conjecturing the cause of
his emotion, he prepared himself for flight. Though
rash in the extreme, he was not so much of the madman
as to dare the contest with such a force as Barsfield
could bring against him; yet loath was he, indeed, to fly
before so hated an enemy.
“Oh, could we but cross weapons alone in that deep
forest, with no eye upon us but those heavenly watchers,
and the grim spirits that hover around and exult in the
good stroke which is struck for vengeance! Could we
there meet, Barsfield—but this hour—I would ask nothing
more from Heaven!”
This was the prayer of Mellichampe—these were his
words, muttered through his clinched teeth, as, turning
from the window, he placed his hands on the light railing
of the balcony, and, heedless of the height—something
over fifteen feet—leaped, with a fearless yet bitter
heart, into the yard below.
-- 107 --
[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]
He had come, agreeably to his appointment with the
maiden, and, as we have seen, in spite of all the solicitations
of his friend and comrade. He had uttered his
accustomed signals—they had been, of necessity, disregarded.
Vexed and feverish, his blood grew more phrensied
at every moment which he was compelled to wait;
and, at no time blessed with patience, he had adopted the
still more desperate resolution of penetrating to the very
dwelling which contained the maiden whom he loved.
What to him was the danger from an enemy at such a
moment, and with feelings such as his? What were
those feelings—what the fears which possessed him?
patient and reckless, his feelings and his thoughts did
equal injustice to her and to himself.
“She forgets—she forswears me, like all the rest. He
seeks her, perhaps, and she—ha! what hope had the
desperate and the desolate ever yet from woman, when
pomp and prosperity approached as his rival?”
He little knew the maiden whom he so misjudged;
but it was thus that he communed with his own bitter
spirit, when he made the rash determination to penetrate
to the dwelling, from the deep umbrageous garden in its
rear, where, hitherto, the lovers had been accustomed to
meet, in as sweet a bower as love could have chosen for
a purpose so hallowed.
But, though rash almost to madness in coming to the
dwelling, Mellichampe was not so heedless of his course
as to forget the earnest warnings which Witherspoon had
given him. In approaching the house he had taken the
precaution to survey all the premises beforehand. The
grounds were all well known to him, and he made a circuit
around them, by which means he discovered the
manner in which the encampment of the troop was
made, and how, and where, the sentinels were posted.
These he surveyed without exposure, and, though immediately
contiguous on more than one occasion to the
lounging guard, he escaped without challenge or
-- 108 --
[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
suspicion. From the park he stole back into the garden.
Emerging from its shelter, he advanced to the rear of
the building, and, passing under the piazza which encompassed
it, he stole silently up the steps, sought the
window, looked in upon the company, and was compelled,
as we have seen, to fly.
He was now in the court below; and, as the bustle
went on above, he paused to listen and to meditate his
course. Meanwhile the alarm was sounded from the
bugle of the troop. The commotion of their movement
distinctly reached his ears, and he leaped off fleetly but
composedly among the trees, which concealed his flight
towards the garden, just as the rush of Barsfield and
Clayton down the steps of the piazza warned him of
the necessity of farther precipitation. At that moment,
darting forward, he encountered the person of one who
was advancing. He had drawn his knife in the first
moment of his flight, and, looking now only for enemies,
it had nearly found its sheath in the breast of the stranger,
when the tones of his voice arrested the fugitive.
“Ha, Mass Arnest, dat you? Lord 'a macy, you
'most knock de breat out my body.”
“Silence, Scip—not a word, villain. I am pursued
by the tories. Would you betray me?” were the
hurried and emphatic, but suppressed words of Mellichampe.
“'Tray you, Mass Arnest—how-come you tink so?
Enty da Sip—you truss Sip always, Mass Arnest—truss
'em now,” was the prompt reply of the negro, uttered in
tones similarly low.
“I will, Scip—I will trust you. Barsfield is upon me,
and I must gain the garden.”
“No go dere. Tory sodger jist run 'long by de garden
fence.”
“Where then, old fellow?”
The negro paused for a moment, and the clattering of
the sabres was now heard distinctly.
-- 109 --
[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]
“Drop, Mass Arnest, drop for dear life close behind
dis tree. Hug 'em close, I yerry dem coming.”
“I have it,” said the youth, coolly, to the bewildered
negro, as the sounds denoted the approach of the pursuers
to that quarter of the area in which this brief conference
had been carried on—
“I have it, Scip. I will lie close to this fallen tree,
and do you take to your heels in the direction of the
woods. To the right, Scip—and let them see you as
you run.”
“How den, Mass Arnest—wha' de good ob dat?”
“Fly, fellow, they come—to the right, to the right.”
With the words Mellichampe threw himself prostrate,
close beside a huge tree that had been recently felled in
the enclosure, while the faithful negro darted off without
hesitation in the direction which had been pointed out to
him. In another moment a body of the troopers was
scattered around the tree, bounding over it in all directions.
Barsfield led the pursuit, and animated it by his
continual commands. The scene grew diversified by
the rushing tumults and the wild cries of the pursuers,
and it was not many minutes before the chase was encouraged
by a glimpse which they caught of the flying
negro. At once all feet were turned in the one direction.
Soldier after soldier passed in emulous haste over the
log where Mellichampe lay, and, when the clamour had
sunk away in the distance, he rose quietly, and coolly
listening for a few seconds to the distant uproar, he stole
cautiously back into the garden, in the crowded shrubbery
and thick umbrage of which he might have readily
anticipated a tolerable concealment while the night lasted
from all the troop which Barsfield could muster. Here
he could distinguish the various sounds and stages of the
pursuit; now spreading far away to the fields and on
the borders of the park—and now, as the adroit Scipio
doubled upon his pursuers, coming nigher to the original
starting-place. But whether it was that Seip's heart
-- 110 --
[figure description] Page 110.[end figure description]
failed him, or his legs first, may not be said. It is
enough to know that he began to falter. His enemies
gained ground rapidly upon him. He passed into a briercopse,
and lay close for a while, though torn by their
thorns at every forward movement, in the hope to gain a
temporary rest from the pursuit; but the chase tracked
him out, and its thick recesses gave him no shelter.
The sabres were thrust into the copse in several places,
and, dreading their ungentle contact, the hunted negro
once more took to his heels. He dashed forward and
made for a little pine thicket that seemed to promise him
a fair hope for concealment; but, when most sanguine,
an obtrusive vine caught his uplifted foot as he sprang
desperately forward, and, with a heavy squelch that
nearly took the breath out of his body, he lay prostrate
at the mercy of his enemy. Barsfield himself was upon
him. With a fierce oath and a cry of triumph he
shook his sabre over his head, and threatened instant
death to the supposed Mellichampe. The poor negro,
though not unwilling to risk his life for the youth, now
thought it high time to speak; and, in real or affected
terror, he cried aloud in language not to be mistaken,
“Don't you chop a nigger with your sword now, I
tell you. Gor A'mighty, Mass Cappin, you no guine
kill a poor nigger da's no doing noting at all?”
Barsfield recoiled in astonishment, only to advance
upon the crouching black with redoubled fury; and he
might have used the uplifted weapon simply from chagrin
and disappointment, but that a stronger motive restrained
him. With the strength and rage of a giant, he
hurled the negro back to the ground from whence he
had now half risen, and fiercely demanded of him why
he had fled from the pursuit.
“Ki! Mass Cappin, you ax a nigger wha' for he
run, when you fuss run at 'em wid you big sword, and
want to chop 'em wid it. Da's 'nough to make a nigger
run, I 'speck. No nigger nebber guine 'tand for dat.”
-- 111 --
[figure description] Page 111.[end figure description]
“Scoundrel! do not trifle with me,” was the fierce
reply. “You have seen young Mellichampe.”
“Who dat—Mass Arnest? No see 'em to-night,
Mass Cappin.”
“Scoundrel! you are lying now. I know it. You
have hidden him away. Lead us to the spot, or put us
upon his track so that we find him, or, by the eternal!
I swing you up to these branches.”
The negro solemnly declared his ignorance, but this
did not satisfy the tory.
“Disperse your men over the grounds—the park—the
garden—on all sides. The rebel must be hereabouts
still. He cannot have gone far. Leave me but a couple
of stout fellows to manage this slave.”
Clayton was about to go, when the words of Barsfield,
uttered in a low, freezing tone of determination,
reached his ear.
“And, hear you, Clayton—no quarter to the spy—hew
him down without a word.”
The lieutenant departed, leaving the two men whom
his superior had required. One of these, in obedience
to the command of Barsfield, produced a stout cord,
which was conveniently at hand, from his pocket.
“Wha' you guine do now, Mass Cappin?” cried the
negro, beginning to be somewhat alarmed at the cold-blooded
sort of preparation which the soldier was making.
“You shall see, you black rascal, soon enough,” was
the reply.
“Noose it now, Drummond,” was the order of the
tory.
It was obeyed, and in another moment the cord encircled
the neck of the terrified Scipio.
“Confess now, sir—confess all you have done—all
that you know. Have you not seen the rebel to-night?”
“Which one, Mass Cappin?”
“No fooling, fellow. You know well enough who I
mean—the rebel Mellichampe.”
-- 112 --
[figure description] Page 112.[end figure description]
“Wha'—Mass Arnest?”
“Ay.”
“No, sa, Mass Cappin. It's trute wha' I tell you
now. I berry glad for see Mass Arnest, but I ain't seen
'em dis tree day and seven week. He's gone, day say,
high up de Santee, wid de rest.”
“And you haven't seen him to-night?”
“Da's a trute—I no see'm to-night.”
“A d—d lie, Scipio, which must be punished. Tuck
him up, Drummond.”
“Hab a pity on poor nigger, Mass Cappin! It's
a nigger is no wort salt to he hom'ny. Hab a pity on
poor nigger. Ah, Mass Barsfield, you no guine hang
Scip? I make prayers for you, Mass Barsfield, you no
hang Scip dis time.”
The negro implored earnestly as the design appeared
more determinately urged by the tory. He was seriously
terrified with the prospect before him, and his voice grew
thick with horror and increasing alarm.
“Confess, then, or, by God! you swing on that tree.
Tell all that you know, for nothing else can save you.”
“I hab noting to tell, Mass Cappin. I berry good
nigger, da's honest, sa, more dan all de rest of mossa's
niggers, only I will tief bacon, Mass Cappin. I can't
help tief bacon when I git a chance, mossa. Da's all
da's agen Scip, Mass Cappin.”
There was so much of simplicity in Scipio's mode of
defence, that Barsfield half inclined to believe that he
was really ignorant of the place of Mellichampe's concealment;
but, as he well knew that Scipio was a favourite
family servant, and remarkable for his fidelity, he did not
doubt but he would keep a secret concerning one so long
intimate with it as Mellichampe to the very last moment.
This suggestion hastened his decision. With the utmost
composure he bade the soldier execute his office, and
looked on calmly, and heard without heeding the many
adjurations, and prayers, and protestations of the negro,
-- 113 --
[figure description] Page 113.[end figure description]
desperately urged, as they hurried him to the tree, over a
projecting limb of which one end of the rope was already
thrown.
“Will you tell now, Scipio?” demanded Barsfield of
the slave, in a tone of voice absolutely frightful to him
from its gentleness. “Tell me where Mellichampe ran—
tell where you have concealed him, and I let you go;
but, if you do not, you hang in a few moments on this
very tree.”
“I no see'm, Mass Cappin—he no run, he stan' in
de same place. Hab a pity, Mass Cappin, 'pon Scipio,
da's a good nigger for old mossa, and da's doing noting
for harm anybody.”
“Once more, Scipio—where is the rebel?—where is
Mellichampe?”
“Da trute, Mass Cappin, I don't know.”
“Pull him up, men.”
The cruel order was coolly given, and in tones that
left no room in the minds of the soldiers to doubt that
they were to execute the hurried sentence. Struggling,
gasping, and labouring to speak, Scipio was lifted into
air. He kicked desperately, sought to scream, and at
length, as the agony of his increasing suffocation grew
more and more oppressive, and in feeble and scarcely
intelligible accents, he professed his willingness now to
do all that was required of him.
“I tell—I tell ebbry ting, Mass Cappin—cut de rope,
da's all. I tell—cut 'em fass—lose 'em quick. Oh—
he da mash my head—I choke.”
The cord was relaxed with the utterance of this promise.
The victim was suffered to sink down upon the
ground, where, for a few moments, he crouched, half
sitting, half lying, almost exhausted with struggling, and
seemingly in a stupor from the pain and fright he had
undergone. But Barsfield did not much regard his sufferings.
He took the negro at his word, and, impatient
for his own revenge, hurried the movements of the poor
-- 114 --
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
creature. The rope was still twined about his neck,
and thus, kept in continual fear of the doom which had
been only suspended, he was required to lead the way,
and put the pursuers upon the lost trail of the fugitive.
CHAPTER XII.
“Come, sir—away—put us on the track of the rebel.
Show where he is hidden—and, hark you, Scipio—not a
word—no noise to tell him we are coming, or—”
The threat was left unfinished, but it was nevertheless
sufficiently well understood. The reply of the negro
was characteristic.
“Gor A'mighty, Mass Barsfield, enty I guine? You
no 'casion push a nigger so. Ef you was to hang me
up agen, I couldn't go no more faster dan I does.”
He led the way freely enough; but it was not the intention
of Scipio to betray the trust of Mellichampe,
even if it had been in his power to lead them to the
place of his concealment. His object was simply to escape
a present difficulty. He had no thought beyond the
moment. With this object, with the natural cunning of
the negro, and the integrity of the faithful slave, he
framed in his mind a plan of search, which, while it
should be urged on his part with all the earnestness of
truth, should yet still more effectually mislead the pursuers.
Scipio was one of those trusty slaves to be found
in almost every native southern family, who, having
grown up with the children of their owners, have acquired
a certain correspondence of feeling with them.
A personal attachment had strengthened the bonds which
necessity imposed, and it was quite as much a principle
in Scipio's mind to fight and die for his owners, as to
-- 115 --
[figure description] Page 115.[end figure description]
work for them. Regarding his young mistress with a
most unvarying devotion, he had been made acquainted
at an early period with the nature of the tie which existed
between herself and Mellichampe, and many were
the billets and messages of love, which had been confided
by the two to Scipio, during the unsophisticated
courtship which had been carried on between them.
Proud of the confidence reposed in him, and fond of
the parties, the trust of Mellichampe was sacred in his
keeping; and, at the moment of his greatest danger,
when the rope was about his neck, and his life depended
upon one whom he well knew to be merciless and unforgiving,
he never once conceived the idea of effecting
his escape by a revelation of any secret which might
have compromised, in the slightest degree, either Mellichampe
or the maiden. He now purposely led the tory
from his object, trusting to his good fortune or his wit
to relieve him from all subsequent emergencies.
It does not need that we should show how, in the prosecution
of his scheme, the adroit negro contrived to
baffle the vindictive Barsfield. He led him from place
to place, to and fro, now here, now there, and through
every little turn and winding of the enclosure in front
of the dwelling, until the patience of the tory became
exhausted, and he clearly saw that his guide had deceived
him. For a moment his anger prompted him to
prosecute the punishment with which he had sought at
first to intimidate the negro. But a fear of the influence
of such a proceeding upon the maiden induced a
more gentle determination. It was not, probably, the
intention of Barsfield to carry into effect the threatened
doom—his design was rather to procure the required
intelligence by extorting a confession. He was
now persuaded, so well had Scipio played his part,
that the fellow was really ignorant. Finding that his
long passages invariably led to nothing, he dismissed him
with a hearty curse and kick, and hurried away to join
-- 116 --
[figure description] Page 116.[end figure description]
Clayton, who, meanwhile, had been busied in the examination
of the garden. The lieutenant had not been a
whit more successful than his captain; for Mellichampe,
the moment that he heard the pursuit tending in the
quarter where he had concealed himself, simply moved
away from his lair, and, leaping the little rail fence which
divided the garden from the forest, found himself almost
immediately in the shelter of a dense body of woods,
which would have called for five times the force of
Barsfield to ferret him out in at night. Familiar of old
with the region, which had been consecrated in the walks
and worship of love, he strolled off to a favourite tree,
not thirty yards from the fence, in an arm of which,
sheltering himself snugly, he listened with scornful indifference
to the clamours of that hot pursuit which the
tory still continued. He saw the torches blazing in the
groves where he had crouched but a little while before,
and almost fancied that he could distinguish at intervals
the features of those who bore them, and sometimes
even the lineaments of that one deadliest enemy, whom
of all the world he most desired on equal terms to encounter.
The chase was at length given over. Barsfield was
too good a scout himself not to know that the woods in
the rear of the garden must contain the fugitive. He
was quite too familiar, however, with the nature of a
Carolina thicket, to hope for any successful result of
pursuit and search in that quarter. And yet he still
looked with straining eyes upon its dense and gloomy
spots, as if longing to penetrate them. Had he been
strong enough in men—could he even have spared the
force which he had under his command for any such purpose,
he would not have hesitated for an instant; but, under
existing circumstances, the risk would have been rash
and foolish, to have exposed so small a body of men to
the possibility of contact with a lurking enemy. He little
knew that the particular foe was alone—and that,
-- 117 --
[figure description] Page 117.[end figure description]
even at the moment when these meditations were passing
through his mind, his hated rival sat looking composedly
down upon the unavailing toil of his long pursuit.
How many circumstances were there in his past
history to make him detest the fugitive! How many
interests and feelings, active at the moment in his bosom,
to make him doubly desire to rid himself of one so inimical—
so greatly in his way! He turned from the garden
in a bitter mood of disappointment. The fever of a
vexing fear and of a sleepless discontent was goading
him with every additional moment of thought, and kept
him from all appreciation of the beauty of the rich flowers
and those sweet walks which, in the intercourse of
Mellichampe and Janet, had made a fitly associated scene.
He felt nothing of the garden's beauties—its sweet solemnity
of shade—its refreshing fragrance—its slender
branches and twining shrubs, that quivered and murmured
in the night breeze; or of that exquisite art in the
disposition of its groves and flowers, which, concealing
herself in their clustering folds, peeps out only here and
there, as if in childlike and innocent sport with her sister
Nature.
Having made his camp arrangements for the night,
Barsfield left Clayton in command of the troop, still occupying
the park as at their coming, and proceeded
once more to the dwelling. Mr. Berkeley awaited his
approach at the entrance. The old gentleman was in no
little tribulation. The presence of Mellichampe at
such a time in his grounds, and under circumstances
which seemed to indicate the privity of one or more of
the household to his visits, was calculated, he well
knew, to make Barsfield suspicious of his loyalty. It
was his policy, and he was solicitous to prove to the tory
that the youth received no manner of encouragement
from him; that his presence was unlooked-for, and, if
not contrary to his commands, was at least without his
sanction. He also well knew the aim of Barsfield with
-- 118 --
[figure description] Page 118.[end figure description]
reference to his daughter, and it was not less his object,
on this account, to impress the tory with the idea of his
own ignorance on all subjects which concerned the rebel.
In tremulous accents, confusedly and timidly, he strove
to win the ear of his sullen and dissatisfied guest.
“I am truly happy—Ah! I mean I am very sorry,
Captain Barsfield—” and here he paused—the words
were too contradictory, and his first blunder frightened
him; but Barsfield, who also had his game to play,
came to his relief by interrupting him in his speech.
“Sorry for what, Mr. Berkeley? What should make
you sorry? You have nothing, that I can see, to be sorry
for. Your house is haunted by a rebel, and, though you
may not encourage him, and I suppose do not, I yet
know that hitherto you have been unable to drive him
thoroughly away. It is your misfortune, sir, but will not
be a misfortune much longer. You will soon be relieved
from this difficulty. My force in a short time will be
adequate to clear the country in this quarter of the troop
of outliers that haunt it; and this duty, sir, I have now
in charge. Leave it to me to manage the youngster—
I shall make my arrangements for his capture, and he
cannot long escape me. Once taken, he troubles neither
of us again. He swings for it, sir, or there is no law in
the land.”
This discourse confounded the old gentleman. He
was not unwilling to be thought free from any collusion
with Mellichampe, but the youth was a favourite. The
bitter speech of Barsfield, and the final threat, totally unmanned
his hearer, and he exclaimed, in a voice made
tremulous by his emotion—
“What! Ernest Mellichampe—hang Ernest Mellichampe,
captain? Why, what has the poor youth
done?”
“Done!” exclaimed the other; “done, Mr. Berkeley?
Why, sir, is he not one of that traitorous brood of Max
Mellichampe, who was so fierce an enemy of his king;
-- 119 --
[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
so merciless in fight, and so uncompromising in whatever
related to this struggle? I had the good fortune to
serve my sovereign, as you know, by killing him; and,
from what has been shown to me of this young man, I
shall do my country no less a service by sending him
after his father.”
“Oh, ay, captain—but that was in fight. Of course,
Ernest, if he lifts arms against our sovereign, must take
his chance like any other soldier in battle, but—”
“He has incurred another risk to-night, Mr. Berkeley—
he has penetrated into my line of sentinels as a spy.”
The tory silenced the well-intentioned speaker. They
entered the hall, where Blonay still sat, alone, and in as
perfect a condition of quiet as if there had not been the
slightest uproar. Glancing his eye quickly around the
apartment, and seeing that none other was present, Barsfield
approached the Half-Breed with a look of stern
severity, and, laying his hand upon his shoulder, he thus
addressed him—
“Hark'ee, fellow; you pretend to be a good loyalist—
you have got Proctor's certificate to that effect—why
did you not seek to take the rebel, when you were so
much nigher the entrance than any of the rest? Did
you not see him?”
“Well, cappin, I reckon I did see him when he
looked into the glass, but I didn't know that he was a
rebel. I didn't see no harm in his looking in the glass.”
“But when I moved—when I pursued—did you not
see that he was my enemy?”
“That's true, cappin; but that was jist the reason,
now, I didn't go for'ad. I seed from your eyes that he
was your enemy, and I know'd from what you did you
wanted to git a lick at him yourself, and so I wouldn't
put in. Every man paddle his own canoe, says I; and,
if I has an enemy, I shouldn't like to stand by and let
another man dig at his throat to spile my sport, neither
would you, I reckon. It's no satisfaction for one man
-- 120 --
[figure description] Page 120.[end figure description]
to jump between and take away another man's pleasure,
as I may say, out of his mouth.”
The code of Blonay was new to Barsfield, though,
from its expression, he at once well understood the prevailing
character of the speaker. It was for Barsfield to
desire that his enemy should perish, no matter by whose
hands—the passion of Blonay prompted his own execution
of every deed of personal vengeance, as a duty incumbent
on himself. A few words farther passed between
them, in which the tory hoped he had secured the
services of the Half-Breed, of whose value he had conceived
a somewhat higher idea from the strange reason
which he had given for his quiescence in the pursuit
of Mellichampe. This over, the tory captain signified
his determination to retire, and, with a cordial good-night
to his host, he left the room, and was instantly conducted
to his chamber.
Meanwhile, in the apartment of the two cousins, a far
different scene had been going on. There, immersed in
her own fears and apprehensions, Janet Berkeley listened
in momently increasing terror to every sound that marked
the continued pursuit of her lover. As the clamour
drew nigh or receded, her warm imagination depicted
the strait of Mellichampe; and it was only when, after
the departure of Barsfield for the night, when her father
could seek her chamber, that she heard the pleasing intelligence
of the tory's disappointment. It was then that
the playful Rose, as she saw that the apprehensions of
her cousin were now dissipated, gently reproached Janet
for the want of confidence which she had shown in not
unfolding to her the secret which the excitement of the
preceding event had too fully developed.
