Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1836], A legend of the Santee, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf360v2].
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CHAPTER I.
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Let us retrace our steps—let us go back in our
narrative, and review the feelings and the fortunes of
other parties to our story, not less important to its details,
and quite as dear in our regards. Let us seek
the temporary dwelling of the Berkeley family, and contemplate
the condition and the employment of its inmates
during