“To carry on a game of hide and seek so slyly, Janet—
to have a lover, yet no confidant—no friend, and I,
too, so near at hand. I, who have told you all, and kept
nothing back, and would have locked up your secret so
closely that no rival, no mamma, no papa, should ever
have been the wiser. And such a fine subject for talk,
-- 121 --
[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
Janet, in these long, sweet summer nights—now, when
all is quiet, and there is nothing of a cloud, dear, to be
seen. Look, dearest—see what a beautiful night.”
“I have no heart for it, Rose—none. I am very unhappy,”
was the sad response of the afflicted maiden.
“Serve you right—you deserve to be sad, Janet, if
only for being so sly and silent. Why, I ask you again—
why didn't you let me into the secret? I could have
helped you.”
“Alas! Rose, this secret has been too oppressive to
me not to make me desire frequently to unfold it; but, as I
have no hope with my love, I thought better to be silent.”
“And why, dearest,” exclaimed the other, “why should
you have no hope? Why should your love never be
realized? Think you that Mellichampe is the man to
play you false?”
“No—oh, no! He would not—he could not. He
is too devoted—too earnest in all that he does and feels,
ever to forget or deny. But it has been a sad engagement
throughout—begun in sorrow, amid strife and privation,
and carried on in defiance of all danger, and with
an utter regardlessness of all counsel. God knows, I so
misgive these visits, that I should rather he would be
false to me than that he should come so frequently into
danger of his life.”
“Now, out upon thee, cousin—how you talk! This
danger is the very sweetness, and should not be a
dampener of love. If the man be what he should be, he
will not heed, but rather desire it, as in stimulating his adventure
it will also stimulate his feeling and his flame.
For my part, I vow that I would not have one of your
tame, quiet, careful curs—your household husbands,
who would neither do nor dare, but squat, purring like
overgrown tabbies in the chimney-corner, pass away
a long life of tedium in a protracted and monotonous
humming. If ever I get a lover, which, Heaven knows,
seems but a doubtful prospect at this moment, I vow he
-- 122 --
[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
should have no quiet—he should be required to do just
what you fret that Mellichampe is now doing. He
should scale fences and walls, ford creeks when there's
a freshet, and regularly come to visit me through the
swamp; and this he must prove to me that he has done,
by a fair exhibition of his bespattered boots and garments.
As for difficulties such as these frightening a lover from
his purpose, I would not give my name for any lover
who would not smile upon, while overcoming them.”
In a sadder tone than ever Janet replied to the playful
girl, who continued to run on and interrupt her at intervals
wherever her speech seemed more desponding
than usual:—
“It is not mere difficulties, Rose, but positive dangers,
that I dread for Ernest; and, but that I know he will not
heed my words in such a matter, I should utterly break
with him, and for ever, if it were only to keep him away
from the risk into which he plunges with little or no consideration.
Twice or thrice has he nearly fallen a victim
to this same man, Barsfield, who has a desperate
hatred towards him—”
“And a desperate love for you,” said the other.
“Which is quite as idle, Rose, as the other is rash,”
replied Janet, calmly, to the interruption. “Vainly have
I implored him to desist—to forbear seeking or seeing
me until the danger and the war are over; and, above all
things, to avoid our plantation, where my father is too
timid and too feeble to serve him when there is danger,
and where I am certain that spies of the tories are always
on the watch to report against any of the whigs
who may be stirring.”
“And, like a good, stubborn, whole-hearted lover,
Mellichampe heeds none of your exhortations that would
keep him away. Heaven send me such a lover! He
should come when he pleased, and, if I prayed him at all,
it should be that he would only leave me when I pleased.
I would not trouble him with frequent orders, I assure
you.”
-- 123 --
[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]
“Ah, Rose! would I had your spirits!”
“Ah, Janet! would I had your lover! He is just the
lover, now, that I desire; and these perils that he seems
to seek, and this rashness of which you complain, commend
him warmly to my imagination. Poor fellow! I'm
only sorry that he should have his labour for his pains
to-night; and must go back the way he came, without
getting what he came for.”
“Heaven grant that he may, Rose!” said the other,
earnestly; “but do you know that even this alarm will
scarcely discourage Ernest Mellichampe? He has promised
to come to-night, and exacted my promise to meet
him under the great magnolia. I am persuaded that he
will keep his word, in spite of all the dangers that beset
him. He is bold to hardihood, and I look not to sleep
to-night until I have heard his signal.”
“Confess, confess, Janet, that you will sit up in the
hope to hear it.”
“Not in the hope to hear it, Rose, but I will sit up—
at least for some time longer. I could not sleep were I
to go to bed, under the anxiety which the belief that he
will come must occasion in my mind. But you need
not wait for me.”
“I will not—I should be very peevish were I to hear
a love-signal, and have no share in the proceedings. I
am certainly a most unfortunate damsel, Janet, having a
heart really so susceptible, so very much at the mercy
of my neighbours, without having one neighbour kind
enough to help me in its management.” And thus, rattling
on, the thoughtless girl threw herself upon her
couch, and was soon wrapped in pleasant slumbers.
Janet, sad and suffering, in the meanwhile turned to the
open window, unconsciously watching the now rising
moon, while meditating the many doubts and misgivings,
the sad fears and the sweet hopes, of a true heart and a
warmly interested affection.
-- 124 --
CHAPTER XIII.
[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
Barsfield sought his chamber, but not to sleep.
Some active thought was in possession of his mind, operating
to exclude all sense of weariness, and, indeed, almost
to make him forget, certainly entirely to overlook,
the previous fatigues of the day. He paced his room
impatiently for several minutes before he perceived that
the servant was still in waiting. When he did so, he at
once dismissed him; but, immediately after, called him
back.
“Who's that—Tony?”
“Yes, sa.”
“Where does the traveller—the blear-eyed fellow—
sleep to-night, Tony?”
“In de little shed-room, Mass Cappin.”
“Does it lock, Tony?”
“He hab bolt inside, sir.”
“'Tis well; take this; you may go now.”
He gave the negro, as he dismissed him, an English
shilling, which called forth a grin of acknowledgment
and a liberal scraping of feet. Alone, the tory captain
continued to pace up and down the apartment, absorbed
seemingly in earnest meditation. But his thoughts did
not make him forgetful of the objects around him. He
went frequently to the windows, not to contemplate the
loveliness of the night, but to see whether all was quiet
in the little world below. His frequent approach to
his own chamber door, which he opened at intervals,
and from which he now and then emerged, had a like object;
and this practice was continued until all sounds
had ceased; until all the family seemed buried in the
profoundest slumber. Cautiously, then, he took his way
-- 125 --
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
from his own apartment, and proceeding through the gallery,
he soon reached the little shed-room to which Blonay
had been assigned. He paused for a single instant
at the entrance, then tapped lightly, and was instantly admitted.
For a brief space the eyes of Blonay failed to
distinguish the person of the intruder. A few embers
in the fireplace, the remnants of the light-wood brands
which had shown him his couch, yielded a blaze, but one
too imperfect for any useful purpose. The voice of Barsfield,
however, immediately enlightened the Half-Breed.
“A friend,” said the tory, in a tone low, carefully low,
and full of condescension. “A friend, and one who
needs the services of a friend. I have sought you, Mr.
Blonay, as I have reason to believe I can rely on you.
You have the certificate of Colonel Proctor, a sufficient
guarantee for your loyalty; but our brief conversation
this evening has convinced me that you are able, as
well as loyal, and just the man to serve my purposes.”
The tory paused, as if in expectation of some answer;
and Blonay, so esteeming it, proceeded in his own way
to the utterance of many professions, which might have
been unnecessarily protracted had not the impatience of
his visiter interposed.
“Enough! I believe that you may be relied on, else
I should not have sought you out to-night. And now
to my business. You heard me say I had an enemy?”
The reply was affirmative.
“That enemy I would destroy—utterly annihilate—
for several reasons, some of which are public, and others
private. He is a rebel to the king, and a most malignant
and unforgiving one. His father was such before
him, and him I had the good fortune to slay. The family
estate has become mine through the free grant of our
monarch, in consideration of my good services in that
act. Do you hear me, sir?”
“Reckon I do, cappin,” was the reply of the Half-Breed.
-- 126 --
[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
“Then you will have little difficulty in understanding
my desire. This son is the only man living who has
any natural claim to that estate in the event of a change
of political circumstances which shall throw back the
power of our sovereign. In such an event, he would
be the proper heir; and would, with reason, oppose his
claim to mine. That claim would be valid and incontestable,
most probably, under any change of circumstances,
were he once put out of the way. For this
reason, if for none other, I would destroy him.”
“And reason enough,” responded Blonay, “to kill a
dozen rebels.”
“True; but there are yet other reasons: he has aspersed
me, denounced me to my face, on the commencement
of this war, and under circumstances which
prevented me from seeking any atonement. In arms I
have never yet been able to encounter him; as, from his
good knowledge of the swamp, he readily eludes my
troop. He is, besides, attended by a fellow who watches
over his safety, and follows and guards his every movement;
and there are few men who manage with so much
skill and adroitness as the man in question. He is only to
be reached by one in a persevering search—one who
would not turn an inch from his course, but, like the
bloodhound, keep close upon the track without suffering
any thing, not even force, to divert him from his object.
Such a man I hold you to be.”
Blonay thanked the tory for his good opinion, and the
latter proceeded.
“You are for killing your enemy with your own hand.
I am indifferent who kills mine, so that he ceases to
trouble me. The man who slays him for me is as
much my instrument as the knife which, in your hand,
does the good deed for you. Besides, even had I this
desire, I could only pursue it at great sacrifice. I
should be compelled to give up my public duties, which
are paramount. I should be compelled to go
-- 127 --
[figure description] Page 127.[end figure description]
singlehanded, and play the part of an outlier in the swamps
along with those whom I attempt to overreach. I am
too well known by them all ever to hope to win their
confidence; and the very nickname which they have
conferred upon me for my adherence to my sovereign,
if repeated in my ears, as it would be by this taunting
youth in question, would only drive my blood into a
more foolish and suicidal rebellion than is theirs. Some
other man—some single-hearted friend, must avenge and
rid me of my enemy. Will you be that man?”
“Well, now, cappin, I should like to know more
about this business; and the man—I should like to
hear his name.”
“Mellichampe,—Ernest Mellichampe, the son of
Colonel Max Mellichampe, killed at Monk's Corner, in
January last.”
“Why, I don't know the man, cappin—I never seed
him, and shouldn't be able to make him out, even if I
stumbled over him crossing a log.”
“That is no difficulty. I will give you marks and
signs by which you cannot fail to know him under any
circumstances. You saw his face to-night. He came
here to see—and that is another reason for my hatred—
he came here to see, not our troop, nor our disposition,
nor with any reference to our warfare, but simply to see
the young lady of the house.”
“What, the gal in black,—her that looks so grand
and so sweet?” inquired Blonay, with some earnestness.
“The taller—the dark-eyed one—the daughter of
the old man, Mr. Berkeley.”
“And you reckon there's love atween them?” curiously
inquired the Half-Breed.
“Ay, such love as I would not have between them,”
bitterly responded the other: “I know that Mellichampe
has long loved her, and I fear that she requites him in
kind. This is another reason why I should hate him,
for I too—but why should I tell you this? It is enough
-- 128 --
[figure description] Page 128.[end figure description]
that I hate, and that I would destroy him. Here, Blonay,
take this—it is gold—good British gold; and I
give it as an earnest of what you shall have if you will
bring me the ears of my enemy. Take the swamp after
him—hunt him by day and by night; and when you can
come and show me, to my satisfaction, that he troubles
me no more, you shall have the sum doubled thrice.
Say that you will serve me.”
He put five guineas into the hand of the unreluctant
Half-Breed, who at once deposited them from sight in a
pocket of his garment; and yet, though he secured the
money, Blonay paused before giving his answer.
“Why do you hesitate?” demanded the tory.
“Well,” said the other, in his drawling fashion, “I
don't know, cappin, how one business can go with the
other. I have, you see, a little affair of my own to settle
with one of the rebels in Marion's men, that's rather
like the business you wants me to go upon for you.
Now, one must be settled 'fore the other; and 'tain't in
natur, when a man's blood's up, that he should turn
away from his own enemy to go after another man's.
I'm on trail of my enemy now, and I should be sorry to
drop it, I tell you; and, 'deed, cappin, I can't, no how.”
Barsfield was still prepared to meet the difficulties
suggested by his proposed instrument.
“You need not give up one pursuit in taking up the
other. It is fortunate for us that our enemies are
both in the same drive—they are both men of Marion,
and, in tracking one, the probability is that you cannot
be very far from the other. Indeed, for that matter, the
one will be most likely to help you to the other, as the
squad of Marion must now be greatly reduced, and he
cannot consequently venture to scatter them much.
This is no difficulty, but rather an advantage.”
Blonay was silenced, if not convinced on this point.
He did not reply, but seemed for a few moments lost in
deliberation; at length, breaking the silence abruptly, he
-- 129 --
[figure description] Page 129.[end figure description]
spoke of another, and seemingly a foreign feature of the
affair.
“And you say, cappin, that there's love atween him
and the young gal of the house—Miss Janet, as they
calls her?”
“Yes! but what is that to you?” replied the other,
sternly. “It matters nothing whether they love or hate,
so far as our business lies together. You are to labour
to make that love fruitless, if so be there is love, but
without troubling yourself to know or to inquire into
the fact.”
“Why, yes, that's true,” responded the other; “it
don't matter this way or that, and—”
They were interrupted at this moment by a distinct
and repeated whistle,—just such a signal sound as had
preceded the appearance of Mellichampe at the window
of the hall. The tory put his hand upon the wrist
of Blonay, while he bent forward his ear to the entrance—
muttering to himself a moment after, as he again
heard the signal,
“Now, by Heaven! but this is audacious beyond example.
The rebel is back again; a scare has no effect
upon him, and nothing but shot will. Stay!” he
exclaimed; “hear you nothing?”
“A footstep, cappin; I think a foot coming down the
steps.”
And, even as he said, they both distinctly heard, the
next moment, the tread of a foot cautiously set down,
moving towards the back entrance of the house. Barsfield
immediately sprang to the window of the apartment,
and beheld, in the dim light just then bringing out the
trees of the ground and garden into soft and shadowy
relief, a slender figure stealing away towards the garden,
carefully keeping as much as practicable in the shelter
of the huge water-oaks that obscured the alley. A
mingled feeling of exultation and anger spoke in his
tone, as he exclaimed—
-- 130 --
[figure description] Page 130.[end figure description]
“I have him now—the doe shall bring him to the
hunter—he shall not escape me now! Hark you, Blonay,
wait me here! I will get my sabre, and be with you
instantly. It will be hard if we cannot manage him
between us. But there must be no stir—no noise;
what we do must be done by stratagem and our own
force. Get yourself ready, therefore—your knife will
answer, for your rifle will be of little use in the thick
shrubbery of that garden. We must sneak, sir; no
dove-hunting without sneaking.”
With these words Barsfield left the apartment of the
Half-Breed and proceeded to his own. The feelings
of the former, however, scarcely responded to the sanguinary
words of the latter. When alone, his soliloquy,
brief and harsh, was yet new, seemingly, to his character.
Hated and harried as he had been by all before,
he had for the first time in his life been touched with the
influence of a gentler power; and, muttering to himself
during the absence of the tory, he disclosed a better
feeling than any that we have been accustomed to behold
in him.
“If the gal loves him and he loves her, I won't spoil
the sport atween 'em. She's a good gal, and had me
to come to supper at the same table, when the cappin
spoke agin it. She didn't laugh at me, nor stare at my
eyes, as if I was a wild varmint; and she spoke to
me jist as she spoke to other people. Adrat it! he
may cut his enemy's throat for himself, I sha'n't; but
then I needn't tell him so, neither;” and, as he spoke,
he twirled the little purse of guineas in his pocket with
a feeling of immense satisfaction. In a moment after
Barsfield returned, and led the way cautiously by a circuitous
track towards the garden.
Let us now retrace briefly the steps we have taken,
and observe the progress of some other of the persons
in our narrative.
-- 131 --
CHAPTER XIV.
[figure description] Page 131.[end figure description]
We have seen, pending the pursuit, that Mellichampe
had coolly kept his way through the garden until he
reached the forest that lay immediately behind it. Here
he paused—he felt himself secure from any night search
by such a force as that under Barsfield. A huge gum
that forked within a few feet of its base, diverging then
into distinct columns, afforded him a tolerable forest seat,
into which, with a readiness that seemed to denote an old
familiarity with its uses, the fugitive leaped with little
difficulty. The undergrowth about him was luxuriant,
and almost completely shut in the place of his concealment
from every glance, however far-darting, of that
bright moon which was now rising silently above the
trees. But a sharper eye than hers had been upon the
youth from the first moment of his flight from the garden.
The trusty Thumbscrew was behind him, and a
watcher, like himself. He had hurried from the conference
with Humphries; and, heedful of his friend, for
whose safety he felt all a parent's anxiety, he had pressed
forward to the plantation of Mr. Berkeley, and to
those portions of it in particular which, as they had been
frequently traversed by both of them before, he well
knew would be the resort of Mellichampe now. Still,
though resolute to serve the youth, and having no more
selfish object, he did not dare to offend him by exposing
his person to his sight. He arrived at a convenient
place of watch just as the pursuit of Barsfield was at
its hottest. He saw the flight of the fugitive from the
garden, and, himself concealed, beheld him take his old
position in the crotch of the gum. His first impulse
was to advance and show himself; but, knowing the
-- 132 --
[figure description] Page 132.[end figure description]
nature of his companion well, he felt assured he should
only give offence, and do no service. His cooler decision
was to lie snugly where he was, and await the
progress of events.
At length the torches disappeared from the garden,
and it was not long after when the lights seemed extinguished
in the house—all but one; a candle—a pale and
trembling light—was still to be seen in one window of
the dwelling, and to this the eyes of Mellichampe turned
with as fond a glance as ever Chaldean shepherd
sent in worship to the star with which he held his fate
to be connected. The light came from the chamber of
Janet Berkeley. It was the light of love to Mellichampe,
and it brought a sweet promise and a pleasant
hope to his warm and active fancy.
Not long could he remain in his quiet perch after beholding
it. He leaped down, glided around the garden
paling, and took his way to the park in front, keeping on
the opposite side of the fence which divided the ground
immediately about the dwelling from the forest and the
fields. The fence, as is common to most fences of
like description in the luxuriant regions of the south, was
thickly girdled with brush, serving admirably the purpose
of concealment. Pursuing it with this object, in all its
windings, he at length approached the park where the
British troops were encamped. Well and closely did
he scan their position; and, with the eye of a partisan,
he saw with how much ease a force of but half the
number, properly guided, might effect their discomfiture.
He did not linger, however, in idle regrets of his inability;
but, moving around the chain of sentries, he ascertained
that their position had undergone no alteration,
and felt assured that he could now penetrate the garden
safely. This done, he made his way back to the place
of his concealment.
In the examination which he had just taken, he had
been closely watched and followed by the faithful
-- 133 --
[figure description] Page 133.[end figure description]
Thumbscrew. The movements of the youth regulated
duly those of his attendant. When the former halted
the latter fell back behind the brush, advancing when he
advanced, and checking his own progress whenever the
dusky shadow of Mellichampe appeared to linger even
for an instant in the moonlight. He escaped detection.
He played the scout with a dexterity and ease that
seemed an instinct, and hovered thus around the footsteps
of his daring friend throughout his whole progress,
to and fro, in the adventures of that night.
From the outside to the inside of the garden was but
a step, and in a trice Mellichampe went over the fence.
Watching heedfully until the youth was out of sight and
hidden within its intricacies, Thumbscrew followed his example,
and was soon wending after him, close along its
shady alleys. A dense and double line of box, which,
from having been long untrimmed, had grown up into so
many trees, afforded an admirable cover; and, pausing
at every turning, he looked forth only sufficiently often
to keep the course of the lover for ever in his sight.
In the meantime Mellichampe made his way to the
garden entrance. Here he stopped with an unwonted
degree of prudence, for which Thumbscrew gave
him due credit; he forbore to press forward, as the latter
feared he might do—seeking to cross the court,
which, though interspersed with trees, was yet not sufficiently
well covered to afford the necessary concealment.
Keeping within the garden, therefore, he gave the signal,
the first sounds of which chilled and warmed with
contradictory emotions the bosom of the sweet maiden
to whose ears it was addressed. The breath almost
left her as she heard it, and she gasped with her apprehensions.
“Too—too rash, Ernest!” she exclaimed in a low
tone, as it reached her ears, and her hands were involuntarily
clasped together. “Too rash—too daring—too
heedless, for me as for thyself. Ah! dearly indeed am
-- 134 --
[figure description] Page 134.[end figure description]
I taught how much you love me, when you make these
reckless visits, when you wantonly brave these dangers!
But I must go!” she exclaimed, hurriedly, as she heard
the signal impatiently repeated; “I must go—I must
meet him, or he will seek me here. He will rush into
yet greater dangers; he will not heed these soldiers;
and his old hatred to Barsfield, should he have distinguished
him to-night, will prompt him, I fear me much,
to seek him out even where his enemies are thickest.”
Thus soliloquizing, she approached the couch where
Rose Duncan was sleeping.
“Rose—Rose!” She called to her without receiving
any answer. Assured that she slept, Janet did not seek
to disturb her, but, after a hurried prayer, which she
uttered while kneeling by the bedside, she rose with new
courage, and, without farther hesitation, unclosed the
door, passed into the corridor, and descended to meet
her daring lover. Little did she dream that the eyes of
hate and jealousy were upon her,—that a malignant foe
was no less watchful than a fervent lover,—that one
stood in waiting, seeking her love, and, at the same
time, no less earnestly desirous of the heart's blood of
her lover.
She emerged into the court, which she hurried over
incautiously, and was received by Mellichampe at the
entrance of the garden. He took her to his arms,—he
led her away to the shelter of the great magnolias that
towered in a frowning group from its centre; and the
joy of their meeting, in that season and country of peril,
almost took away the sting and the sorrow which had
followed their separation, and now necessarily came
with their present dangers. The happiness of Mellichampe
was a tumult that could only speak in broken
exclamations of delight; that of Janet was a subdued
pleasure—a sort of bright, spiritual, moonlight gleam,
that came stealing through clouds, was mingled with
falling drops, that were only not oppressive as they
seemed to fall from heaven.
-- 135 --
[figure description] Page 135.[end figure description]
“Dear, dearest Janet—my own Janet—my only!—
I have you at last; your hand is in mine,—your eyes
look into my own. I cannot doubt that you are with
me now. I believe it—I know it, by this newborn joy
which is beating in my heart. Ah, dearest, but for that
tory reptile, this rapture would have been mine before.
But you are here at last, and, while you are with me, I
will not think of him. I will think of nothing to vex,—
I will know but one thought—but one feeling—the long-cherished,
dearest of all, Janet,—the feeling of adoration,
of devoted love, which my bosom bears for you.”
The youth, as he spoke, had clasped her hands both
in his, and his eyes looked for hers, which were cast
down upon the grass below them. When she looked up,
and they met his glance, he saw that they were glistening
with tears.
“You weep—you weep, Janet: I vex you with my
love,—you are unhappy. Speak—say to me, dearest,
what new affliction—what new strife and sorrow? What
do these tears mean?—say out—I am used to hear of
evil—it will not disturb me now. Is there any new
stroke in store for me? Do not fear to name it—any
thing,—only, only, Janet, if I am to suffer, let it not be
your hand which is to deal it.”
“There is none—none that I have to deal—none
that I know of—”
“Then there is none—none that should trouble me—
none that should make you weep. No tears, Janet, I
pray you. We meet so seldom, that there should be no
cloud over our meeting. See, love, how clear, how
beautiful is this night. There were several clouds hanging
about the moon at her rising, but they are all gone,
and now hang like so much silver canopy above her
head: she is almost full and round; and there is something
of promise in her smile for us,—so, dearest, it
appears to me. Smile with me, smile with her, my beloved,
and forget your griefs, and dismiss your tears.”
-- 136 --
[figure description] Page 136.[end figure description]
“Alas, Ernest! how can I smile when all things alarm
me for you? The pursuit to-night,—your vindictive
enemy Barsfield,—oh, Ernest, why will you be so headstrong—
so rash?”
“There is no danger. I fear him not, Janet; but
he shall learn to fear me,—he does fear me, and hence
it is that he hates and pursues me. But the fugitive will
turn upon his pursuer yet. The time is coming, and,
by the God of heaven—”
She put her hand upon his arm, and looked appealingly
into his eyes, but spoke not.
“Well, well, say nothing—forgive me, dearest—I
will speak no more of him—I will not vex you with his
name; you are now sufficiently vexed with his presence:
but the time will come, Janet, and, by Heaven—if I
mistake not greatly Heaven's justice—it cannot be far
off, when he shall render me a fearful account of all his
doings to me and mine. He has now the power—the
men, the arms,—but there will be some lucky hour
which shall find him unprovided, when—”
She again appealed to the youth, whose impetuosity
was again becoming conspicuous.
“You promised me, Ernest.”
“Forgive me, dearest—I did promise you, and I will
forbear to speak of the reptile; but my blood boils when
I but hear his name, and I forget myself for the moment.”
“Ah, Ernest, you are but too prone to forgetting.”
“Perhaps so, Janet: your charge is true; but you
I never forget; my love for you goes along with every
thought, and forms a part of the predominant mood,
whatever that may be. Thus, even when I think of this
man, whose name inflames my blood until I pant for
the shedding of his, one of the influences which stimulates
my anger is the thought of you. He comes between
us,—he fills your father's mind with hostility to
me; and he seeks you, Janet—he seeks you for his
own.”
-- 137 --
[figure description] Page 137.[end figure description]
“Nay, Ernest, why should you think so? He has
made no avowal; and I am sure the regard of my father
for you has undergone no change.”
“It is so, nevertheless; and your father is too weak
and too timid, whatever may be his affections, to venture
to maintain opinions in hostility to those who command
him when they please. He has denounced me
to your father, that I know,—he seeks you, I believe,—
and much I fear me, Janet, your father will yield to his
suggestions in all cases, and both of us will become the
victims.”
As the youth thus addressed her, the tears departed
from her eyes, and the expression which followed upon
her face was calm and pleasantly composed. There
was no rigidity in its muscles; each feature seemed to
maintain its natural place; and her words were slow, and
uttered in the gentlest tones.
“Have no fear of this, Ernest, I pray you. Should
this man—should my father—should all, so far mistake
me as to entertain a thought that I could yield to a
union with Barsfield, do not you mistake me. I will
not vow to you, Ernest; I have no protestations to
make—I know not how to make them; but you will
understand, and you will believe me in the assurance
which I now give you, that I cannot hold my senses
and consent to any connexion with the person you
speak of.”
“Bless you, dear Janet, but I needed no such assurance.
I only feared that you might be driven by circumstances,
by trick, by contrivances, to make a sacrifice
of yourself for the good of another.”
“Alas, Ernest—I now know what you would say.
You would tell me that my father, at the mercy of this
man, as he is, may require me as the offering by which
he is to be saved. God help me! it is a strait I have
not thought upon—I will not—I dare not think upon it!
Let us speak no more of this.”
-- 138 --
[figure description] Page 138.[end figure description]
Gloomily and sternly the youth replied—
“But you will think upon it, Janet; it may be required
of you ere long. Think upon it, and provide
your strength.”
“God forbid, Ernest; God forbid! Let me die first.
Let me perish before it becomes a question with me,
whether to sacrifice peace, hope, the proper delicacy of
my sex, and all that I live for, and all that I would love,
to the safety of an only parent. Oh, how false I should
be to promise love to a being whom I could only hate
or despise. What a daughter could I be to resist the
prayers of a father requiring me to do so. Alas, Ernest!
you bring me every form of trial. You make me
most unhappy. You come rashly into the clutches of
your deadly foe, and I tremble hourly, however I may
rejoice, when I hear that you are coming. I dread to see
you perish before my eyes under the weapons of these
men; and, when you come, what is it that I am compelled
to hear! what fears are before me—what horrors!
Ah, if love be a treasure—if it be a joy to love and to be
loved, it is so much the harder to think hourly of its
loss, and of its so unguarded condition. Better not to
feel—better to be hollow-hearted and insensible, than
thus continually to dread, and as continually to desire—
to fear with every hope, and to weep even where you
would smile the most.”
She buried her face in his bosom as she spoke, and
her sobs were audible. His arm gently supported
while enclasping her, and her afflictions greatly tended
to subdue the impetuous character of his previous mood.
He replied to her fondly, in those low tones which only
the rich sensibility can understand, and the generous,
warm spirit employ understandingly.
“And yet, dearest, those very sorrows have a sweetness.
Privation, pain, denial, even the lost love, Janet,
are nothing to the choice spirit which has faith along
with its sympathy. What consoles me? What has
-- 139 --
[figure description] Page 139.[end figure description]
consoled me in the perils and the pains, the losses and the
sorrows, which I have undergone in this warfare, and
within the last two years? My confidence in you—my
perfect faith that, however desolate, poor, denied, and
desperate; however parted by enemies or distance, I
was still secure of your love. I still knew that nothing—
no, not even death, my Janet, could deprive me of that.
If you have that confidence in me, my beloved, these sorrows,
these trials, are only so many strengtheners. You
will then find that the sorrows of love, borne well and
without despondence, are the sweetest triumphs of the
true affection. They are the honours which time can
never tarnish; they are the spoils which last us for ever
after. Janet, if, like you, I doubted—if I did not feel
assured of your unperishing truth—I should rush this
night, madly, and with but one hope of death, upon the
swords of these tory troopers. I should freely perish
under your eyes, with but one prayer, that you might be
able to behold me to the last.”
“Speak not thus!” she exclaimed, with a shudder,
looking around her as she spoke; “and do not think,
Ernest, from what I have said, that I have not the same
perfect faith in you that you feel in me;—but I despair
of all our hope. I am truly a timid maiden, and I am
always fancying a thousand woes and sorrows. I cannot
dare to believe otherwise than that our loves are
unblessed—I cannot hope that we shall realize them:
and oh, Ernest, your rashness, more than all things beside,
tends to confirm in me these apprehensions. Why
will you come to me when your enemies are abroad?
Promise me, dear Ernest, to fly from this neighbourhood
until the danger has gone over. There is no dishonour—
none.”
“Ay, but there is, Janet; but of this we need say
nothing. I could tell you much of friends, and good
service to be done, but may not. Let us speak of
more pleasant matters: of our hopes, not of our fears:
-- 140 --
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
of our joys, not of our sorrows; of the future, too, in
exclusion of the present.”
And thus, loving and well beloved, the two discoursed
together; she sadly and despondingly, but with a true
devotedness of heart throughout; and he, warm in all
things, impetuously urging his love, his hope, his hatred
to his enemies, his promises of vengeance, and his fixed
determination to pursue the war in the neighbourhood, in
spite even of her solicitations that he should fly to a region
of greater security.
Thumbscrew, meanwhile, had been any thing but remiss
in his guard. He had cautiously pursued his
youthful associate, keeping close upon his heels, yet
narrowly watching to avoid discovery. Though a bold
and daring man, he yet esteemed the feelings and desires
of Mellichampe with a sentiment of respect little short
of awe; the natural sentiment of one, brought up as he
had been, to regard the family of his wealthy neighbour
as superior beings in many respects. Apart from this,
the quick, impetuous spirit of the youth exacted its own
observance; and, as his commands had been positive
to his comrade not to attend him, and urged in a manner
sufficiently emphatic to enforce respect, the more
humble companion felt the necessity of seeming submissive
at least. We have seen that his regard trampled
over his obedience, and it was well perhaps that it
did so. It was not long that Thumbscrew had maintained
his watch, before his quick ear detected the approach
of footsteps. He ventured to peep out from his
bush, and he was able to see the distinct outline of the
intruder's person. He saw him approach the long alley
in which he himself was sheltered, and within a few paces
of the lovers; and he immediately changed his own
position. Barsfield—for it was he—came on, passed
the spot which sheltered the scout, and, stealing heedfully
around a clump of orange, made his way to the
rear of the thick bower in which Janet and Mellichampe
-- 141 --
[figure description] Page 141.[end figure description]
were seated. The scout tracked him with no less caution
and much more adroitness. He placed himself in
cover, and coolly awaited the progress of events. The
impatient spirit of Barsfield did not suffer him to wait
long. The tory, it is probable, heard something of the
dialogue between the two, and his movement seemed
prompted at the particular moment when it took place by
some remark of Mellichampe which, from the exclamation
of Barsfield as he rushed upon the youth, had
touched the eavesdropper nearly. Leaping forward
from behind one of the magnolias where he had been
screened, with drawn sword, and a movement sufficiently
hurried to pass the ground which separated them in
the course of a few seconds, he cried to his rival in a
bitter but suppressed tone of voice,
“You shall pay dearly for that lie, Mellichampe.”
In the next moment, a buffet from an unseen hand,
that might have felled an ox, saluted his ear, and he
stumbled unharmingly forward at the feet of the man
whom he had sought to slay.
“Save me,—oh, Ernest, save me,—fly—fly,—away,
Ernest,—it is Barsfield!”
Screaming thus, at the first alarm, the maiden clung
to the youth, and trembled with affright. He, on the
instant, had drawn his dirk, and, putting her aside
almost sternly, threw himself upon the half-stunned person
of the tory: but his hand was seized by the watchful
attendant.
“Let me fix him, Airnest, boy,—I knows how to
manage the varmint.”
“You here, Witherspoon?” demanded the youth.
“As you see him, Airnest,—but take care of the gal,
and send her safe home and quietly to bed. Ax pardon,
Miss Janet, for scaring you, but 'twas the only way to
manage the critter; but you had better run now, while
I put what I calls my screwbolt upon the tory's jaw.
Airnest, boy, let me have your handkerchief, since I
may want another. There.”
-- 142 --
[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]
With his knee upon the bosom of the tory, he busied
himself meanwhile in bandaging his mouth. The intruder
did not submit quietly, but began to show some
few signs of dissatisfaction. His movement provoked
an additional pressure of the knee of his assailant upon
his breast, while the huge handkerchief which was employed
upon his mouth, as he endeavoured to cry out,
was thrust incontinently into it. He was a child in the
hands of his captor.
“Easy now, Mr. Barsfield,—be quiet and onconsarned,
and no harm shall come to you; but, if you're
at all obstropolous, I shall be bound to take up a stitch
or two in your jaw here, that'll be mighty disagreeable
to both of us. Airnest, now, boy, don't stop for last
words, but let's be off, or we'll have all the cubs looking
after the great bear. I'll hold the lad quiet till you see
the gal safe to the gate, but don't go further.”
He kept his word and his good-nature, in spite of all
the struggles of his prisoner. Once, and once only, he
seemed to become angry, as the tory gave him something
more than the customary annoyance; but a judicious
obtrusion of a monstrous knife, which was made
to flash in the moonlight before the eyes of the captive,
was thought sufficient by the scout in the way of exhortation.
“It's a nasty fine piece of steel, now, captain, and if
you gives me much more trouble I shall let you have a
small taste of its qualities; so you had better lay still
till I lets you off, which won't be long, for you're of no
more use to me here than a dead 'possum in a hollow
thirty miles off. If I had you in the swamp now,
I could drive a little trade in your skin. I could swap
you for some better man than yourself; but I'm your
friend here, for, to say the gospel truth to you, captain,
if I didn't stand between you and Airnest Mellichampe,
you wouldn't see what hurt you: he'd be through you
like a ground mole, though in much shorter time; and
-- 143 --
[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]
there wouldn't be an inch of your heart that his dirk
wouldn't bite into. But you're safe, you see, as you're
my prisoner—the captive, as they used to say in old
times, of my bow and spear—though, to be sure, it was
only my fist that did your business.”
It was thus that, like a good companion as he was,
Thumbscrew regaled the ears of his prisoner with a
commentary upon the particulars of his situation. In
the meantime Mellichampe conducted, or rather supported,
the maiden to the garden entrance. When there
she recovered her strength, as she perceived that he designed
attending her to the dwelling. This she resisted.
“No, Ernest, no!—risk no more,—I will not see—
I will not suffer it. Let us part now—in danger still,
as we have ever been. In sorrow let us separate,—
alas! I fear, in sorrow to meet again, if again we ever
meet.”
“Speak not thus,” he replied, hoarsely;—“why these
sad misgivings—is our love so much a sorrow, my
Janet?”
“Sorrow or pleasure, Ernest, it is still our love—a
love that I shall die in, and fear not to die for. But do
not linger, I pray you; remember that Witherspoon is
waiting for your return before he can release that man.”
“Release him!” was the stern exclamation, and a
fierce but suppressed laugh of bitterness fell from the
lips of Mellichampe with the words.
“Ay, release him, Ernest. What mean you by those
words—that laugh? Surely, surely, Ernest, you do not
mean him harm?”
“Would he not harm us?—has he not harmed me
already? Janet, you must remember—I had a father
once.”
“I do—I do; but oh, Ernest, dismiss your thoughts,
which I see are fearful now. Promise me, Ernest, that
you will do this man no harm.”
Her hand earnestly pressed his arm as she entreated
him. He was silent.
-- 144 --
[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]
“Ernest,” she exclaimed, solemnly,—“Ernest—
remember! the hand of Janet Berkeley can never be
won by crime.”
He released her hand, which till this moment he had
held. There was a strife going on within his bosom.
She gazed on him suspiciously, and with terror.
“I leave you, Ernest,” she whispered,—“I leave
you; but do that man no harm.”
There was a solemnity in her tones that rebuked his
thoughts. She was leaving him, but turned back with a
gentler tone—
“I doubt you not, dear Ernest—I doubt you not
now. Forgive me that I did so for an instant; and, oh,
Ernest, come not again into this neighbourhood till
these men are gone. Promise me—promise me, dear
Ernest.”
What would not love promise at such a moment?
Mellichampe promised—he knew not what. His
thoughts were elsewhere; and he felt not, that, in kissing
her cheek as they parted, his lips had borne away
her tears.
CHAPTER XV.
During the momentary absence of Mellichampe, his
trusty associate had been equally busy with himself.
He had completely gagged his prisoner with a handkerchief
of no common dimensions, and not remarkable
for the delicacy of its texture. He had finished this
labour with a facility that was marvellous, and seemed
to speak loudly for his frequent practice in such matters.
This done, he took his seat composedly enough upon
the body of the tory, and in this manner awaited the
return of Mellichampe. Barsfield, meanwhile, though
-- 145 --
[figure description] Page 145.[end figure description]
at first a little uneasy and obstreperous, soon found it
necessary to muster all his philosophy in the endurance
of an evil that seemed unavoidable for the present. The
huge, keen knife of the woodman glared threateningly
in his eyes, and he saw that his efforts to escape, in
more than one instance already, had provoked an expression
of anger from his captor, who at other moments
seemed good-natured and indulgent enough. The tory
consoled himself, however, with the thought that Blonay
could not be far off; and that, having made the circuit
of the garden, as it had been appointed to him to do, he
would soon come to his assistance and release. With
this reflection, though burning for vengeance all the
while, he was content to keep as quiet as was consistent
with a position so very uneasy and unusual.
The fierce mood of Mellichampe was in action on his
return: there was a terrible strife going on within his
heart. A sanguinary thirst was striving there for mastery,
opposed strongly, it is true, but not efficiently, by a
just sense of human feeling not less than of propriety.
But there was no calm deliberation, and his passions
triumphed. All his more violent and vexing impulses
were active and in dictation. His eye was full of desperate
intention: his hand grasped his bared dagger, and
his movement was hurried towards the prisoner, whose
eye turned appealingly to that of Witherspoon. The latter
had his own apprehensions, but he had his decision
also. He saw the manner of Mellichampe's approach;
he understood directly the dreadful language which was
uttered from his eye, though sleeping upon his lips; and
he prepared himself accordingly to encounter and resist
the movement which the glance of his comrade evidently
meditated.
He was scarcely quick enough for this. A sudden
and fierce bound, like that which the catamount makes
from his tree upon the shoulders of his approaching victim,
carried the form of Mellichampe full upon the breast
-- 146 --
[figure description] Page 146.[end figure description]
of the tory, who strove, but vainly, to shrink away from
beneath. The impetuous movement half displaced
the woodman. In another moment the weapon must
have been in the throat of the tory, but for the ready effort
and athletic arms of Witherspoon. He grasped
the youth from behind. His embrace encircled completely,
while securing him from the commission of the
deed.
“Release me, Witherspoon,” cried Mellichampe to
his companion, while the thick foam gathered about his
lips and half choked his utterance.
“I'll be God darned if I do, Airnest,” was the decisive
reply. The youth insisted,—the woodman was inflexible.
“You will repent it, Witherspoon.”
“Can't be helped, Airnest, but I can't think to let you
go to do murder. 'Taint right, Airnest; and dang my
buttons if any man that I calls my friend shall do wrong
when I'm standing by, if so be I can keep his hands off.”
“Shall this wretch always cross my path, John Witherspoon?—
shall he always go unpunished? Does he
not even now seek my life—his hands not yet clean
from the blood of my father? Release me, Witherspoon—
it will be worse if you do not.”
“That's my look-out, Airnest, I know; it's the risk
I runs always, and it's no new thing. But, Airnest, I
can't let you go, onless you'll promise not to use your
knife. The fellow desarves the knife, I reckon; but,
you see, he's a prisoner, and can't do nothing for himself.
It ain't the business of a sodger and a decent man
to hurt a critter that can't fend off.”
“A reptile—a viper, who will sting your heel the
moment you take it from his head!”
“Maybe; but he's my prisoner, Airnest.”
“Why, what can you do with him?—you can't carry
him with you?”
“No, Airnest; but that's no reason that I should kill
him.”
-- 147 --
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
“What will you do with him, then?” inquired the
youth.
“Leave him here—jist where he is, on the flat of his
back, and mighty oncomfortable.”
“Indeed!—to pursue us, and, by his cries, direct his
hounds upon our heels? Let him rise, rather,—give
him his sword, and let him fight it out with me in the
neighbouring wood.”
“Not so fast, Airnest—that'll be a scheme that would
only hobble both of us; and I'm not going to risk any
such contrivance. I have a much better notion than
that, if you'll only hear to reason; and all I axes of you
is, jist to keep your knife ready at the chap's throat, but
not to use it, onless he moves and gits obstropolous.
Say you'll do that now, while I takes a turn or two upon
my shadow, and I'll let you loose.”
The youth hesitated. The woodman went on—
“You mought as well, Airnest, for I'm not guine to
loose you onless you says you won't hurt the critter.
Say so, Airnest, and I'll fix him so he can't follow us
or make any fuss.”
Finding that his companion was inflexible, and most
probably somewhat subdued by this time, and conscious
of the crime he had striven to commit, Mellichampe consented,
though still reluctantly, and the moment after he
was released. The woodman rose and began to make
some farther preparations for the securing of his prisoner.
Meanwhile, with his knee firmly fastened upon the
breast of the tory, and his dagger uplifted and in readiness,
the eyes of the youth were fastened with all the
demon glare of hatred and revenge upon those of the
man below him. The feelings of Barsfield under such
circumstances were any thing but enviable. Accustomed
to judge of men by his own nature, he saw no
reason to feel satisfied that Mellichampe would keep
the promise of forbearance which he had made to his
companion; and yet he dreaded to exhibit emotion or
-- 148 --
[figure description] Page 148.[end figure description]
anxiety, for fear of giving him sufficient excuse for not
doing so. His emotions may well be inferred from the
natural apprehensions of such a situation; and his base
soul sunk into yet deeper shame, as he lay trembling
beneath his enemy, dreading the death which was above
him, and which he well knew he so richly deserved.
But Thumbscrew was considerate, and did not long
keep the tory in suspense. In the few moments in
which he had withdrawn himself from the person of the
prisoner, he had made sundry arrangements for better securing
him; and, with a cord of moderate length, which
he had drawn from a capacious pocket, he constructed
a running noose, or slip-knot, with which he now approached
the prisoner; speaking in a low tone of soliloquy
all the while, as much, seemingly, for Barsfield's
edification as for his own.
“I will jist make bold, Cappin Barsfield, to give you
a hitch or two in the way of friendship. You shall have
as fast binding a title to this little bit of a bed as time
and present sarcumstances will permit. It's only for
your safe keeping and our safe running, you see, that I
does it. I'll hitch up your legs—there, don't be scared,
they shall go together—to this same bench here: and
that, you see, will keep them from coming too close
after ours. And as for the little bandage over your arms,
why, you'll have to wear it a little longer, though it's too
good a rag for me to leave behind. There—don't jerk
or jump now, for it will soon be done. I'm mighty
quick fixing such matters as these, and it takes me no
time to hitch up a full-blooded tory when once I gits my
thumb and forefinger upon him. There.”
Thus muttering, he lashed the legs of the prisoner to
one of the rude seats under the magnolias; and, freeing
his companion from the farther restraints of his watch,
the two prepared to start—Witherspoon, unseen by
Mellichampe, having first possessed himself of the
sword of the tory, which he appropriated with all the
-- 149 --
[figure description] Page 149.[end figure description]
composure of a veteran scout. They soon found their
way out of the garden, through the darkest of its alleys,
and they could not have gone far into the forest when
Blonay, who seemed to have timed his movements with
admirable accuracy, approached the spot where Barsfield
lay struggling. The tory was completely in the
toils—his feet and hands tied securely, and his mouth
so bandaged that but a slight moaning was suffered at
intervals to escape him in his efforts at speech. With
well-acted zeal and a highly becoming indignation, Blonay,
as soon as he discerned the situation of his employer,
busied himself at his release. Enraged at the
humiliation to which he had been subjected, and at the
escape of his enemy, Barsfield demanded why he had
not come sooner. But to this the other had his answer.
He had followed the tory's directions, and had kept the
lower fence of the garden winding into the woods, and
had crossed it at a point which had been designated for
him; by which it had been Barsfield's hope, that, flying
from him, the fugitive must be encountered by his coadjutor.
“You went too far round,” said the commander, sullenly;
“and yet they are but a few moments gone. You
say you have not seen them?”
The answer was negative.
“It is strange: but, by G—d, it shall not always be
thus. Come with me, sir; I will talk with you in my
chamber.”
And they retired to confer upon the scheme which
the tory had proposed to Blonay just before the adventure
of the garden.
We will now leave them and return to the fugitives,
who were already far away upon their flight to the spot
where their horses had been hidden. The first words
of Mellichampe to his companion were those of reproach—
-- 150 --
[figure description] Page 150.[end figure description]
“Why did you follow me when I forbade it, John
Witherspoon?”
“Well, now, Airnest, I think that's no sort of a question,
seeing the good that's come of my following.”
“True, you have served me, and perhaps saved me;
but what will Janet think of me when she recovers from
her fright? She will think I brought you there, and that
you overheard what passed between us.”
“Well, she'll think wrong, Airnest, if she does. It's
true, I did hear a good deal, but that was owing to the
needcessity of being close upon the haunches of that
other chap. As a true man, Airnest, I never wanted to
hear, and I did not get close enough to hear, till that
skunk come out from behind the pear-tree, and I saw
him sneaking round to the magnolias. Then it was I
came out too, and only then it was I heard the talk between
you.”
“It matters not now, Witherspoon; my fear is that it
may pain Janet to suppose that my friends are brought
to overhear that language which a young lady should
only think to herself, and can only utter to one; and no
motive of regard for my safety, though so far warranted
by circumstances as upon the present occasion, should
have prompted you to do so.”
“But I had another reason, Airnest, that is a good
reason, I know. Just after I left you came one of Marion's
road-riders, Humphries, you know, calling in
the scouts; and you're wanted, and I'm wanted, and
we're all of us wanted, for there's to be a power of the
tories gathering in two days at Baynton's Meadow, and
the `fox' is mighty hungry to git at 'em. I have the
marks and the signals, and we must push on directly.
It'll take us three good hours more to work our way into
the swamp.”
“Ah! then we have little time to waste,” was the
prompt reply; and, scouring down the road, they came
to the broken branch which lay across the path, and
-- 151 --
[figure description] Page 151.[end figure description]
indicated by its own the position of its fellow. Following
the directions given by Humphries, they were soon
met by the line of sentinels, and the path grew cheery
after a while, when the occasional challenge, and the
distant hum and stir of an encampment, announced the
proximity of Marion in his wild swamp dwelling.
CHAPTER XVI.
The reflections of Barsfield were by no means consolatory
or grateful on his return to the mansion. A
few moments were devoted to Blonay, of whom the tory
felt perfectly secure, and the two then separated for the
night, seeking their several chambers. In the morning
the latter was up betimes, and, descending to the breakfast-room,
the first person who encountered his glance
was the fair Janet Berkeley. She was alone. A slight
flush overspread her cheek as he entered the apartment;
but he was not the person exactly who could greatly
disturb her equanimity. Her eye was cold and unshrinking,
and her courtesy as easy, unconstrained, and
distant as ever. The case was widely different with him.
He started as he beheld her—turned away without the
usual salutation—then, suddenly conscious of his rudeness,
he wheeled round, as if about to charge an enemy,
confronted her valiantly enough, and bowed stiffly, and
with evident effort. For a few moments no word passed
between the two, and this time was employed by Barsfield
in pacing to and fro along the apartment. At
length, muttering something to himself, the sounds of
which were only just audible to the maiden, he walked
into the corridor, looked hastily around, and then quickly,
as if he wished to anticipate intrusion, re-entered the
room, and at once approached the maiden.
-- 152 --
[figure description] Page 152.[end figure description]
“Miss Berkeley,” he said, “it is unnecessary that I
should remind you of last evening's adventure. The
circumstances cannot have been forgotten, though the
singular composure of your countenance this morning
would seem to imply a strange lack of memory on your
part, or a far stranger indifference to its intimations.”
He paused, as if in expectation of some reply, and she
did not suffer him long to wait. Her response was instantaneous,
and her equable expression of countenance
unbroken.
“There is nothing strange, sir, I believe, if you will
consider well the subject of which you speak. I know
of no circumstances so strong in my memory which
should disturb my composure, however some of them
may affect yours. Are you not suffering from some
mistake, sir?”
“Scarcely, scarcely, Miss Berkeley,” he exclaimed,
hurriedly; “though, I must confess, your reply astounds
me not less now than your composure at our first meeting.
Will you pretend, Miss Berkeley, that you were
not in the garden at a late hour of last night?”
“I saw, sir, that you must labour under some mistake,
and such is certainly the case when you presume to examine
me thus. But I will relieve the curiosity which
seems to have superseded all your notions of propriety,
and at once say that I was in the garden last night.”
“'Tis well—and there you saw another.”
“True, sir. I then and there saw another.”
“A rebel—a lurking rebel, Miss Berkeley.”
“A brave man, a gentleman, an honest citizen, sir.
My friend—my father's friend—”
“Say not so, for your father's sake, Miss Berkeley, I
pray you. It would greatly endanger the safety of your
father, were it known in the councils of Cornwallis that
the son of the notorious Max Mellichampe was his friend;
and, still more, were it known that they were in intimate
communion.”
-- 153 --
[figure description] Page 153.[end figure description]
“I said not that, Captain Barsfield, I said not that,”
was the hasty reply of Janet, in tones and with a manner
that showed how much she apprehended the consequences
which might arise from such an interpretation of
her remark. Barsfield smiled when he saw this, as he
felt the consciousness of that power which her words had
given him over her. She continued—“Do not, I pray
you, think for a moment that my father knows any thing
of the visits of Mr. Mellichampe. He came only to
see me—”
The tory interrupted her with a sarcastic smile and
speech—
“And I am to understand that the dutiful Miss Berkeley
consents to receive the visits of a gentleman without
the concurrence, and against the will, of her father?—a
dilemma, is it not, Miss Berkeley?”
“I will not submit to be questioned, sir,” was her
prompt reply; and her eye glanced a haughty fire, before
which that of the lowly-bred tory quailed utterly. “You
again mistake me, sir, and do injustice to my father,
when you venture such an inquisition into my habits. I
am free, sir, to act as my own sense and discretion shall
counsel. My father is not unwilling that I should obey
my own tastes and desires in the selection of my associates,
and to him alone am I willing to account.”
She turned away as she spoke, and busied herself,
or seemed to busy herself, with some of the affairs of the
household, with the object, evidently, of arresting all farther
conversation. But, with the pause of a few moments,
in which he seemed to be adjusting in his own
mind the doubt and difficulty, Barsfield put on an air of
decision, and readvanced to the maiden.
“Hear me but a few moments, Miss Berkeley, and
be not impatient—and, should any of my words be productive
of annoyance, I pray you to overlook them, in
consideration of the difficulties which, as you will see,
may soon lie before you.”
-- 154 --
[figure description] Page 154.[end figure description]
“Difficulties!—but go on, sir.”
“I need not say that I was a witness to your conference
with this young man last night.”
“You need not, sir,” was her reply, with a manner
that gave life to the few words she uttered. A scowl
went over the tory's face, obscuring it for a moment, but
he recovered instantly.
“I heard you both, and I felt sorry that you should
have risked your affections so unprofitably.”
The maiden smiled her acknowledgments, and he
proceeded—
“Fortunately, however, for you at least, such ties as
these, particularly where the parties are so young as in
the present instance, are of no great strength, and are
seldom durable. They can be broken, and usually are,
with little detriment to either party.”
“I purpose, on my part, sir, nothing of the kind,”
was her cool reply, interrupting him, as he was about to
continue in a speech of so much effrontery, and which
was so little gratifying to his auditor; “I purpose not
to try the strength or durability of any of the ties which
I have made, Captain Barsfield.”
“But you will, Miss Berkeley—you must, as soon as
you discover that such ties are unprofitable, and beyond
any hope of realization. The man with whom your
pledge is exchanged is a doomed man!”
“How, sir?—speak!”
“He fights with a halter about his neck, and his appearance
last night in the neighbourhood of my troop is
of itself sufficient for his condemnation, as it leads to his
conviction as a spy.”
“I can share his doom, Captain Barsfield, though I
believe not that such is within your power. I cannot
think that Lord Cornwallis has conferred upon you any
such authority.”
“This parchment, this commission, and these more
expressive orders, Miss Berkeley, would tell you even
-- 155 --
[figure description] Page 155.[end figure description]
more—would tell you that your own father is at my
mercy at this very moment, as one, under your own
avowal, privy to the presence of a rebel as a spy upon
my command. My power gives me jurisdiction even
over his life, as you might here read for yourself, were
not my words sufficient.”
“They are not—they are not,” she exclaimed, hastily,
and trembling all over. “I will not believe it; let me see
the paper.”
“Pardon me, Miss Berkeley, but I may not now. It
is sufficient for me that I know the extent of my power,
and its limits. It is not necessary that I should unfold
it.”
“I will not believe it, then—I will not trust a word
that you have said. I cannot think that the British general
can have thought a thing so barbarous—so dishonourable.”
“It is so, nevertheless, Miss Berkeley; but there
will be little or no danger to the father, if the daughter
will listen to reason. Will you hear me?”
“Can I do less, Captain Barsfield?—go on, sir.”
“I accept the permission, however ungraciously given.
Hear me, then. These vows—the ties of childhood,
and restraining none but children—can hardly be considered,
when circumstances so bear against them. I
have a perfect knowledge of all the circumstances between
yourself and this rebel Mellichampe.”
“You have not said, sir, and I marvel at the omission,
with what wonderful ingenuity your knowledge was obtained.”
“Your sarcasm is pointless, Miss Berkeley, when we
know that a time like the present not only sanctions, but
calls for and commands, all those little arts by which intelligence
of one's enemies is to be obtained. Is it my
offence or my good fortune to have heard more than
concerned the cause for which I contend? Certainly not
my offence—it is for you to say how far it may be for
my good fortune.”
-- 156 --
[figure description] Page 156.[end figure description]
“To the point—to the point, Captain Barsfield, if you
please.”
“It is quite as well,” he responded, with a sullen air
of determination, as the impatient manner of Janet
showed how unwillingly she listened; “'tis quite as
well that I should; and all I ask from you now, Miss
Berkeley, is simply that you should heed and deliberate
upon what I unfold, and make no rash nor ill-considered
decision upon it. First, then, let me say, that your father
is in my power—but in mine alone. I am willing
to be his friend henceforward, as I have been heretofore.
I am able and desirous to protect him, as well against
the rebels as from the injustice of such loyalists as might
presume upon his weakness to do him wrong; but I am
not sufficiently his friend, or my own enemy, to do all
this without some equivalent—there must be a consideration.”
He paused; and, as the maiden perceived it, she spoke,
while a smile of the most provoking indifference, suddenly,
though for a moment only, curled the otherwise calm
and dignified folds of her lips—
“I can almost conjecture what you would say, Captain
Barsfield; but speak on, sir, I pray you—let there
be an end of this.”
“I can scruple little to say out what you assume to
have conjectured so readily, Miss Berkeley; and I speak
my equivalent the more readily, as you seem so well
prepared to hear it. You, then, are the equivalent for
this good service, Miss Berkeley. Your hand will be
my sufficient reward, and my good services shall ever
after be with your father for his protection and assistance.”
“Think of something else, Captain Barsfield,” she
replied, with the utmost gravity; “something better worthy
of the service—something better suited to you. I
am not ambitious, sir, of the distinction you would confer
upon me. My hopes are humble, my desires few;
-- 157 --
[figure description] Page 157.[end figure description]
and my father—but here he comes. I will speak of
this affair no farther.”
And she turned away with the words, just as the old
man, entering, met the baffled tory with some usual inquiry
as to the manner in which he had slept, and if his
bed had been pleasant; and all with that provoking simplicity
that was only the more annoying to Barsfield, as
it brought the commonest matters of daily life into contrast
and collision with those more important and interesting
ones, in the discussion and urging of which he had
but a few moments before been so earnest. He replied
as well as he could to the old gentleman, who complained
bitterly of his own restlessness during the night, and of
strange noises that had beset his ears, and so forth—a
long string of details, that silenced all around, without the
usual advantage which such narrations possess, towards
nightfall, of setting everybody to sleep. But the signal
was now given for breakfast, and the lively Rose
Duncan made her appearance, bright and smiling as
ever; then came Lieutenant Clayton; and lastly, our old
acquaintance Blonay. Breakfast was soon despatched,
and was scarcely over when Barsfield, who had given
orders for his troop to move, took Mr. Berkeley aside.
Their conversation was long and earnest, though upon
what subject remained, for a season at least, entirely
unknown to the household. Janet, however, could not
but remark that a deeper shadow rested upon the visage
of her father; and even Rose Duncan, playful and
thoughtless as she ever was, complained that during the
whole day her uncle had never once asked her for a
song, or challenged her to a game at draughts.
“Something wrong, Janet,” she exclaimed to her
companion, after freely remarking upon the condition of
things; “something wrong, I'm certain. This tory
lover of yours is at the bottom of it.” And, without
pausing for reply, she whirled away in all the evolutions
of the Meschianza, humming, like some errant bird, a
-- 158 --
[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
wild song, that did not materially disagree with the capricious
movement. Janet only answered with a sigh as
she ascended to her chamber.
CHAPTER XVII.
Barsfield ordered a guard of ten men, and prepared
to ride over to the “Kaddipah” plantation—the reward of
his good services in the tory warfare. The distance
between the two places was but five miles; and, in the
present prostrate condition of Carolina affairs, ten men
were deemed quite adequate for his protection. They
might not have been, had the “swamp fox” been warned
of his riding soon enough to have prepared a reception.
Clayton was left in charge of the troop; and in no very
pleasant humour did the tory proceed to leave the mansion
of Mr. Berkeley. He had not, of late years, been
much accustomed to contradictions of any sort; and his
recent elevation, as an officer of the British army, tended
still more to make him restiff under restraint or
opposition. He was disappointed in the effect which
he had promised himself to produce upon the mind of
Janet Berkeley, from a dispaly of the power of which
he was possessed, and still more annoyed at the cool,
sarcastic temper which she had shown during their conference.
Her frank avowal of the interest which she
felt in Mellichampe,—the calm indifference with which
she listened to his remarks upon the nocturnal interview
with her lover,—and the consequences of that interview
to himself,—these were all matters calculated to vex
and imbitter his mood, as he rode forth from the spot
in which they had taken place. His manner was stern,
accordingly, to his lieutenant, Clayton, while giving him
-- 159 --
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
his orders, and haughty, in the last degree, to the men
under him. Not so, however, was his treatment of
Blonay, whom he heard calling familiarly to his dog, and
who now stood ready, about to mount his tacky, as if
going forth with himself.
“You go with me, Mr. Blonay?” was his question to
the Half-Breed, uttered in the mildest language.
“Well, cappin, I reckon it's best that I should go
'long with you 'tell I can hear something of Marion's
men. When I hears where to look for 'em I reckon
I'll leave you, seeing it's no use for me to go scouting
with a dozen.”
“You are right,” was the response; “but fall behind
till I send the men forward; I would have some talk
with you.”
Blonay curbed his pony, called in his dog, and patiently
waited until, sending his men forward under a
sergeant, Barsfield motioned him to follow with himself.
“You were sadly at fault last night, Mr. Blonay,” was
the first remark which he made to the Half-Breed, as
they entered upon the avenue; “it is to be hoped that
you will soon do better.”
“'Tworn't my fault, cappin,—I did as you tell'd me,”
was the quiet answer.
“Well, perhaps so;—you are right, I believe. I did
send you too far round. That confounded garden holds
several acres.”
“Five, I reckon,” said the other. Barsfield did not
heed the remark, but abruptly addressed him on the subject
which was most active in his thoughts.
“You hold your mind, Mr. Blonay, I presume, for
this adventure? You will undertake the business which
I gave you in hand? You have no fears—no scruples?”
“Well, I reckon it's a bargin, cappin. I'll do your
business if so be I kin, and if so be it doesn't take me
from my own. I puts my own first, cappin, you see,
for 'twould be again natur if I didn't.”
-- 160 --
[figure description] Page 160.[end figure description]
“You are perfectly right to do so; but I am in hope,
and I believe, that you will soon find our business to lie
together. If the enemy you seek be one of Marion's
men, so is my enemy: should you find one, you will
most probably get some clew to the other; and the one
object, in this way, may help you to both.”
“And you think, cappin, that Marion's men is in
these parts?”
“Think!—I know it. The appearance of this youth
Mellichampe, with his cursed inseparable Witherspoon,
as good as proves it to me. Not that they are strong,
or in any force; on the contrary, my letters tell me that
the rebels have in a great many instances deserted their
leader, and gone into North Carolina. Indeed, they say
he himself has gone; but this I believe not: he still
lurks, I am convinced, in the swamp, with a small force,
which we shall quickly ferret out when we have got our
whole force together. To-morrow we go to meet our
volunteer loyalists at `Baynton's Meadow,' where they
assemble, and where I am to provide them with arms.”
“There's a-many of them to be there, cappin?” was
the inquiry of Blonay.
“Two hundred or more. The wagons which you
saw carry their supplies.”
The tory captain, in this way, civilly enough responded
to other questions of the Half-Breed, the object of
which he did not see; and in this manner they conversed
together until the guard had emerged from the avenue
into the main road, and was now fully out of sight.
Interested in giving to his companion as precise a description
as possible of the person, the habits, and character
of Mellichampe, which he did at intervals throughout
the dialogue, Barsfield had moved on slowly, and
had become rather regardless of the movement of his
men, until, reaching the entrance of the avenue, he grew
conscious of the distance between them, and immediately
increased his pace. But Blonay did otherwise; he
-- 161 --
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
drew up his pony at this point, and seemed indisposed
to go forward.
“Why do you stop?” cried the tory, looking back
over his shoulder. The answer of Blonay satisfied him.
“I forgot something, cappin,—the knife and the pass.
I must go back, but I'll be after you mighty quick.”
Without waiting for the assent of his employer, he
started off on his return, pricking the sides of his pony
with a degree of earnestness to which the little animal
was not accustomed, and which he acknowledged by
setting off at a rate which seemed infinitely beyond his
capacities. Barsfield was satisfied to call to him to
follow soon; and, putting the rowel to his own steed, he
hurried forward to resume his place at the head of his
men.
But it was not the intention of Blonay to go back to the
dwelling which he had so lately left. He was practising
a very simple ruse upon his companion. He had forgotten
nothing—neither knife nor passport; and his object
was merely to be relieved from observation, and to pursue
his farther journey alone. He had a good motive
for this; and had resolved, with certain efficient reasons,
which had come to him at the moment of leaving the
avenue, to pursue a different route from that of the tory.
After riding a little way up the avenue he came to a halt;
and, giving the tory leader full time not only to reach
his men, but to get out of sight and hearing with them,
he coolly turned himself round and proceeded to the
spot where they had separated. Here he alighted, and
his keen eyes examined the road, and carefully inspected
those tracks upon it, a casual glance at which,
as he rode out with Barsfield, had determined him upon
the course which he had taken. He looked at all the
horse-tracks, and one freshly made in particular. The
identical outline of shoe, which he had so closely noticed
on the battle-ground of Dorchester, was obviously
before him; and, remounting his horse, he followed
-- 162 --
[figure description] Page 162.[end figure description]
it slowly and with certainty. Barsfield more than once
looked round for his ally, but he looked in vain; and
each step taken by both parties made the space greater
between them. The Half-Breed kept his way, or rather
that of his enemy, whom he followed with a spirit duly
enlivened by a consciousness that he was now upon the
direct track. In this pursuit the route of Blonay was
circuitous in the extreme. He had proceeded but a
mile or so along the main road, when the marks which
guided him turned off into an old field, and led him to
the very spot where we discovered Mellichampe and
Witherspoon the day before. The keen eye of the
Half-Breed soon discovered traces of a human haunt,
but nothing calculated to arrest his progress, as the
marks of the flying horseman were still onward. Obliquely
from this point, still farther to the right, he entered
a dense forest. Here he made his way with difficulty,
only now and then catching the indent of the shoe. He
soon emerged from the thick wood, and the path was
then open. Here, too, he discovered that there had
been an assemblage of persons, as the ground, in a little
spot, was much beaten by hoofs, and still prominent
among them was that which he sought in chief. This
encouraged him; and, as the whole body assembled at
the spot seemed to have kept together, he had little or
no difficulty in continuing the search. At length the
road grew somewhat miry and sloppy. Little bays at
intervals crossed his path, through which the horsemen
before him seemed to have gone without hesitation.
The forests were now broken into hummocks, which
were indented by small bodies of water. Here the cypress
began to send up its pyramidal shapes; and
groves of the tallest cane shot up in dense masses
around it. The cressets lay green upon the surface of
the dark pond, and the yellow and purple mosses of the
festering banks presented themselves to his eyes in sufficient
quantity to announce his proximity to the swamp.
-- 163 --
[figure description] Page 163.[end figure description]
But to Blonay, thoroughly taught in all the intricacies of
the “cypress,” its presence offered no discouragement
whatsoever to the pursuit. At length, reaching an extensive
pond, he lost all trace of the horses. He saw
at once that they had entered the water; but where had
they emerged? The opposite banks were crowded
close to the water's edge with the thickest undergrowth,
mingled with large trees, whose quiet seemed never to
have been disturbed with the axe of the woodman or
the horn of the hunter. The wild vine and the clustering
brier, the slender but numerous canes, the gumshoots,
cypress-knees or knobs, and the bay, seemed to
have been welded together into a solid wall, defying the
footsteps of any invader more bulky than the elastic
blacksnake, or less vigorous and well-coated than the
lusty bear. Blonay saw the impervious nature of the
copse; but he also felt assured that the pursuit must
lead him into and through it. He saw that through it
the men must have gone whose footsteps he had followed,
and he accordingly soon completed his resolves as
to what he should himself do. He slowly led his horse
back to a spot of land, the highest in the neighbourhood.
Having done this, he fastened him to a shrub;
then sought out one of the loftiest trees, which he ascended
with habitual and long-tried dexterity. His elevation
gave him a full and fine view of the expansive
swamp before him. He looked down upon the pale,
ghostly tops of the old cypresses, sprinkled with the
green cedar: and here and there, where the sand was
high enough to yield a bed sufficiently spacious for so
comprehensive a body, the huge and high shaft of the
colossal pine. These all lay before him—their tops
flat, gently waving under his eye beneath the slight
wind passing over them, making a prospect not less
novel than imposing. But Blonay had no eye for the
scene, and but little taste for the picturesque. He
had sought his giddy perch for another purpose; and he
-- 164 --
[figure description] Page 164.[end figure description]
was satisfied with the result of his labour when, at the
distance of six or eight hundred yards from the entrance
of the swamp, he detected a slight wreath of smoke
curling up from among the trees, and spreading around
like some giant tree itself, as if in protection over them.
He noticed well in what direction the smoke arose, and
quietly descended from his place of elevation.
Keeping this direction constantly in mind, he now
saw that the persons he pursued must have gone into
the pond, and kept in it for some distance afterward,
emerging at a point not at that moment within the scope
of his vision. He doubted not that, following the same
course, he should arrive once more upon their traces at
some point of outlet and entrance. To conjecture thus,
was, with him, to determine. He touched his pony
smartly with his whip, and, whistling his dog to follow,
plunged fearlessly into the pathless space, and his saddle-skirts
were soon dipping in the yellow water. He
kept forward, however, through the centre of the pond,
and was soon gratified to find some appearances of
an opening before him. On his right hand the pond
swept round a point of land, making into the copse, and
forming a way which was imperceptible at the place
from whence he had originally started. He did not
scruple to pursue it; and, passing through a narrow defile
of water, over which the vines ran and clambered,
thrusting their sharp points continually in his face, and
making his progress necessarily slow, he at length ascended
a little bank, and once more found the tracks
which he had followed so far. Giving his little pony a
few moments of rest, he again set forward; and, after
an arduous progress of an hour, he began to hear sounds
which imposed upon him the necessity of greater caution
in his progress. The hum of collected men—their
voices—the occasional neigh of the horse—the stroke
of the axe, and now and then a shout, announced his
proximity to the camp. He was within a few hundred
-- 165 --
[figure description] Page 165.[end figure description]
yards of one of the famous retreats of the “swamp
fox;” and, dismounting from his nag, which he carefully
fastened in a secure place of concealment, he went
forward on foot, only followed by his dog; moving slowly,
and scrutinizing, as he did so, every tree and bush
that might afford shelter to an enemy. He still advanced
until he came to a small creek, which wound sinuously
along before him, and which now formed the
only barrier between himself and the retreat of the partisans.
He saw their steeds in groups, fastened to the
overhanging branches of the trees—he saw the troopers
lying at length in similar places of shelter—some busied
in the duties of the camp and of preparation—some
taking their late breakfast, and others moving around as
sentinels, one of whom paced to and from within thirty
yards of the little copse from which he surveyed the
scene in safety.
It was while gazing intently on the personages constituting
these several groups, that Blonay discovered
his dog in rapid passage across a tree that lay partly
over the creek which separated him from the encampment.
Attracted, most probably, by the good savour
and rich steams that arose from a huge fire, over which
our old acquaintance, Tom, was providing the creature-comforts
of the day, the dog made his way without
looking behind him, and Blonay was quite too nigh the
sentinels to venture to call him back either by word or
whistle. Cursing the cur in muttered tones to himself,
he drew back to a safer distance, still keeping in sight,
however, of the entire circuit occupied by the partisans.
Here he watched a goodly hour, taking care that no single
movement escaped his eye; for, as he had now
found out one of the secret paths leading directly to the
haunt of an enemy so much dreaded as the “swamp
fox,” he determined that his knowledge of all its localities
should be complete, the better to enhance the value, and
necessarily increase the reward, which he hoped to
-- 166 --
[figure description] Page 166.[end figure description]
realize from its discovery to some one or other of the British
leaders. Let us now penetrate the encampment
itself.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The hiding-place of Marion was admirably chosen in
all respects, whether as regards convenience or security.
It was a high ridge of land, well timbered, narrow and
long, and running almost centrally in the swamp. Two
or three outlets, known only to the partisans, and these,
as we have seen in the one instance already described,
intricate and difficult of access even to the initiated, were
all that it possessed; and here, secure from danger, yet
not remote from its encounter, if circumstances or their
own desires so willed it, the “swamp fox” lay with his
followers during brief intervals of that long strife in
which he contended for his country.
His force was feeble at this period. It consisted
only of the small bands of natives, gathered under local
officers chiefly from the lower country, none of whom
had ever seen what was called regular service. He
had been deserted by all the continentals with the exception
of two, whom he had rescued from their British
captors soon after the battle of Camden; but, though
thus few in number, and feeble in exercise, the partisans,
catching the full spirit of their leader, were never
inactive.
In the camp, while Blonay looked out on all hands
for his particular victim, the stir of preparation was heard
by the overlooking spy. Hurried orders were given,
horses were put in preparation, swords were brandished,
and rifles charged home. Amid all the bustle, there
-- 167 --
[figure description] Page 167.[end figure description]
was still room for jest and merriment. Like boys just
let loose from school, the men playfully gambolled over
the plain,—some leaping, others hurling the bar, and
some, less vigorously minded, busy in all the intricacies
of a game of “old sledge.” But one person alone, of
all the motley assemblage, appeared, on the present occasion,
indisposed to take part in the labours and
amusements going on. He sat aloof upon a log,—his
sword across his thighs, his elbows upon his knees, his
chin upon his palms, and his eyes bent wanderingly
upon the several groups. This was none other than our
ancient friend Porgy. He sat for some time in silence,
and seemed only busy in the adjustment of some vexing
thoughts. At length, calling Tom, the negro, to his
aid, he relaxed from his rigid position, stretched himself
off upon the log, and lay in waiting for the appearance
of the black. The sooty fellow soon answered and
obeyed the summons, and stood before the philosopher.
“Tom, old boy,” said he, as soon as he beheld him,
“Tom, can you tell me what to do for my horse,—
he has an outrageous colic?”
This was pronounced in a tone of infinite concern.
With a sympathetic voice and manner, the black instantly
responded—
“You no say so, Mass Porgy?”
“If I don't, Tom, I don't know what to say. He
certainly has something that looks cursedly like it; and
I've been considering what to do for it, but I'm at a loss.
I am no horse-doctor.”
“Speak Misser Oakenburgher,—him will tell you—
him will gib you somting good for um.”
“To kill the beast? No, no, Tom, that won't do
neither. He must get well without Oakenburgher, or he
dies quietly without physic. But is there nothing, Tom,
which is usually given in such cases? You are the
cook, Tom; and a good cook, Tom, ought to know
what's good for the stomach even of a horse.”
-- 168 --
[figure description] Page 168.[end figure description]
“I see dem gib hoss-drench, make wid whiskey, and
soot, and salt; but whey you guine git salt here for
hoss, and you no hab none for sodger?”
“Where, indeed? The prospect is a sad one—and
you say, Tom, that all the salt is gone that came up last
week from Georgetown?”
“Ebbry scrap ob 'em, mossa,—no hab 'nough to
throw on bird tail if you want to catch 'em. Dis a bad
country, Mass Porgy—no like de old cypress, whey
you can lap up 'nough salt from de swamp to cure you
meat for de year round, and season you hom'ny by looking
at 'em only tree minutes by the sun.”
“And you know nothing, Tom, that will ease the
animal?”
“No, mossa,—I see de buckrah gib drench heap
time, but I nebber ax how he been make.”
“Has Humphries come in yet, Tom?”
“Long time, sir: he gone ober to Wolf Island wid
de major 'bout two hours 'go, and muss be coming back
directly; and, jist I speak, look at 'em, coming yonder,
by de big gum!”
“I see—I see. You may go now, Tom, and see to
your dinner, which you had better get ready as soon as
possible. I feel hungry already, in anticipation of a
journey which I foresee we shall be called upon to
make.”
Tom disappeared, and, rising from his place of repose,
Porgy moved slowly by the several groups, buckling
on his sword as he went, and taking the route upon
which Humphries was approaching. But the philosopher
was not suffered to make his way quietly. A dozen
voices arrested his attention, calling to him on all sides
as he made his appearance, and labouring to secure his
presence among them—
“I say, sergeant—Sergeant Porgy!”
He relaxed as this particular summons met his ear.
It had something official in it. He turned to the speaker,
and, without advancing, replied,
-- 169 --
[figure description] Page 169.[end figure description]
“I hear, I hear, man; do not think me so much deaf
as indifferent. I would not hearken, but that you compel
me to hear; and I will not heed, unless you speak
quickly what you want, though you undo the drum of
my ear by your howling. Speak out and have done
with it, Dick Mason,—your bolt is soon shot, I reckon.”
“Why, sergeant, what's the matter—you're mighty
cross to-day? You haven't seen the sun shine, or not
eaten breakfast, I reckon.”
“Cross!—and well I may be, since here's my nag,
as fine an animal as man would like to cross, racked
with all the spasms of a most infernal colic. What can
I do for him?—tell me that, and I'll listen to you all
day, and sit up all night to answer your nonsense.”
“Give him red pepper tea,” said one.
“Soot and salt,” cried another.
“Gunpowder and rum,” said a third.
“Castor oil,” a fourth.
And each had some suggestion, as much in jest, perhaps,
as in earnest, of his own favourite specific. The
approach of Humphries silenced much of this, and to
him Porgy related his difficulties. The lieutenant coolly
gave directions to one of the soldiers in attendance, and
promised to relieve Porgy of his annoyance on this
subject.
“But, sergeant, you must get yourself in readiness as
soon as possible.”
“Well, Bill, what's to be done now?”
“Fight, my old boy—fight!”
“With whom?”
“The tories.”
“Where?”
“At Baynton's Meadow, where there is to be a
mighty gathering, and where they are to receive arms
from town. We are to have smart work; though, as
they're to have a barbecue and plenty of rum, we shall
find them a more easy bargain.”
-- 170 --
[figure description] Page 170.[end figure description]
“A barbecue, say you? The wretches! They to
have a barbecue, and we compelled to eat—Tom!”
“Sa!”
“What are we to have for dinner to-day, old fellow?”
“Some tripe, sir, and boil acorns, with hom'ny.”
“Tripe, hommony, and boiled acorns; and they are to
have a barbecue. I say, Humphries, there's something
exceedingly unreasonable in such a distribution of the
goods of Providence. But we must spoil them, Bill.
We shall be able to come upon them—shall we not?—
before they shall have touched the meat. I like vastly
to take a first cut at a barbecue,—the nice gravy is
then delicious; but, after a dozen seams have been
made upon it, it imbibes a smoky flavour, and is not
half so agreeable.”
“But your nag, Porgy,—how will you do for him?
He must stay to be physicked.”
“True; but I will get the horse of that fellow that's
sick,—old—what's his name—the German?”
“Feutbeer:—well, he'll carry you safe enough; it
will be for the tories to say if he will bring you back.
But what's this?—ha!”
Humphries started as the two approached the little
hollow in which Tom carried on his preparations for the
humble meal of the squad for which he provided. The
trooper seized a rifle that stood against a tree beside
him, and lifted it instantaneously to his eye. The muzzle
of it rested upon the strange dog that burrowed
amidst the offal strewn about the place, unnoticed by the
busy cook who purveyed for him. Porgy was about
to speak his wonderment at the sudden ferocity of mood
exhibited by his companion, when, motioning him to be
quiet, the trooper lowered the weapon, and called to
John Davis, who was approaching at a little distance.
“Davis,” said he, as the other came near, “do you
know that dog?”
“I do; but where I've seen him I can't say. I think
I know him.”
-- 171 --
[figure description] Page 171.[end figure description]
“And what do you say, Tom?” he said to the negro,
in tones that startled him,—“don't you know that dog?”
“He face is berry familiar, Mass Humphry, but I
loss he recollection for ebber.”
“That is the cur of old Mother Blonay—Goggle's
mother, and the blear-eyed rascal must be in this very
neighbourhood.”
“Do you think so, Bill?” asked Davis.
“Think so!—I know the dog, and why should he be
here if the other were not? It must be so; and we are
hunted. But we shall soon find out. Tom!”
“Sa!”
“Hit the dog a smart stroke suddenly with your stick,
hard enough to scare him off, but not to hurt him much;
and do you move to the edge of the creek, Davis, as
soon as the dog runs off. That scoundrel, his master,
must be in that direction, and we must see for him.”
Thus ordering, he called two of the men, and sent
them on the path directly opposite that taken by Davis,
yet over the same creek. He himself prepared to strike
the creek at a point equidistant from the two; and, as
he advanced, he gave the signal to Tom, who, with
right good-will, laid the flail over the back of the obtrusive
animal, and with a force that sent him howling into
the swamp. He took, as had been expected, the very
path he came, and was soon running upon the log that
partially crossed the creek, and in the direction in which
he had left his master.
But Blonay was not to be caught napping. He had
one chief merit of a scout, and never went within smell
and sound of an enemy's camp without keeping his wits
well about him. He had marked the movement of
Humphries towards his dog,—beheld the rifle uplifted,
and the muzzle pointed at the animal's head,—and readily
divined the motives which induced Humphries to forbear
shooting him, and which finally led him to the
movement subsequently determined upon. With this
-- 172 --
[figure description] Page 172.[end figure description]
consciousness, the Half-Breed at once proceeded to a
change of position. He left the advanced point from
which he had watched the camp, and, running in a
straight line about fifty yards above, turned suddenly
about and kept a forward course in the direction of the
spot at which he had first entered the swamp. But
he did not take these precautions without some doubts
of their adequacy to his concealment. He muttered
his apprehensions of the keen scent of the dog, which
he feared would too quickly find out his track, and lead
his pursuers upon it; and, though he doubted not that
he should be able to get out of the swamp before any
of those after him, he was yet fully aware of the utter
impossibility of escaping them on the high road, should
any of them mount in pursuit. Though a hardy and
fast animal, his pony was quite too small to overcome
spae very rapidly; and the determination of Blonay
was soon made, if he could mislead the dog, to seek
a hiding-place in the swamp, which, from its great extent
and impervious density in many places, he knew
would conceal him, for a time, from any force which the
partisans might send. He hurried on, therefore, taking
the water at every opportunity, and leaving as infrequent
a track as possible behind him. But he fled in vain
from the sagacious and true scent of his dog. From
place to place, true in every change, the cur kept on
after him, giving forth, as he fled, an occasional yelp of
dissatisfaction or chagrin, as much probably on account
of the beating he had received as from not finding his
master.
“Adrat the pup—there's no losing him. Now, if I
had my hand on him, I should knife him, and that's the
only way.”
The Half-Breed thus muttered, as the bark of the dog,
on the new trail which he had made, attested the success
with which he pursued him. Blonay rose upon a
stump, and distinctly beheld the head of Humphries,
-- 173 --
[figure description] Page 173.[end figure description]
though greatly behind, but still pressing on earnestly,
led by the cries of the dog.
“I can hit him now—it's not two hundred yards, and
I've hit a smaller mark than that so fur, before now.”
And, as he spoke, he lifted his rifle, cocked it, and
raised it to his eye, where it rested for a few seconds;
but Humphries was now covered by a tree. The dog
came on, and Blonay distinguished the voices of the pursuers,
and that of Humphries in particular, urging the
chase with words of encouragement. Unseen himself,
he now took a certain aim at the head of the lieutenant;
another moment and he must have fired; but,
just then, he beheld the figure of Davis pressing
through the brush, at a point higher up than the rest,
and seemingly bent on making a circuit, which would
enable him to get between their present position and
the fugitive's only outlet. To merely kill his victim,
and to run the risk of perishing himself, was not the
desire of the Half-Breed. His Indian blood took its
vengeance on safer terms. He slowly uncocked the
rifle, let it fall from his shoulder, and once more set off
in flight, taking now a course parallel with that which he
beheld John Davis pursuing. His object was to reach
the same point; and he could only do so, in good time to
escape, by keeping the direct route upon which he now
found himself.
At this moment his dog came up with him. He was
about to plunge into a puddle of mixed mire and water.
The faithful animal, unconscious of the danger in which
he had involved his master, now leaped fondly upon
him, testifying his joy at finding him by wantonly yelping
at the highest pitch of his voice, and assailing him
with the most uncouth caresses, which added to his annoyance
by impeding his flight. His clamours also
guided the pursuers upon the true path of the fugitive,
and would continue to guide them. The moment was
full of peril, and every thing depended upon his decision.
-- 174 --
[figure description] Page 174.[end figure description]
The savage and ready mood of the Half-Breed did not
long delay in a moment of such necessity. Muttering
to himself in few words his chagrin, he grasped the dog
firmly by the back of his neck, and, as the skin was
tightly drawn upon the throat, with a quick movement of
his hand he passed the keen blade of his knife but once
over it, and thrust the body from him in the ooze. With
a single cry and a brief struggle, the animal lay dead in
the path of the pursuers. Hurriedly sending the knife
back into its sheath, he resumed the rifle which, while he
slew the dog, he had leaned against a cypress; and,
seemingly without compunction, he again set forward.
His flight was now far less desperate, since his pursuers
had no longer the keen faculties of the dog to
scent for them the path, and his clamorous yelp to
guide them upon it; and, with a more perfect steadiness,
Blonay pushed onward until he gained a small,
though impenetrable, cane-brake. This he soon rounded,
and it now lay between him and his enemies. Taking
to the water whenever it came in his way, he left
but few traces of his route behind him; and to find
those, at intervals, necessarily impeded the pursuers.
When at length they reached the pond in which he
had slain his dog, and beheld the body of their guide
before them, they saw that the pursuit was almost hopeless.
“Look here!” exclaimed Humphries to the rest, as
they severally came up to the spot. “Look here! the
skunk, you see, has been mighty hard pushed, and can't
be far off; but there's no great chance of finding him
now. It's like hunting after a needle in a haystack.
So long as we had the dog there was something to go
by, for the beast would find his master through thick and
thin. Goggle knew that; and he's done the only thing
that could have saved him. He's a scout among a thousand—
that same Goggle; and no money, if we had it,
ought to be stinted to git him on our side. But he
-- 175 --
[figure description] Page 175.[end figure description]
knows the difference between guineas and continentals;
and, so long as Proctor pays him well with the one,
he'd be a mighty fool, being what he is, to bother himself
about the other.”
At that moment the shrill sounds of the trumpet came
to them from the camp, and put an end to the pursuit,
as it commanded their presence for other duties.
“There's the trumpet, boys; we must put back.
We can't stop to bother any longer with a single man;
and so little chance, too, of our catching him. We've
got other work. The general, you must know, is gitting
ready for a brush with the tories; and we have permission
to lick them well to-morrow at Baynton's Meadow.
If we do we shall all get rich; for Barsfield, they
say, is to meet them there with a grand supply of shoes
and blankets, muskets and swords, and a thousand other
matters besides, which they've got and we want. We
must git back at once; and yet, boys, it goes against
me to leave this scoundrel in the swamp.”
But there they were compelled to leave him in perfect
security. The Half-Breed reached his pony, which he
mounted at once and proceeded on his return. He had
no reason to be dissatisfied with events. He had tracked
his enemy, though his vengeance was still unsatisfied;
he had found out the secret pass to the rebel camp,
and he estimated highly the value of the discovery.
CHAPTER XIX.
The stirring tones of the trumpet, a long and lively
peal, resounded through the swamp. Its summons was
never unheeded by the men of Marion. They gathered
on all hands, and from every quarter of its
-- 176 --
[figure description] Page 176.[end figure description]
comprehensive recesses. From the hummock where they slept,
from the lakelet where they fished, from the green where
they leaped the frog, hurled the bar, or wrestled in emulous
sport, and in all the buoyancy of full life and
conscious strength. They were soon thick around the
person of the partisan, and nothing for some time could
be heard but the busy hum, the mingling voices of the
crowd, in all the confusion of that sort of preparation
and bustle which usually precedes the long march and
anticipated conflict. But the quick, sharp, yet low tones
of the “swamp fox” soon reduced to silence the commotion,
and brought to symmetry and order all that was
confusion before. His words were powerful, as they
were uttered in a voice of unquestionable command, and
with that unhesitating decision which, as it commands
respect from the foe, is always sure to secure confidence
in the follower. Strange, that in domestic life, and in
moments of irresponsible and unexciting calm, usually
distinguished by a halting and ungraceful hesitation of
manner, which materially took from the dignity of his
deportment, it was far otherwise when he came to command
and in the hour of collision. He possessed a
wonderful elasticity of character, which was never so apparent
as when in the time of danger. At such periods
there was a lively play of expression in his countenance,
denoting a cool and fearless spirit. His manner now
was marked by this elasticity; and, instead of anticipated
battle, one might have imagined that he was about to
promise to his men the relaxation and the delights of a
festival. But the sagacious among them knew better.
They had seen him drinking vinegar and water—his favourite
beverage—in greater quantities than usual; and
they knew, from old experience, that a rapid march and
a fierce struggle were at hand.
“Well, gentlemen,” said Marion, seeing his officers
and favourite men all around him, “if you are as tired
of the swamp as I am, you will rejoice at the news I
bring you. We are now to leave it.”
-- 177 --
[figure description] Page 177.[end figure description]
“Whither now, general?” asked Horry.
“Ah, that indeed is the question. We must leave it
first. That, gentlemen, is the requisition of our old friend,
Captain Barsfield, of his majesty's loyalists, who is now
mustering in force around us. He has instructions
to set dog upon dog, and hunt us out with our hounds
of neighbours—the tories. It is for you to say whether
we shall stand and wait their coming, or give them the
trouble of hunting the empty swamp after us. I am for
leaving them the ground, and looking out for other quarters
and a better business.”
Cries of “No—no—let us meet them—let us not fly
from any tory,” were heard on all hands; and Horry,
Singleton, and sundry others of the most favoured officers,
seriously interposed with suggestions of their
strength, and the ability and willingness of the men to
fight. The partisan smiled pleasantly as he listened to
their suggestions.
“You mistake me somewhat, gentlemen,” was his
quiet and general reply; “you mistake me much; and I
rejoice that you do so, as I am now so much the better
satisfied that your views and feelings accord with my
own. To leave the swamp does not mean to fly from
the enemy. Oh, no. I propose, on the contrary, that
we should leave the swamp in order to seek the enemy
before he shall be altogether ready for us. Why should
we wait until he has brought his men together?—why
wait until the tories from Waccamaw come in to swell the
number of our own rascals from Williamsburg?—and
why, of all things, wait until Captain Barsfield brings
his baggage-wagons with supplies to glut these greedy
wretches who expect them? I see no reason for this.”
“No—no, general,” was the response; “we are ready
for them—we need not wait.”
“Very well, gentlemen, as you say—we need not
wait; and, supposing that such would be your determination,
I have already completed my arrangements for
-- 178 --
[figure description] Page 178.[end figure description]
departure. We shall move off with midnight, and it is
expected, gentlemen, that you so speed in your duties
as to suffer no delay after that period in your departure.
Colonel Horry will have his squad in readiness to move
with me upon Baynton's Meadow, where we must take
post before the tories. The route and general orders he
will find in this paper. Singleton—”
The chief led the young officer aside.
“Singleton, I have special work for you, which calls
for all your activity. Take your whole corps of riflemen,
and select your horses. Leave to Captain Melton
all those of your men who are most cumbrous or may
least be relied upon. The duty is too important to be
intrusted to clumsy fingers.”
Singleton bowed, and Marion continued:—
“Proceed up the river road to Brook's Mills, and secure
the detachment which Watson had placed there.
Let none of them escape, if you can, to carry news
across the river. Let your return be by daylight, and
then take the road towards Berkeley's place, where
Barsfield has found lodgings. He will move to-morrow,
with the sun, on the route to Baynton's Meadow. He
must be met and beaten at all hazards. I will despatch
Captain Melton with thirty men for this purpose; and, in
order to make certain, as soon as you have surprised
the guard at Brooks', you will push down towards Berkeley's,
Kaddipah, or in whatever quarter Barsfield may
go. Melton probably will do the business; but, as it
will be in your subsequent route, you may as well prepare
to co-operate with him, should you be in season.
We must keep Barsfield from joining these tories, upon
whom I shall most probably fall by mid-day. This you
will find a difficult matter, as Barsfield fights well, and is
something of a soldier. You must surprise him if you
can. This done, you will proceed to scour the upper
road, with as much rapidity as comports with caution.
The scouts bring me word of a corps in that quarter,
-- 179 --
[figure description] Page 179.[end figure description]
which can be no other than Tarleton's. This scrawl
too comes from that dear old granny, Mother Dyson,
who lives near Monk's Corner. Hear what the good old
creature says—
“`Dare Gin'ral—There's a power of red-coats jist
guine down by the back lane into your parts, and they do
tell that it's arter you they're guine. They're dressed
mighty fine, and has a heap of guns and horses, and as
much provisions as the wagons can tote. I makes bold
to tell you this, gin'ral, that you may smite them, hip and
thigh, even as the Israelites smote the bloody Philistians
in the blessed book. And so, no more, dare gin'ral,
from your sarvant to command,
Betsy Dyson.
“`N. B.—Don't you pay the barer, gin'ral, for he's
owing me a power of money, and he's agreed with me
that what I gives him for guine down to you is to come
out of what he owes me. He's a good man enough,
and is no tory, but he ain't quite given to speaking the
truth always; and I'm sorry to tell you, gin'ral, that, in
spite of all I says to him, he don't mend a bit.
“`B. D.
“Quite a characteristic epistle, Singleton, and from
as true a patriot as ever lived—that same old Betsy
Dyson. These troops must be Tarleton's, and I doubt
not that he moves with the entire legion. He has
pledged himself to Cornwallis to force me to a fight, and
he comes to redeem his pledge. This we must avoid,
and we must therefore hurry to put these tories out of
the way before they can co-operate with the legion. I
will see to them. When you have done with Barsfield,
should Melton not have struck before you reach him,
you will take the upper track until you find Tarleton.
But you are to risk nothing—we cannot hope to fight him
with our whole force, and you must risk nothing with
your little squad. You must only hang about him, secure
intelligence of all his movements, and, where opportunities
occur, obstruct his steps, and cut off such
-- 180 --
[figure description] Page 180.[end figure description]
of his detachments as come in your reach. You can
worry the advance, and throw them back upon the foot,
for their horses will not hold a leg with the meanest
of your troop. We want time, and this will give it us—
and none of these risks should be taken unless you
encounter the legion before sunset to-morrow. After
that, you are simply to watch and report their movements.
Should I succeed in the attack at Baynton's to-morrow,
you will find me at the ferry at midnight.
Should you not, take it as proof of my failure, and look
for me at Snow's Island.”
A few other minor suggestions completed Singleton's
commission, and Marion proceeded in like manner to
detail to every officer, intrusted with command, the duties
which were before him. With Colonel Horry's squad,
he took to himself the task of routing the tories at Baynton's
Meadow. Twenty men, under Captain James, he
despatched to waylay the road leading from Waccamaw,
over which another small body of tories was expected to
pass; and this done, the rest of the day was devoted by
all parties to preparations for the movement of the night.
Promptness was one of the first principles in Marion's
warfare. With the approach of evening, the several
corps prepared for their departure. Saddles were taken
from the trees, on whose branches they had hung suspended
all around the camp—steeds were brought forward
from the little recesses where they browsed upon
the luxuriant cane-tops—swords waved in the declining
sunset, bugles sounded from each selected station, where
it had been the habit for the several squads to congregate,
and, as the sun went redly down behind the thick forest,
the camp was soon clear of all the active life which it
possessed before. All who were able were away on
their several duties; and but a few, the invalids and supernumeraries
alone, remained to take charge of themselves
and the furniture of the encampment.
Meanwhile, leaving the camp of the partisans, let us
-- 181 --
[figure description] Page 181.[end figure description]
return to Blonay. Relieved from the hot pursuit which
had been urged after him, he relaxed in the rapidity of
his movements, and made his way with more composure
out of the swamp. He had not slain his enemy, it is
true; but he had been quite as successful in discovering
the place of his retreat as his most sanguine hopes had
predicted. He had not merely seen his particular foe,
and found out his hiding-place, but he had discovered
the passage to one of those secret haunts of the
“swamp fox,” the knowledge of which, he doubted
not, would bring him a handsome reward from the British
officers, to whom Marion was becoming, daily, more
and more an object of hostile consideration. Satisfied,
therefore, with the result of his expedition, though lamenting
the unavoidable sacrifice which he had made of
his dog—his last friend, his only companion—he at once
took his way back to “Piney Grove,” where he hoped
to meet with Barsfield. It was not long before he stood
before the tory, who led him away at once into the
woods, anxious, from his intense hate to Mellichampe,
to learn how far the Half-Breed had been successful in
his search.
“Well, what have you done?—what have you seen?
Have you found the trail, Blonay? Have you discovered
the hiding-place of this reptile—these reptiles?”
“Well, cappin, there's no saying for certain, when
you're upon the trail of a good woodman. He's everywhere,
and then agin he's nowhere. Sometimes he's in
one place, sometimes in another; and sometimes it ain't
three minutes difference that he don't have a change.
Now the `swamp fox' is famous for drawing stakes,
and going there's no telling where.”
“True, true, I know all that. But it's for a good
scout to find him out, and track him through all his
changes. Now, what have you done in your search?
You have seen your enemy, have you not? Where have
you left him?—and, above all, have you seen the boy—
-- 182 --
[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]
he whom, of all others, I would have you see? What
of Mellichampe?”
“I seed him, cappin, but mighty far off—I know'd
him from what you tell'd me—I can't be mistaken.”
“Well!”
“But, cappin, there's a mighty heap of men with
Marion—more than a hundred.”
“Impossible! you dream!” responded the tory, in
astonishment.
“It's a gospel truth, sir, and they looked quite sprigh;
and the trumpet blowed, and there was a great gathering.
They had a fine chance of horses, too—some of
the finest I ever laid eyes on.”
“Ha, indeed! This will be work for Tarleton, who
must now be at hand. From Monk's Corner to Smoot's,
thirty miles—then here—he should be here to-morrow
noon, and I must hurry with the dawn for Baynton's—
yes—it must be at daylight.”
The tory thus muttered to himself, and the Half-Breed
duly treasured up every syllable. The speaker
proceeded again, addressing his companion—
“'Tis well—you have managed handsomely, Blonay;
but you have not yet said where the gathering took place.
Tell me the route you took, and give me a full description
of the spot itself, and all particulars of your adventure.”
But the Half-Breed, though exhorted thus, was in no
haste to yield any particulars to Barsfield. The casual
reference to Tarleton's approach, which had fallen from
the tory's lips in his brief soliloquy, had determined
Blonay to keep his secret for one who would most probably
pay him better; and, though he replied to, he
certainly did not answer, the question of his present employer.
“Well, now, cappin, there's no telling how to find the
place I went to. There's so many crooks and turns—
so many ins and outs—so many ups and downs, that it's
-- 183 --
[figure description] Page 183.[end figure description]
all useless to talk about it. It's only nose and eye that
can track it out for you; for, besides that I don't know
the names of any places in these parts, I could only find
it myself by putting my foot along the track, and taking
hold of the bushes which I broke myself. I could tell
you that you must take the road back to the left, then
strike across the old field to the right, then you come to
a little bay, and you go round that till you fall into a little
path, that leads you into the thick wood; then you
keep a little to the left agin, and you go on in this way
a full quarter before you come out into a valley; then—”
“Enough, enough—such a direction would baffle the
best scout along the Santee. We must even trust to
your own eyes and feet when the time comes to hunt
these reptiles, and I trust that your memory will not fail
you then.”
“Never fear, cappin,” responded the other, agreeably
satisfied to be let off so easily from a more precise description
of the route which he had taken. It is probable
that, with a greater force than that which he commanded,
and which was entirely inadequate to any such
enterprise, Barsfield, solicitous of distinction, and seeking
after his foe, would have compelled the guidance of
Blonay, and gone himself after the “swamp fox.” As
matters stood, however, he determined to pursue his old
bent, and seeking his tories at Baynton's Meadow, leave
to the fierce Tarleton the honour of hunting out the wily
Marion.
-- 184 --
CHAPTER XX.
[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]
Barsfield retired to his slumbers that night with
pleasant anticipations. Blonay again sought the woods,
and sleeplessly sought, by the doubtful moonlight, his
way into the same swamp recesses which he had traversed
through the day. His leading passion was revenge,
and he spared no pains to secure it. He could sleep
standing against a tree; and he seemed not even to need
repose at all. He was gone all night, yet appeared at
the mansion of Mr. Berkeley ready for his breakfast,
and seemingly as if he had never felt fatigue.
The two maidens the next morning stood conversing
in the piazza. Barsfield, with his corps, baggage-wagons
and all, had just departed. Blonay, too, had set off, but
in a different direction. Piney Grove was once more
left to its old, sweet quiet; and a painful restraint and a
heavy weight seemed taken from the heart of Janet
Berkeley with the absence of her father's guests.
“Well, Janet,” exclaimed the livelier Rose Duncan,
as they looked down the long avenue, and surveyed its
quiet, “I am heartily glad our military visiters are gone.
I am sick of big swords, big whiskers, and big feathers,
the more particularly indeed, as, with many of this sort
of gentry, these endowments seem amply sufficient to
atone for, and redeem, the most outrageous stupidity,
mixed with much more monstrous self-esteem. There
was not one of these creatures, now, that could fairly
persuade a body, even in the most trying country emergency,
to remember she had a heart at all. All was
stuff and stiffness, buttons and buckram; and when the
creatures did make a move, it was a sort of wire and
screw exhibition—a dreadful operation in mechanics, as
-- 185 --
[figure description] Page 185.[end figure description]
if a clumsy inventor, armed with thumbs rather than
fingers, and mortally apprehensive that his work would
go to pieces before he could get it safely out of his
hands, had wheeled it out, and was wheeling it in, soured
and sullen, from a consciousness that, in so wheeling it,
the rickety thing had not shown to advantage. And
these are soldiers?—Well, Heaven save us, I pray, as
much from their love as from their anger. The latter
might bayonet one, it is true; but I should as surely die
of the annoyance and ennui that would inevitably come
with the other. Look up, my dear cousin, and tell me
what you think.”
It was thus that the lively Rose Duncan discoursed
of the tory troop to her cousin. Janet replied quietly—
a pleasant but subdued smile touching her lips, softly
and sweet, as a faint blush of sunlight resting upon some
drooping flower by the wayside.
“And yet, my dear Rose, you have no reason to
complain: you certainly made a conquest of the young
lieutenant, Mr. Clayton; his eyes spoke eloquently
enough; and his mouth, whenever it was opened, was
full of the prettiest compliments. You must not be ungrateful.”
“Nor am I. I do not complain of, nor yet will I appropriate,
the `goods the gods provide me.' I take leave
to congratulate myself on their leaves-taking—all—not
to omit my simpering, sweet, slender Adonis, the gentle
lieutenant himself. Pshaw, Janet, how can you
suppose that I should endure such a sillabub sort of
creature? You must have pitied me, hearing, with no
hope of escape, his rhapsodies about music and poetry—
moonlight and bandana handkerchiefs; for he mixed
matters up in such inextricable confusion, that I could
have laughed in his face but that it required some effort
to overcome the stupid languor with which he possessed
me. You needn't smile, Janet—he did,—he was a
most delicate bore.”
-- 186 --
[figure description] Page 186.[end figure description]
“And you really desire me to believe, Rose, that he
has made no interest in your heart?” was the response
of Janet to all this tirade. The graver maiden of the
two seemed disposed to adopt some of the light humour
of her companion, and annoy her after her own fashion,
“Interest!—heart!—how can you talk such stuff,
Janet, and look so serious all the while? You should
be pelted with pine-burs, and I will undertake your
punishment before the day is well over. By-the-way,
talking of pine-burs, I am reminded, though I don't see
why, of the strange blear-eyed countryman. What a
curious creature, with that stiff, straight black hair—so
glossy black,—and those eyes that seem popping from
his head, and look of all colours,—and then the rigid,
yet loose fixture of his limbs, that seem like those of a
statue, drawn asunder, and left hanging by the merest
ligatures. What a queer creature!”
“He seems poor and humble,” replied Janet, “and
is probably affected mentally. He seems idiotic.”
“Not he—not he! His gaze is too concentrative
and too fixed to indicate a wandering intellect: then,
why his frequent conversations with that bull-necked
lover of yours, Barsfield? Did he not take him into
the woods when the countryman came back yesterday
evening, and keep him there a full hour? I tell you
what, Janet, that fellow's a spy: he's after no good
here; and, as I live, here he is, coming back full tilt
upon his crooked pony, that's just as queer and ugly as
himself.”
As she said, Blonay reappeared at this moment, and
the dialogue ceased accordingly between the maidens.
The Half-Breed grinned with an effort at pleasantness
as he bowed to them, and, speaking a few words to Mr.
Berkeley, as if in explanation of his return, he proceeded
to loiter about the grounds. The eyes of Rose
watched him narrowly, and with no favourable import;
but Blonay did not seem to heed her observation. He
-- 187 --
[figure description] Page 187.[end figure description]
now sauntered in the park, and now he leaned against a
tree in the pleasant sunshine; and, by his torpid habit
of body, seemed to justify Janet to her more lively cousin
in the opinion which she had uttered of his idiocy. But
the scout was never more actively employed than just
when he seemed most sluggish. He was planning the
sale of Marion's camp to Tarleton. He was loitering
about Piney Grove with the double object of being nigh
his enemy's hiding-place and of meeting with the legionary.
“He is a spy, Janet. He has been put here as a
watch over us and upon Mellichampe. Barsfield knows
Mellichampe to be rash, as he has shown himself, and
he has put that fellow here to look out for and shoot
him.”
Janet shuddered, and her eyes involuntarily turned to
the spot where, at a little distance, the Half-Breed stood
leaning against a tree. How imploring was the expression
of her eye! Could he have seen it, if such were
his purpose, he must have relented. Such was the
thought of Rose—such the hope of Janet. The scout
had seen that look—he had felt its expression.
“But where is he now, Janet?” was the question of
Rose a few moments after. He was gone, and so
stealthily they had not suspected his movement. The
Half-Breed was again upon the track of his enemy.
Barsfield, meanwhile, though dispensing with the attendance
of Blonay, did not fail to avail himself, in one
respect, of the information which the latter had given
him. The proximity of Marion in the swamp, with a
hundred men or more, aroused the tory to increased exertion,
and counselled the utmost prudence in his march,
as it showed the neighbourhood of so superior an enemy.
The arms, baggage, clothing, and ammunition,
intended to supply a large body of tories, and which were
intrusted to his charge, were of far more importance to
his present purposes than of real intrinsic value. Not
-- 188 --
[figure description] Page 188.[end figure description]
to deliver them safely into the hands of those who were
to employ them, and whom he was to employ, would be
to suffer dreadfully in the estimation of his British superiors,
and in his own personal interests. To have them
fall into the hands of the rebels, were to accumulate
evil upon evil, as no acquisition which the latter could
make at this period could be of greater importance.
It was well for him that these suggestions filled the
mind of the tory. He was a tolerable soldier on a small
scale, and was already well conversant with the partisan
warfare. He sent forward a few trusty horsemen to
reconnoitre and keep the advance; and, moving cautiously
and with watchful eyes, he hoped to make his
way without interruption. But he was not fated to do
so, as we shall see anon.
Major Singleton, having a more extended line of
country to traverse, and a greater variety of duties to
perform, started from the swamp at dusk, and some time
before the rest. Marion set forth by midnight; and
Captain Melton, after attending to some matters of minor
importance, led off his little corps an hour later.
Our attention will chiefly be given to this latter band, of
which Ernest Mellichampe was the first-lieutenant, and
Jack Witherspoon the orderly. By the dawn they found
themselves at one of the lower crossing-places upon the
river, probably that at which it would be the aim of
Barsfield to cross; but, as this was uncertain, it was
not the policy of Melton to await him there. The position
was by no means good, and the ground too much
broken for the free use of cavalry.
With the dawn, therefore, Melton moved his troop
slowly up the road, intending to place them in ambush
behind a thick wood which lay in their route, and which
had been already designated for this purpose. The road
ran circuitously through this wood, forming a defile,
around which a proper disposition of his force must
have been successful, and must have resulted in the
-- 189 --
[figure description] Page 189.[end figure description]
destruction or capture of the entire force of the tories.
The spot was well known to the partisans, and had been
determined upon, even before the party left the river, as
well adapted, beyond any other along the road, for the
contemplated encounter. It lay but seven miles off,
and one hour's quick riding would have enabled them to
reach and secure it. But Melton pursued a regular, or
rather a cautious gait, which, under other circumstances
and at another time, would have been proper enough.
But now, when the object was the attainment of a particular
station, a forced movement became essential, in
most part, to their success; certainly to that plan of
surprise which they had in view. Mellichampe more
than once suggested this to his superior officer; but the
latter was one of those persons who have solemn and
inveterate habits, from which they never depart. His
horse had but one gait, and to that he was accustomed.
His rider had but a single tune, and that was a dead
march. The consequence of these peculiarities was a
funeral movement on the present occasion, and no argument
of Mellichampe could induce Melton to urge the
advance more briskly. He cursed the monotonous
drone in his heart; and, biting his lips until the blood
started from them, he predicted to himself that the party
would be too late. And so indeed it happened. Barsfield,
whom the intelligence brought by Blonay had
prompted to renewed speed in his movements, had set
forth, as we have seen, by the dawn of day, and was
upon the road quite as soon as Melton, who had been
travelling half the night. Had the counsel of Mellichampe
been taken, the desired position would have
been gained easily by the partisans; for, as it lay a little
nearer to “Piney Grove” than to the swamps, and as
Barsfield, though urging his course forward with all due
rapidity, was unavoidably compelled to move slowly,
burdened as he was with his baggage-wagons, nothing
could have been more easy than to have attained it with
-- 190 --
[figure description] Page 190.[end figure description]
a proper effort. But Melton was not the man to make
an effort—he had no mind for an occasion; and the
force of habit, with him, was far more controlling than
any impulse from necessity. Such a man is no genius.
He stopped his troop here and there, to scour this or
that suspicious-looking growth of underwood—sent out
his scouts of observation, as if he had been engaged in
the vague and various duties of the forager, instead of
pushing forward with the single object—the performance
of the task which he had in hand. The consequence
of this blundering was foreseen, and partially
foretold, by the indignant Mellichampe, who could
scarcely restrain his anger within terms of courtesy.
Bitterly aroused, he was ready almost for revolt; and, but
for the presence of the danger, and the necessity of turning
his wrath in the more legitimate direction of his enemies,
it was apparent to all that, from the harsh tones and
stern looks interchanged by the two officers, an outbreak
must soon have followed. But the thoughts of all were
turned to other objects, as, suddenly, one of their troopers
rode up, informing Melton of the approach of Barsfield
close at hand. He had only time to marshal his
men on the side of a little copse and bay that lay between
himself and the foe, when the heavy tramp of
the cavalry and the creaking wheels of the baggage-wagons
were heard at a little distance. A timely resolution,
even then, though comparatively unprepared,
might yet have retrieved the error which the commander
of the troop had committed; but his looks
were now indecisive, his movements uncertain, and he
gave his orders for a change of position, imagining that
a better stand presented itself a little distance back.
“This must not be, Captain Melton!” cried Mellichampe,
indignantly. “It is quite too late, sir, to think
of any such change. A retrograde movement, full in the
face of an advancing enemy, will have the effect of a retreat
upon our troop, and give the enemy all the
-- 191 --
[figure description] Page 191.[end figure description]
advantage of our panic and confusion, together with the courage
and confidence which our seeming flight must inspire
in them. We cannot change now, and we must make the
best of our position. Had my advice been minded—”
He was interrupted as the close sounds of the advancing
tories met his ears. Melton saw the impossibility
of any change now, and the discovery on his part
produced in his mind all the feelings of surprise and
discomfiture which he had planned for the reception of
his foe. He gave his orders, it is true; but he did not
look the officer to his men, and they did not feel with
him. Not so with Mellichampe; the few words which
had passed in the hearing of the troop between him
and his commander—the air of fierce decision which
his features wore—the conscious superiority which they
indicated—were all so many powerful spells of valour,
which made the brave fellows turn their eyes upon him
as upon their true leader. And so he was. The imbecility
of Melton became more conspicuous as the
moment of trial approached. He halted, hung back,
as the enemy entered upon the little defile in which only
it could be attacked; and thus exposed his men, when
the attack was made, to all the disadvantages arising from
a suffered surprise. It was then that the impatient
blood of Mellichampe, disdaining all the restraints of
discipline, urged him forward in the assault with a fierce
shout to his men, and a scornful jeer almost in the ears
of his commander, as, driving his good steed before
him, he advanced to the charge, which he made with so
much force and impetuosity as at once to stagger the
progress of the tories. Barsfield was just then emerging
from the pass—a little cornfield, with its worm-fence
enclosure, lay on one hand, and, on the other, the woods
were open and free from undergrowth. It was here that
Melton's men had been posted, not so advantageously
as they would have been had they reached the spot
which Marion had designated for them; but sufficiently
-- 192 --
[figure description] Page 192.[end figure description]
well to have rendered the attack successful under a spirited
charge such as that made by Mellichampe. But
the information which Barsfield had received from Blonay
had made him extremely cautious, as we have already
seen, and he had properly prepared himself
against, and was on the look-out for, assaults like the
present. With the first appearance of the enemy, his
men were ordered to display themselves in open order;
the wagons were suffered to fall behind, and were carried
back under the escort of a single dragoon to the
spot from which they had started in the morning. To this
effect the instructions of Barsfield had been already
given. Free and unencumbered, the tory met his enemy
boldly, and received him with a discharge of pistols.
The steed of Mellichampe was at this moment careering
within a few paces of him. The sabre of the youth
waving above his head, and, with a bitter smile, rising in
his stirrups, he cried out, as he prepared to cross weapons
with his enemy—
“Dog of a tory, we have a clear field now! There
are none to come between us. Strike, villain, and strike
well; for, by my father's blood, I will give you no quarter!”
Barsfield calmly seemed to await his approach, and
exhibited no lack of courage: yet his sabre was unlifted—
his bridle lay slackened in his hand; and, but
for his erect posture and firm seat, it might be supposed
that he was a mere looker-on in the affray. He replied
to the furious language of his youthful opponent in tones
and language as fierce.
“You may swear by your own blood soon, boy, or I
much mistake your chances.”
The sabre of the youth glared in his face at this
reply, and the movement of the tory was made in another
instant with all the rapidity of thought. His horse,
under the quick impulse of a heavy bit, was brought
round in a moment: in another, a huge pistol was drawn
-- 193 --
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
from his holsters, and the careering steed of Mellichampe
received the bullet meant for his master in his
own breast. He fell forward upon his knees, made an
imperfect effort to rise, and the next moment plunged
desperately and struggled almost under the feet of Barsfield's
horse. A few seconds sufficed for Mellichampe's
extrication; and he was barely in time, by throwing up
his sabre, to arrest the stroke of his enemy's. On foot
he now pressed forward upon Barsfield, and sought to
close so nearly in with him as to make it difficult for
him to employ his sabre, unless by shortening it too
greatly to permit of his using it with any advantage.
But the tory saw his design, and immediately backed
his steed. Mellichampe pursued him, with his accustomed
rashness, and must certainly have been slain by
the tory, who had now drawn another pistol from his
holster, when Witherspoon, who had been hotly engaged,
but had seen with anxiety the contest between the
two enemies, now rushed between; and, setting the
huge and splendid horse which he rode directly in the
teeth of that of Barsfield, the shock of their meeting
threw the latter completely upon his haunches, and nearly
unseated his rider. The sabres of Barsfield and Witherspoon
then clashed hurriedly, and, though chafed to be
robbed of his prey even by his friend, Mellichampe was
compelled to forbear his particular game, and turn his
attention entirely to his own safety. A horse plunged
by him riderless, which he was fortunate enough to
seize, and he was mounted opportunely just as a fresh
charge of the tories separated Witherspoon from his
opponent, whom he had pressed back into the defile,
and which drove the sergeant, in his turn, down upon the
original position of the attacking party. The charge
was for a few moments irresistible, and two or three of
the men fairly turned their horses and fled from before
it. Captain Melton, seeing this, gave the order to retreat,
and the trumpet sounded the quick and mortifying
-- 194 --
[figure description] Page 194.[end figure description]
signal. But the voice of the youthful Mellichampe
sounded even above the shrill alarum of the instrument,
as, with a desperate blow with his sabre, he struck the
recreant trumpeter to the earth.
“Shame to you, men of Marion!—shame!—do you
fly from the tories of Waccamaw? Do you give back
before the Winyah clay-eaters? Follow me!”
The cry of Witherspoon was yet more characteristic,
and, perhaps, far more potential.
“You forget, boys, sartainly, that the tories find it
natural to be licked; and if they was to lick you now,
that's licked them so often, they wouldn't know what to
do for joy. Turn to, and let's lick 'em again!”
The call was not made in vain. True valour is quite
as contagious as fear, since it is always quite as earnest.
The partisans heard the words of their leaders,—they
saw the headlong rush of their steeds; and they rushed
forward also with as generous an emotion. They were
received with a front quite as firm, and a spirit not less
forward than their own. The tories, too, had been inspirited
by their success in the first shock, and, with
loud cheers, they prepared for the second. The encounter,
as it was made just at the mouth of the defile,
a circumscribed position, where each man found his
opponent, had something of the character of the mixed
fight of the middle ages. The rush was tremendous;
the strife, for a few moments, terrible. But all in vain
did the eye of Mellichampe distinguish, and his spirit
burn once more to contend with his deadly enemy.
They were kept asunder by the tide of battle. The
ranks were broken; the fight became pell-mell; and,
on a sudden, while each man was contending with his
enemy, a fierce cry of triumph and of vengeance burst
from the lips of Barsfield himself. Mellichampe, though
closely engaged with a stout dragoon, suffered his eye
to seek the spot whence the sound arose, and at once
beheld its occasion. Barsfield had been contending
-- 195 --
[figure description] Page 195.[end figure description]
with a slender, but fine-looking youth, whom he had
disarmed. The hand of his conqueror had torn him
from his horse with all the strength of a giant. The
youth lay at his feet, resting upon one hand, and looking
partly upon his foe and partly round, as if imploring
succour from his friends. Mellichampe distinguished
the features instantly, though smeared with blood. They
were those of Gabriel Marion, the nephew of the general,
a youth of nineteen only.
“He shall not die, by Heaven!” cried Mellichampe
aloud; in the same moment, with a daring effort, drawing
his horse back from the encounter with the enemy with
whom he was engaged, as if in flight,—a movement
which, encouraging the other to press forward, disordered
his guard, and placed him at disadvantage.
Meeting his stroke, Mellichampe set it readily aside;
then, striking in turn at the head of his opponent, he
put spurs to his horse, without looking to see what had
been the effect of his blow, and, passing quickly beyond
him, rushed forward to meet with Barsfield. But, as he
approached, he saw that nothing could be done for the
youth, whose hand was uplifted,—a frail defence—in opposition
to his conqueror's weapon.
“Stay, Barsfield,—strike him not, scoundrel, or look
for the vengeance—”
But, ere the speech was finished, the youth leaped
once more to his feet, and the weapon meant for his
head passed over it. Young Marion then grasped the
sword-arm of his enemy; but, drawing his remaining
pistol in the same moment, Barsfield shot him through
the breast. The cry of grief on the one hand, and of
triumph on the other, contributed greatly to discourage
the partisans. That moment was fatal to several more
in their ranks, and the disparity of force was now in
favour of the tories. They were soon conscious of the
fact, and pressed upon their enemies. Stung with
shame, Mellichampe made a desperate effort, and, nobly
-- 196 --
[figure description] Page 196.[end figure description]
seconded by a few, threw himself in the path of the
enemy, and bravely disputed every inch of ground,
yielding it only under the pressure of numbers.
“I cannot fly, Witherspoon,—speak not of it, I tell
you. I know that the odds are against us, but we must
only strike the oftener.”
“Well, Airnest, jist as you say. You know best if
you like it; and so, knock away's the word.”
Two or three brief sentences between the friends
conveyed the difficulties and dangers of the scene and
the spirit of the combatants. The partisans fought well,
but they grew weaker in numbers and individual strength
with every movement of the protracted battle. They
had not well calculated the difference of personal capacity
for strife and endurance of fatigue between drilled
men and volunteers; and, though the spirit of the latter,
for a time, is more than a match for the hardening practice
of the former, yet it very seldom endures so well.
“I will perish on this field—I will not leave it, and
show my back to that scoundrel! Come on, men!—
come on, Witherspoon!—let us pluck up spirit for another—
a last—a desperate charge. I must meet with
Barsfield now; there are too few on either side to keep
us long apart.”
A brief pause in the combat, as if by tacit consent,
enabled Mellichampe, in the breathing time which it afforded,
to convey this suggestion and resolve to the few
fierce spirits still gathering around him—driven back,
but not yet defeated—dispirited, perhaps, but far from
subdued. They freely pledged themselves to the resolution,
and, with a cheer, as if they had been going to a
banquet, they drove the rowels into their jaded steeds,
and joined once more in the struggle. But the weapons
had scarcely crossed, and the close strife had not yet
begun, when the shrill notes of a bugle rang through
the wood to the left of the combatants.
“It is Singleton's trumpet,” cried Mellichampe aloud
-- 197 --
[figure description] Page 197.[end figure description]
to his men; and a cheer of encouragement involuntarily
went up from their lips as they listened to the grateful
music. In the next moment, at full gallop, the re-enforcement
of Singleton came plunging forward to the
rescue from the woods on every side, while the fulltoned
voice of their gallant leader shouted to the fainting
combatants to strike on without faltering. Barsfield,
so lately confident of his triumph over his enemy, and
of his vengeance upon the one foe in particular about
to be realized, was compelled to forego the prey almost
within his grasp.
“Now may the hell have him that fights for him!”
cried the disappointed tory, as, with the first appearance
of Singleton's troop, he ordered his own bugles to sound
the retreat. Clearing, with terrible blows, the few enemies
that were yet clinging around him, Barsfield
wheeled furiously in his flight, while close at his heels,
pursuing to the very gates of Piney Grove, but not fast
enough to overtake him, Singleton urged forward his
wearied animals, in the fond hope of annihilating a foe so
insolent, and who promised to become so troublesome.
CHAPTER XXI.
Barsfield had neither ridden so far, nor in such
haste, as the partisans that morning. This alone saved
him. His horses were inferior; and, but for the fatigue
which his enemies had undergone, he must have been
overtaken. The judicious disposition which the tory had
made of his baggage-wagons, in sending them back to
Piney Grove at the first appearance of danger, also contributed
greatly to the facility of his movements; and,
unimpeded by the necessity of guarding them, and not
-- 198 --
[figure description] Page 198.[end figure description]
much breathed by the stirring encounter through which
they had passed, the stout horses which his men bestrode,
though not so swift as those of the Americans,
were yet better able to make headway in the flight.
The pursuit was hotly urged, though unsuccessful.
The horses of Singleton were too much jaded with the
hard ride of twenty odd miles which they had taken,
and could not be made to keep up even with the fagged
animals of Mellichampe's little troop. Barsfield escaped
them, and safely passed through the avenue of Piney
Grove before the pursuing party came in sight. The
baggage-wagons of the tory had just arrived, and, with a
sagacious disposition of his force, which indicated abilities
worthy of a better cause, he proceeded to make effective
arrangements for the reception of Singleton's
troop, which was quite too large to suffer him to think
that so enterprising a partisan would draw them off without
a farther attempt upon him. Dismounting his men
rapidly, therefore, he threw open the doors of the basement
story of the mansion; and, without leave asked
or given—the exigency was too pressing for mere courtesies—
he made his dragoons stable their steeds in the
spacious apartments. Emptying the baggage-wagons of
their contents, he armed his men with the muskets, of
which there was sufficient provision; and, having secured
the residue of their stores within the walls of
the dwelling-house, he proceeded, to the great disquiet
of Mr. Berkeley and the terror of the young ladies, to
close the doors and make a fortress of the family mansion.
The upper rooms were barricaded with chairs
and tables; and, watchful at all the windows, the troopers
stood ready with their muskets, peering forth conspicuously
and warningly in all directions from the
building.
This was scarcely done when the partisans came
down the avenue. It was with no little vexation that
Singleton surveyed this prospect. His eye at a moment
-- 199 --
[figure description] Page 199.[end figure description]
beheld the difficulties of his situation, and the danger of
any assault upon a foe so well prepared. To rush
on brick walls, and be met by musket-bullets, without
being able to obtain sight of the defenders, was not the
part of a discreet valour; and yet, to leave an enemy
so enfeebled as Barsfield was without farther efforts to
overcome or destroy him, was still more irksome to a
brave spirit like that of the officer in command. The
rash and headlong Mellichampe, however, thinking only
of his personal hostility to Barsfield, could hardly be restrained.
He was for immediately charging and trying
the weight of an axe upon the doors of the dwelling.
“Ay, ay; but how to get there?” cried the more sagacious
Singleton. “No, no, Mellichampe, we must
try some better plan—some safer enterprise. To cross
the yard in the teeth of those muskets would be certain
death to nearly every man who makes the effort, and we
are but too poorly provided with soldiers to be thus profligate.
We must think of something else; and, in order
to have time for it, let us send a message to the
tory. Let us see what fair words will do, and the
promise of good quarter. Besides, we must make
some arrangements for getting the family out of the
house before making any assault.”
The truth of these suggestions was unquestionable;
and Mellichampe volunteered to bear the despatches,
but Singleton refused him.
“No, no; the risk will be great to you; and the tory
hates you too well to stop at trifles. He might be
tempted to some desperate act if you are to be the messenger.
I prefer Witherspoon.”
“Jist as you say, major; I'm ready, as the alligator
said to the duck. I'm ready; though I ain't a great
speaker, yet I can tell Barsfield what he's to reckon on
if he don't come to tarms. If so be all I've got to say
is to tell him he'll be licked if he don't give up and surrender,
I can do that easy enough,” was the prompt
speech of the scout.
-- 200 --
[figure description] Page 200.[end figure description]
“You know there's danger, Witherspoon,” said Singleton.
“This fellow Barsfield may not think it becoming
to treat with a rebel; and he may send a bullet
through the head of a courier and think no sin of it.”
“Well, he'd be a mean skunk to do sich a thing,
major; that's agin all the civilities of war. I knows
there's a danger, but I can't help it. `Man that is born
of woman,' says the scripture—I don't rightly call to
mind the other part—but it means that we've all got to
die some time or other, and 'taint the part of a brave
man to be always dodging from danger. I must take
my chance, major, so git your paper ready.”
Singleton pencilled brief but honourable proposals
to the tory, pledging the enlargement of himself and
party on parole if they would surrender; and denouncing
otherwise the well-known horrors of a storm. A
permission, in the event of his refusal to surrender, was
extended to Mr. Berkeley and his family, but no other
person, to leave the beleaguered dwelling. Witherspoon
received the paper, and prepared to depart.
“Mayn't I carry my rifle, major?—I don't feel altogether
natural when I don't have it, partic'larly when
I'm to go seek my enemy.”
“No arms, Witherspoon; nothing but the flag.”
He handed the weapon to Mellichampe with no small
reluctance.
“Take care of her, Airnest; she's a sweet critter,
and makes a crack that's born music, and I loves her.”
With no more words, and with a single glance towards
the youth, that spoke volumes of affection warmly
and truly felt, the scout, without any hesitation, turned
away from the park where this conference was carried
on; and, waving his handkerchief aloft—the substitute
for a flag—he proceeded on his way of peril to the
dwelling.
“I see a rebel with a flag!” said one of the tories
who first discerned the despatch to his commander.
“Shall I shoot him, sir?”
-- 201 --
[figure description] Page 201.[end figure description]
The hesitation of Barsfield to reply was almost a
permission, and the man had his gun lifted and ready;
but the tory captain thought it more proper or more prudent
to forbear.
“No; let him come: and you, Clayton, receive him
at the entrance. But see that no other approaches.
Fire at the first man who appears within reach of your
muskets.”
In an inner room, in the presence of the family,
Barsfield received the messenger. His reply to the
message was one of scornful disdain.
“Well, now, cappin,” said Thumbscrew, coolly,
“you'd better not send any sich word to the major, for
he's old hell with his grinders, and it'll be pretty bad for
you if he once gits them into your flesh. They'll meet
now, I tell you, if he does.”
“You are answered,” was the temperate reply of the
tory, who then turned to Mr. Berkeley.
“The rebel graciously accords you permission, with
your family, to leave the dwelling, Mr. Berkeley. You
are at perfect liberty to do so, if you please; but, if you
will rely on my defences, there is no danger: the place
is perfectly tenable.”
“No, no, dear father,—let us go—let us fly. There
is danger; and, even if there be none, it is no place
for us.”
“But where shall we go, my daughter?” said the old
man, utterly bewildered.
“To the overseer's house, father. It is out of the
reach of all danger, and there is room enough for us
all.”
They came forth with Witherspoon, who led them at
once into the park, where Mellichampe received and
escorted them to the dwelling-house of the overseer, a
rude but spacious building, that stood in a field running
along at a little distance to the west of the avenue,
within sight and hearing of the mansion-house, but
-- 202 --
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
beyond reach of fire-arms from that quarter. It was a
moment of sweet sorrow, that which Mellichampe and
Janet enjoyed in the brief interview which the necessities
of the time permitted them. The cheerful and
stimulating sounds of the trumpet recalled him to his
duties, and, with a word of encouragement and hope,
which was answered by her tears, he hurried away to
the field of strife, and the presence of the energetic
Singleton.
“Lieutenant Mellichampe, take your men, throw
down yonder panels, and cross into the garden; keep
them under cover where the shelter is sufficient to conceal
your movement, and have your horses then fastened
at the foot of the hill rising on the right. A couple of
sentries will guard them there. This done, return to
the post assigned you in the garden, covering the dwelling
on the rear with your rifles.”
Mellichampe moved promptly, in obedience to his
orders, and soon succeeded in securing possession of
the garden. Dividing his command in such a manner
as to place a similar body of men in watch over each
quarter of the building, Singleton proceeded to try the
effect of his rifles upon such of the defenders as were
more than necessarily exposed. His men were dismounted
for this purpose, their horses secured in safety,
and each man was put in possession of his tree.
To the rifles of Singleton the muskets of Barsfield's
party readily responded, and for a few moments the
din and uproar were continued with no little spirit. The
musketry soon ceased, however. Barsfield discovered
that it was not his policy to risk his men, two of whom
had fallen in this overture, in any such unequal conflict.
The certainty of the rifle, in such hands as those of the
partisans, was too great a danger to be wantonly opposed
by musket-men. There was no necessity for any
such exposure on the part of the besieged: all that they
were required to do was to keep watch upon the area
-- 203 --
[figure description] Page 203.[end figure description]
below, and prevent the nearer approach of the beleaguering
party. After a few rounds, therefore, had shown
what results must follow such a combat, Barsfield forbade
the firing from the house, and commanded that
his men should lie close, only watching for an occasional
exposure of the persons of their enemies within
certain reach of their muskets.
The bugle of Singleton called up his officers. They
assembled, as at a central and safe point, at the overseer's
dwelling, to which the family of Mr. Berkeley had
retired. A small room was assigned the partisans, and
there they carried on their hurried deliberations.
“This is child's play, gentlemen,” said Singleton;
“can we find no better mode of dislodging these rascals?
Our shot do little good now. There is no object
to aim at. Barsfield has discovered the difference
between rifled and smooth bore, and keeps too snug to
suffer any harm at our hands. We must think of something,
gentlemen; and it must be done quickly, or not
at all, for Tarleton's on the road, and we must beat
Barsfield by noon, or leave him. What do you say?
I should be pleased, gentlemen, to have your suggestions.”
“Many men, many minds.” It would be needless to
say, that there must be various counsels when there are
many counsellors. Each had his notion and his plan,
but to all there were objections. Humphries, at length,
proposed to fire the dwelling. All agreed that this was
the wisest suggestion—the effective plan, if it could
only be made available. But who was to carry the fire
to the fortress,—who was to cross the yard, in the teeth
of thirty muskets, and “bell the cat?”—and what would
be the chances of his life, or of his success, in the endeavour?
This was the question, to which there was
no ready answer. It was obvious enough that any one
approaching the building with such a purpose, or with
any purpose, as an enemy, must be shot down by its
-- 204 --
[figure description] Page 204.[end figure description]
defenders. A silence of several minutes followed the
utterance of these views by Singleton. The silence was
broken by one—a slender, pale, and trembling youth,
who emerged from behind the commander. His lips
quivered as he spoke, but it was not with fear. His eye
kindled with light, even while its long dark lashes seemed
suffused with the dews of a tender heart.
“I will go, major,” were his quickly-uttered words.
“You, Lance?—why, boy, you will be shot down
instantly. Impossible!—you must not think of it!” was
the imperative reply.
“But, sir, I can run fast: I can first get to the fallen
tree, and so quickly, I don't think they can hit me in that
time; and then the next push is for the piazza. Once
I get under the piazza, I will be safe:” and the lad
trembled with his own earnestness.
“Perhaps you might, Lance, but it would be impossible
to preserve your fire in such a race, and the risk
is too great to be undertaken with such a prospect.”
Singleton was imperative, but the youth continued to
urge his plan. At that moment a servant, entering the
apartment, beckoned Mellichampe away. He was sent
for by Janet, who received him in the adjoining room.
“I have heard,” said she, “some of your deliberations
without intending it: but your voices are loud,
and these are thin partitions. The youth must not be
suffered to go to certain death. I understand your difficulty,
and think it may be overcome. I have a plan
for you.”
“You!” exclaimed Mellichampe, with a smile.
“Yes: look at this bow and these arrows,” pointing
to a noble shaft, which leaned in the corner of the
room; “they were the gift of a Catawba warrior to my
father when I was but a child. They are as good as
new. They will convey combustibles to the roof,—
they will do what you desire.”
“But your old home—your family dwelling, Janet,—
-- 205 --
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
sacred to you as your birthplace, and as the birthplace
of your mother—” was the suggestion of her lover.
“Sacred as my home, as my own and my mother's
birthplace, it is yet doubly sacred as my country's.
Place your combustibles upon these arrows, and send
them to the aged roof of that family mansion; and I
shall not joy the less to see it burn because it is my
father's, and should be mine, when I know that in its
ruin the people and the cause I love must triumph. God
forbid and keep me from the mean thought that I shall lose
by that which to my country must be so great a gain.”
The wondering and delighted Mellichampe could only
look his admiration. She stood before him, with her
dark eye flashing, but suffused, and her lip trembling
with the awful patriotism and warm feeling in her soul,
as the very imbodiment of liberty itself,—that divine
imbodiment whose substance is truth, whose light is
life, whose aim is a perfect humanity.
“Dearest Janet,—worthy of adoration as of love,—
your self-sacrificing spirit is a rebuke to my own heart.
I would have saved that mansion for your sake, though
even my enemy—my deadly enemy—should escape his
just punishment thereby.”
“Go, Ernest,” she responded, “go!—you have no
time to lose. Let not that noble youth expose himself
to certain death. Take the arrows, and do not let the
hand tremble and the eye turn aside when you direct
them to that sacred roof; it is now devoted to our
country.”
He seized the bow and arrows, carried her hand to
his lips, and rushed back to the place of conference.
Singleton was overjoyed when the primitive weapon was
put into his hands.
“Happy chance!—and who has given you these,
Mellichampe?”
“A woman!”
“What, Miss Berkeley?”
-- 206 --
[figure description] Page 206.[end figure description]
“Yes.”
“And with a knowledge of their probable use?”
“With the avowed purpose of destroying by them
her father's dwelling and her own.”
“Noble creature!” was the only exclamation of Singleton.
The thoughts of his mind wandered away, at
that instant, without his power to control them; and, in
his mind's eye, he surveyed the form of another self-sacrificing
maiden,—how different from Janet Berkeley
in form and character, but, oh! very like in soul.
CHAPTER XXII.
With the overruling judgment of a master spirit, Singleton
immediately proceeded to make his arrangements.
To Mellichampe he gave orders to remount his men;
and, leading them around the park, once more gain possession
of the avenue. Here he was to await the result
of the experiment, and to intercept the flight of the tories
when they should be driven out from their fortress by the
progress of the flames. Humphries was commanded to
scatter his riflemen around the mansion, keeping close
watch upon every movement of the garrison within:
while two or three of the men, more experienced in such
matters, were occupied in preparing the combustibles
which were to be fastened to the lighted arrows. Singleton
himself took charge of the bow; and, laying
aside his sword and every weapon which was calculated
to encumber his movement, himself prepared to discharge
the more arduous part of the proposed experiment.
His commands were nearly all instantly and
simultaneously executed. A lively blast of the bugle,
-- 207 --
[figure description] Page 207.[end figure description]
from various quarters of the grounds, gave token of
concerted preparation. Arming himself with the prepared
arrows, the partisan advanced.
“Lie close, men! lie close!” he cried, as he saw
several of them emerging from shelter; “Lie close and
watch the windows. Go back, Lance, and have your
rifle in readiness.”
With these words he advanced quickly but stealthily,
and with a heedful movement, from one tree to another,
until, reaching the inner limit of the park, he looked
down upon the yard immediately around the dwelling,
and saw that from that part he could certainly send his
arrows to the roof. Coolly preparing himself, therefore,
while all behind him were breathlessly watching,
now their commander and now the dwelling, Singleton
fell back for an instant, and closely observed the probable
distance and height of the roof; then advancing to
the tree, and planting his right foot firmly behind him,
he drew the long arrow to the head, until the missiles
which were attached to it grazed against the bended
back of the elastic yew. In another instant, and the
meteor-like shaft went whizzing and kindling through the
air, darting on with a true aim and unvarying flight, until,
to the delight of the watching partisans, it buried itself,
blazing all the while, in the very bosom of the
shingled roof. A long redoubled shout of applause followed
the achievement, and but a few moments had
elapsed when Barsfield became conscious of the new
danger which awaited him.
“Ha!” he cried, as he beheld the position which
Singleton had taken behind the tree, which, however,
only in part concealed him. “Send me a score of bullets
at the rebel, or he will smoke us out like so many
rats. Shoot, men! take good aim, and stop him before
it be too late.”
A dozen muskets poured forth their contents in the
direction of the daring partisan. The bullets flew all
-- 208 --
[figure description] Page 208.[end figure description]
around him where he stood, but he stood unhurt. The
moment after their fire was favourable to another effort;
and, cool and thoughtful, Singleton was soon ready with
a second shaft. Once more the whizzing arrow went
blazing as fiercely and furiously as the first, and aimed
with equal judgment at a different portion of the roof.
Another and another followed in quick succession, in
spite of the successive volleys of musketry which poured
around him from the dwelling. In a little while the
success of the experiment was no longer questionable.
“It burns! it burns!” was the cry from the surrounding
partisans, and the surface of the roof was now
sprinkled with jets of flame, that flickered along the
dry shingles, gathering new bulk with every instant, and
spreading themselves away in thin layers of light, until
the air, agitated into currents by the progress of the
fire, contributed to send it in huge volumes, rolling on
and upward into the sky. Shout upon shout from the
lips of the partisans attested their joy, and congratulated
their successful captain, through whose fearless and
skilful agency the design had been effected. Their
cheering cries, more than any thing besides, announced
to the tories the new dangers of their situation, and the
desperate position in which they stood. Singleton well
conceived what might be their course, and gave his orders
accordingly.
“Riflemen! stand by to watch the scuttle. Look
out for the roof! Mark the scuttle, and shoot closely!”
Ascending to the garret by the aid of a little ladder
which always stood there for such a purpose, Barsfield
himself proceeded to throw open the scuttle, when he
was warned of the watchfulness of the besiegers by the
sharp crack of the rifle and the instantaneous passage
of the bullet through the scuttle door, and just above
his head.
“Too quick, Lance! too quick by half!” cried Singleton
to the precipitate youth, who had fired before the
-- 209 --
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
tory's head had made its appearance. The boy sank
back abashed and mortified. Barsfield, meanwhile, descended
with much greater rapidity than satisfaction, and
the dense smoke rushed down the aperture after him,
filling the chambers with its suffocating and increasing
masses.
“It burns like tinder, and we have no water,” said
Clayton.
“And if we had,” cried Barsfield, fiercely, “who
in the devil's name would apply it under the fire from
those rifles?”
“And what are we to do?” cried one of the subordinates,
imboldened by the near approach of a common
danger; “Shall we stay here to be smoked alive like so
many wild beasts in a hole?”
“Should we not now surrender, Captain Barsfield, if
we can get fair terms of quarter?” was the suggestion
of Clayton.
“What! beg terms of that youngster? Never!”
fiercely responded the tory. “I will perish first!”
“Ay, but we shall all perish with you, and I see no
good reason for that, Captain Barsfield,” was the calmer
speech of Clayton. “We should apply for quarters to
any youngster, rather than be smoked alive.”
“And, if you did apply, would they hear us, think
you? Would they grant us the terms which we have
already refused with insult and disdain. No, no, Lieutenant
Clayton; they would cry `Tarleton's quarters' in
your ears in answer to all your applications, and taunt
you, while your limbs dangled upon yonder oak, with
our own good doings of the same sort.”
“What then? Are we to stay here and perish by a
death so horrid? Shall we not rather sally forth and
fight?”
“Yes! fight them to the last, of course,” was the response
of Barsfield. “There is a mode, and but one
that I can see, of getting out from these difficulties,
-- 210 --
[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
I've escaped a worse chance than the present; and,
with a good sword and stout heart, I fear not to escape
from this.”
“Speak, Barsfield, how?” cried Clayton, impatiently.
“Mount our horses and cut our way through the
rebels. They have dismounted and put their horses out
of ready reach; and, if we cut our way through them,
we shall get start enough to keep ahead of them before
they can mount.”
“Ay, ay—a good enough plan, were we mounted;
but the first step that carries us beyond these walls puts
us in the eye of their rifles. How shall we get to our
horses, unless by first exposing ourselves in the piazza?”
“You are but young as a soldier, Lieutenant Clayton,”
was the sarcastic response of the tory captain,
“and have much to learn in the way of war and its
escapes. I will show you how we shall reach the
horses without exposing ourselves, until we rush forth,
armed, and upon their backs, prepared for fight as well
as our enemies. Every man will then be required to
rely upon himself; and, for the hindmost, God help him!
for we may not. Where's Fenwicke?” he concluded,
looking round among the men, whose faces the crowding
smoke was already beginning to obscure.
“Here, sir,” cried the man, coming forward.
“Unsling your axe and throw off your jacket,” cried
the tory, coolly: “shut your mouth, if you please, sir;
you can do nothing so long as you keep it thus ajar. Is
your axe ready?”
“It is, sir,” was the reply; and, under the direction
of Barsfield, the soldier proceeded to tear away the
washboard which fastened down the edges of the floor,
and then to rip up two or three boards of the floor itself—
a duty soon performed by the vigorous axeman. By
this time, however, the smoke had become dense and
almost insupportable; and the moment the aperture was
made in the floor, admitting them to the lower or
-- 211 --
[figure description] Page 211.[end figure description]
basement story, where the horses had been stabled, with a
rapidity that defied all the efforts of their cooler commander,
the tories, huddled upon one another, hurried
and tumbled through, glad to escape from their late predicament,
even with the chances before them of a hopeless
and desperate struggle such as Barsfield had painted
to their eyes. The stern calmness of their leader,
during all this proceeding, was creditable in the highest
degree. He exhibited no hurry—no apprehension,—
none of that precipitate haste which defeats execution,
while it exhibits deficient character. When he got
below, he himself saw that each man had mounted his
proper steed and stood in readiness before he took the
bridle of his own. He then asked if all were ready:
he placed himself in the advance, gave orders to one of
the men to turn the latch, but not to unclose the door—
a duty which he reserved to himself, and then addressed
them in terms of the most encouraging composure.
“Have no fear, men! but each man, as he passes
through the door, will at once strike for the entrance of
the avenue. The brick foundations of the piazza and
the smoke will conceal you for a few moments. I will
go first from this hole, but I will be the last to move.
Lieutenant Clayton will follow me out, but he will lead
the way to the avenue. Follow him; keep cool—keep
straight forward, and only turn when you turn to strike
a foe. Are all ready?”
“Ay, sir, all ready!” was the reply. With the words,
with his own steed behind him, Barsfield, on foot, led
him forth, and was the first to emerge into the light.
He was not instantly perceived by the assailants, such
was the cloud of smoke between them and the dwelling;
but when, one after another, with a fearful rush, each
trooper bounded forth, driving forward with relentless
spur to the avenue in front, then did Singleton, becoming
conscious of their flight, give his orders for pursuit.
“Double quick step, riflemen,—hurry on with you,
-- 212 --
[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
and skirt the fence! Your rifles will then cover them
as they fly, and Mellichampe will answer for the rest.
Quick step, men, or you lose the fire!”
The partisans were prompt enough in obeying these
orders, but there had been some miscalculation in the
distance, or the speed of fear had not been taken into
the estimate of those advantages, possessed by the enemy,
for which Singleton believed himself prepared. The
tories were already in the avenue before the riflemen
reached the skirts of the park. Barsfield, bringing up
the rear, his huge form erect, his hand waving defiance,
was the only individual at whom a shot was obtained.
At him several bullets were sped; but there is a something
in the daring indifference of boldness which not
unfrequently deranges the truest aim of an enemy. The
tory was unhurt, yet some of the rifles pointed at his
back were held by the best marksmen of the lower
country.
But a new enemy sprang up in the pathway of the
tory, and the sabre of the impetuous Mellichampe once
more clashed with that of his enemy.
“Ha!—ha!” cried Mellichampe, “you were long in
coming, but I have you now. You are mine at last!”
There was a demoniac delight in the expression of
the youth's countenance as, with these words, he confronted
his foe.
“Stand aside, boy!” was the hoarse reply of the tory,
as, wheeling his horse to the opposite hand of the avenue,
he seemed rather disposed to pass than to encounter
the youth. Mellichampe regarded no other enemy,
and the troop of Barsfield mingled pell-mell in the strife
with the partisans, who were scattered before them up
the avenue. With the sidling movement of Barsfield,
the steed of Mellichampe, under the impetuous direction
of his rider, was wheeled directly across his path, and
the tory saw, at a glance, that the encounter could not
be avoided. Preparing for it, therefore, with all his
-- 213 --
[figure description] Page 213.[end figure description]
energies, he threw aside the weapon of his enemy, and
the swords recoiled from each other in the fierce collision,
as if with an instinct of their own. Again they
bounded and buckled together; and then there was a
momentary pause in the combat, as the weapons crossed
in air, in which the eyes of the inveterate foes glared
upon each other with the thirstful expression of demoniac
hate. Like lightning then, for a few moments, the
opposing blades darted around each combatant's head;
then came the deadly thrust and the heavy blow—the
ready guard, and the swift stroke in return. Though
brave enough in common parlance, there was yet that in
the face of Mellichampe from which the tory seemed
to shrink. The youth had been roused by repeated
wrongs, and maddened by continued disappointments,
which defeated his promised hope of vengeance. The
accumulated venom of a fierce and injured spirit shot
forth from his eye, and gave a dreadful earnestness to
every effort of his arm, so that the inequality of physical
strength between himself and his enemy did not at
first seem so evident. The consciousness of having
wronged the youth, and the moral inferiority which, in
all respects, he felt to him, neutralized in some degree
the natural advantage which the tory possessed of
greater muscle, and the acquired advantage of greater
skill and experience. How else, indeed, could one so
slender as Mellichampe,—his bones not yet hardened to
manhood, and he yet in the gristle of youth,—contend
so long and so equally with a frame so huge as that of
Barsfield? How else, if the heart were not conscious
of right in the one and of wrong in the other, could the
former put aside the weighty blow of his enemy with so
much ease, and respond to it with so much power?
Thrice, in the deadliest stroke, had he foiled the tory,
and now he pressed on him in return.
“It is now for me, villain,” cried the youth, as he
struck the rowel into his steed, and rose upon his
-- 214 --
[figure description] Page 214.[end figure description]
stirrups a moment after, to give point with a downward
stroke at the breast of his enemy, whose steed had sunk,
under the sudden press of his rider's curb, backward
upon his haunches—
“It is now my turn, villain, and my father's blood
clamours for that of his murderer. Have at your heart.
Ha!”
The stroke was descending, and was with difficulty
parried by the sabre of the tory. It was put aside,
however, at the utmost stretch of Barsfield's arm—his
body being writhed round into an unnatural position for
that purpose. The danger was only delayed. In another
moment he felt assured that the stroke of Mellichampe—
a backward stroke—must be repeated, and
that he could not recover his seat in time to ward it
aside; but, ere the youth could effect his object—to
which he had addressed his entire energies, conscious
that he now had the tory at complete advantage—the
forefeet of his horse struck upon the carcass of a slain
soldier, which slipped from under him, yet carrying
him forward, till he stumbled irrecoverably and came
to his knees. The moment was lost; and, in the next,
Barsfield had recovered his seat, from which the force
of Mellichampe's assaults, and the efforts necessary for
his own defence, had half uplifted him. It was his turn
now to press upon his foe. Wheeling his horse suddenly
round, he dealt him a heavy blow upon the shoulder
of his sword-arm, which precipitated the youth to the
earth, while wounding him severely. The tory would
have paused to render his victory more complete; but,
as he looked upon the avenue before him, he saw that he
was isolated. Cutting their way, without pausing for
any particular encounter such as had controlled the
flight of their leader, his men had sped onward; and,
though fighting with the partisans at every step, had yet
succeeded in carrying the fight forward to the entrance.
The tory captain saw that he had no time for delay.
-- 215 --
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
Witherspoon, who had been busily engaged, was now
pressing towards him, closely followed by another; and,
though casting a wistful look upon his prostrate enemy,
as if he longed to make certain his victory, the safety
of his own life depended upon his haste, and was infinitely
more important to him than even the death of so
deadly an enemy as Mellichampe. Even now it was
doubtful what success would attend his endeavour to
pass the scattered partisans who lay in his path; and he
felt that all his energies were required to meet the shock
of Witherspoon, who was fast approaching. While thus
he prepared himself, the shrill clamour of a fresh trumpet
broke suddenly upon his sense, and brought him relief.
It announced the coming of a new force, and the probability
was that it was British. Of this Barsfield, in another
moment, had no doubt, as he saw Witherspoon, no
longer seeking the conflict, rush past him in the direction
of the burning mansion. The woodman had beheld
the steel caps and the blue uniforms of the approaching
force, and at once recognised the formidable
corps, two hundred strong, of the legionary Tarleton.
Barsfield rode on to meet his superior, and explain the situation
of affairs before him. Witherspoon, meanwhile,
leaping from his horse, which he let go free, rushed to
the spot where Mellichampe had fallen.
“Airnest! Airnest, boy!” he cried, as he stooped
down to the insensible body; “Speak to me, Airnest—
speak to me,—it's me, Jack,—it's Thumbscrew, Airnest.
Only say something—only a word—I don't care
what you says, Airnest; but say something. God ha'
mercy! He don't hear!—he can't talk. Airnest!
Airnest!”
A groan met his ears and half relieved him.
“Thank God, it 'taint so bad. He's got life in him
yet; and, if I can only carry him out of the way of the
horses, and let Miss Janet know where to find him—”
Thus speaking, he raised the insensible body in his
-- 216 --
[figure description] Page 216.[end figure description]
arms, and hurried with him towards the ditch, over which
he sought to pass. His aim was to carry the youth into
the thick copse beyond, where he could place him out of
sight of the approaching enemy. But he had overtasked
his own strength, after the severe fatigue and fighting
which he had undergone, and the labour called for more
time than the circumstances of the field would allow.
The advance of Tarleton was too rapid to permit of his
performing the affectionate service which he contemplated
for his friend; and, before he reached the ditch, the
swords of the legion were flashing before his eyes, as
the troop wheeled round a bend in the avenue which
hitherto had concealed him from their sight.
“Gimini! I must leave him. I must put you down,
Airnest! I can't help it, boy! I did the best!”
He spoke to the insensible youth as if he could
hear; and, with a groan that seemed to come from the
bottom of his soul, he laid the body down in the ditch,
where it was partially concealed from sight in the hollow
and by the tufts and bushes which grew along its margin.
Then, with a grim look of despair cast behind
him as he fled, he leaped across the ditch, passed hurriedly
through the copse and bordering foliage, and soon
gained the station at the bottom of the hill, which had
been assigned by Singleton at the commencement of
the fray as the place of general rendezvous.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Chafed with the excitement of battle, and mortified
with the humiliation of defeat, Barsfield dashed forward
to meet with Tarleton, to whom he conveyed the particulars
of the affray. It needed but few words to do this
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
at such a moment—the scene was in progress even then
before the eyes of the legionary. The wild shouts of
the partisans, scattered along the fields, and flying from
the greater force approaching them—the occasional
sounds of the rifle—the lurid glare of the flames, ascending
in gigantic columns from the burning mansion, sufficiently
informed the ready senses of a leader so intelligent
and sagacious as the practised Tarleton. He was
a man of deeds rather than of words, and a few brief,
quick questions drew from Barsfield all that he sought to
know.
“What number of rifles, Captain Barsfield, has Major
Singleton?”
“Some thirty, sir, or more.”
“What other force?”
“Ten or twenty horse, which we had first broken
through, sir, on your approach.”
“And from which our approach saved you?”
Barsfield bowed. Tarleton waved his hand, and gave
his troop their orders with coolness and decision. In
the next moment he led them forward with a fleet pace
down the avenue, towards the burning dwelling and the
park. He thought to find his enemy scattered and unprepared,
as he now and then beheld in the distance, by
the light of the flames, an occasional figure darting by,
seemingly in flight, and the shouts of the partisans rose
here and there from opposite quarters of the area. The
sight of these figures and the insulting shouts stimulated
his advance, and aroused his natural appetite for strife.
With habitual impetuosity, he hurried forward in a quick
trot, making for the point which most immediately promised
him an encounter with his foe.
He found them much sooner than he had expected.
His enemy was prepared for him. Singleton was apprized
of the approach of Tarleton quite as soon as Barsfield
in the avenue, and he now prepared to execute the
orders of Marion, for which the present condition of
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
things gave him a favourable opportunity. He threw his
men without the park. The fences lay between the two
parties. One half of his force he immediately sent down
the hill to prepare the horses, putting them in readiness
for instant flight. His riflemen, who had been too late
to check the retreat of Barsfield, were nevertheless just
in time on the outer edge of the park, and skirting one
side of the avenue, with its thick copse interposing sufficiently
to protect them from a charge of cavalry, to gall
the advance of Tarleton. They received their orders,
and stood prepared to execute them. Covered by the
trees, each man stood in silence, prepared to single out
his enemy, and immediately after scud off along the
fences, and join his comrades at the foot of the hill.
Cool and watchful, Singleton remained at hand to watch
the progress of both parties. He himself had prepared
to do a like duty with his men. He had thrown aside
the sabre, and a favourite rifle in his hands was quite as
deadly a weapon as in that of any other of his troop.
The legion came bounding forward, and the signal for
their hostile reception came from the rifle of the partisan
commander. It had its echoes—each an echo of death—
and the advancing column of Tarleton, in that narrow
avenue, reeled and recoiled under the fatal discharge. A
dozen troopers fell from their saddles with the fire,
stiffening in the fast embrace of death, and scarce conscious
of their wounds. But in another instant the fierce
voice of Tarleton, clamorous and shrill, rose like that
of a trumpet above all other sounds—
“Scoundrels, forward! Wherefore do ye pause?
Through the bush to the right—charge, rascals, ere I
cleave ye down to the earth! Charge the d—d rebels—
charge—and give no quarter!”
The ditch was cleared—the obedient troopers, accustomed
hitherto only to victory under the lead of Tarleton,
went over the bank and scrambled through the copse
with more daring than success. The overhanging
-- 219 --
[figure description] Page 219.[end figure description]
branches were hewn away in an instant—a path was
cleared for the advance through the close foliage, and,
like bold cavaliers, a score of the troopers made their
way through the obstruction. But where was the enemy?
Where were they whose fatal rifles had dealt them so
much loss? They had melted away like so many shadows—
they were gone. Fiercely the dragoons dealt idle
blows upon the surrounding bushes, which might have
been supposed to shelter a lurking rifleman, but their
sabres clashed together and found no foe. The partisans
had vanished from their sight, but they had not yet
gone. While yet the dragoons gazed bewildered and in
wonderment, the repeated shot from the same select and
deadly marksmen singled them out, one by one, from
another sheltered clump of wood, not more than fifty
yards in advance; and the remaining few who had passed
into the open ground and were still exposed, could hear
the distinct commands of Singleton—
“Another round, men—one more. Each his man.”
The partisan had managed admirably, but he was
now compelled to fly. The advantage of ground was
no longer with him. Tarleton, with his entire force, had
now passed through the avenue, and had appeared in the
open court in front. The necessity of rapid flight now
became apparent to Singleton, and the wild lively notes
of his trumpet were accordingly heard stirring the air at
not more than rifle distance from the gathering troop of
Tarleton. Bitterly aroused by this seeming audacity—
an audacity to which Tarleton, waging a war hitherto of
continual successes, had never been accustomed, his ire
grew into fury—
“What, men! shall these rebels carry it so?” he cried
aloud. “Advance, Captain Barsfield—advance to the
right of the fence with twenty men, and stop not to mark
your steps. Advance, sir, and charge forward. You
should know the ground by this time. Away!”
-- 220 --
[figure description] Page 220.[end figure description]
To another he cried—striking the neck of his steed
impatiently with the broad side of his sabre—
“Captain Kearney, to you wood! Sweep it, sir, with
your sabres; and meet me in the rear of the garden!”
The officers thus commanded moved to the execution
of their charges with sufficient celerity. The commands
and movements of Major Singleton were much more
cool and not less prompt. He hurried along by his scattered
men, as they lay here and there, covered by this or
that bush or tree.
“Carry off no bullets that you can spare them, men—
fire as soon as they reach the garden, and, when your
pieces are clear, take down the hill and mount.”
Three minutes did not elapse before the rifles had
each poured forth its treasured death; and, without
pausing to behold the effects of their discharge, each partisan,
duly obedient, was on his way, leaping off from
cover to cover through the thick woods to the hollow
where their horses had been fastened.
The furious Tarleton meanwhile led the way through
the garden, the palings of which were torn away to give
his cavalry free passage. With a soldier's rage, and the
impatience of one not often baffled, he hurried forward
the pursuit, in a line tolerably direct, after the flying partisans.
But Singleton was too good a soldier, and too
familiar with the ground, to keep his men in mass in a
wild flight through woods becoming denser at every step.
When they had reached a knoll at some little distance
beyond the place where his horses had been fastened, he
addressed his troop as follows:—
“We must break here, my men. Each man will take
his own path, and we will all scatter as far apart as possible.
Make your way, all of you, for the swamp, however;
where, in a couple of hours, you may all be safe.
Lance Frampton, you will ride with me.”
Each trooper knew the country, and, accustomed to
individual enterprise and the duties of the scout, there
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
was no hardship to the men of Marion in such a separation.
On all hands they glided off, and at a far freer
pace than when they rode together in a body. A thousand
tracks they found in the woods about them, in pursuing
which there was now no obstruction—no justling
of brother horsemen pressing upon the same route. Singleton
and his youthful companion darted away at an
easy pace into the woods, in which they had scarcely
shrouded themselves before they heard the rushing and
fierce cries of Tarleton's dragoons.
“Do you remember, Lance,” said Singleton to the
boy—“do you remember the chase we had from the
Oaks, when Proctor pursued us?”
“Yes, sir—and a narrow chance it was when your
horse tumbled. I thought they would have caught and
killed you then, sir; but I didn't know any thing of fighting
in the woods then.”
“Keep cool, and there's little danger anywhere,” responded
Singleton. “Men in a hurry are always in
danger. To be safe, be steady. But—ha! do you not
hear them now? Some of them have got upon our
track.”
“I do hear a noise, sir—there was a dry bush that
cracked then.”
“And a voice—that was a shout. Let us stop for a
moment and reload. A shot may be wanted.”
Coolly dismounting, Singleton proceeded to charge
his rifle, which had been slung across his shoulder. His
companion did the same. While loading, the former felt
a slight pain and stiffness in his left arm.
“I am hurt, Lance, I do believe. Look here at my
shoulder.”
“There's blood, sir—and the coat's cut with a bullet.
The bullet's in your arm, sir.”
“No—not now. It has been there, I believe, though
the wound is slight. There, now—mount—we have no
time to see it now.”
-- 222 --
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
“That's true, sir, for I hear the horses; and, look
now, major, there's two of the dragoons coming through
the bush, and straight towards us.”
“Two only?” said Singleton, again unslinging his
rifle. The boy readily understood the movement, and
proceeded to do likewise, but he was too late. The shot
of Singleton was immediate, and the foremost trooper
fell forward from his horse. His companion fled.
“Don't 'light, Lance—keep on. There's only one
now, and he won't trouble us. The other—poor devil!
his horse was too fleet for his master's safety. Away,
sir.”
It was time to speed. The report of the shot and the
fall of the dragoon gave a direction to the whole force of
the pursuers, whose shouts and cries might now be
heard ringing in all directions of the forest behind them.
“They can't reach us, Lance. We shall round that
bay in a few seconds, and they will be sure to boggle into
it. On, boy, and waste no eyesight in looking behind
you. We are safe. I only hope that all our boys are
as much so. But I fear that we have lost some fine fellows.
Poor Mellichampe!—but it is too late now.
Push on—the bay is before us.”
Thus speaking, guiding and encouraging the boy, the
fearless partisan kept on. In a few minutes they had
rounded the thick bay, and were deeply sheltered in a
dense wood, well known at that period by a romantic
title, which doubtless had its story.
“My Lady's Fancy. We are safe now, Lance, and
a little rest will do no harm.”
The partisan, as he spoke, drew up his horse, threw
himself from his back, fastened him to a hanging branch,
and, passing down to a hollow where a little brooklet ran
trickling along with a gentle murmur, drank deeply of its
sweet and quiet waters, which he scooped up with a calabash
that hung on a bough, waving in the breeze above.
Then, throwing himself down under the shadow of the
-- 223 --
[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
tree, he lay as quietly as if there had been no danger
tracking his footsteps, and no deadly enemy still prowling
in the neighbourhood and hungering for his blood.
The chase was given over, and the lively tones of the
bugle recalled the pursuers. The legionary colonel
stood upon a hillock, awaiting the return of the men,
who came in slowly and half exhausted from the profitless
pursuit. He wiped the dust and the sweat from his
brow, but a rigid and deep blue vein lay like a cord across
his forehead. A gloomy cloud hung about his eyes, and
yet his lips, pale, and seemingly passionless, were parted
with a smile. They quivered slightly, and the tips of his
white teeth rested upon the lower lip for a moment, as
if to control his speech, when he beheld the person of
the tory captain among those approaching him.
“And now—what of this affair, Captain Barsfield?
We have time now to speak of it,” was the salutation of
Tarleton; and he alighted from his steed as he spoke,
and the point of his sabre was made to revolve quickly,
while he listened, upon the up-curling peak of his thick
military boot. Barsfield briefly narrated the events
which we have witnessed, and, saving some little natural
exaggeration of the numbers on the side of the partisans,
with tolerable correctness. The narrative, as he listened,
did not seem to diminish the disquiet of his hearer.
“But fifty men, you say?—the entire force of the
rebels but fifty men!—and your force, if I err not, thirty
at the least. But fifty men!”
“There may have been—indeed, sir, there must have
been—more; and—”
“A bad business, sir—a very bad business, Captain
Barsfield,” said the other, interrupting him. “The affair
has not been rightly managed, though where the defect
lay may not now be said. What force was it you encountered
in the morning?”
“A squad of thirty, sir, and more. I had defeated
them, and they would have been cut to pieces, but for the
-- 224 --
[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
sudden appearance of the troop of Major Singleton,
which you have just dispersed.”
“No more, sir—no more. Take your men, and examine
the ground and the avenue. See to the wounded
prisoners, Captain Barsfield—have them well secured,
and ascertain the extent of your own loss. There must
be an inquiry into this business quickly. Move, sir—
we have no time to lose.”
The blood mounted into the tory's cheek as he listened
to these orders—the fire of intense satisfaction glared
and gathered in his eye, and, fearful that his feeling
would be seen by the piercing glance of Tarleton, he
turned away instantly in the execution of his orders. A
fierce hope of vengeance, yet to be satisfied, was at his
heart. He had not forgotten that his mortal enemy
lay wounded on that field. He knew that, although
wounded, Mellichampe was yet alive. The command
to scour the scene of conflict was precisely the command
which he most desired; affording him, as it did, an
opportunity of making certain the stroke which, even in
the hurry of battle, he had considered incomplete. A
fierce emotion of delight, under which he trembled,
seized upon his frame as he heard the command; and,
bowing with ill-concealed satisfaction to his superior, he
hurried away with all the rapidity of a newly-stimulated
passion, not merely to the execution of his orders, but to
the final consummation of his own bloody scheme of
vengeance—the death of that hated rival, in the pursuit
of which he had been so often baffled when most sanguine
of success. The knife was now in his hand,
however, and the devoted victim lay before him.
END OF VOL. I.
Back matter
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
-- --
[figure description] Blank Page.[end figure description]
Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1836], A legend of the Santee, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf360v1].
|
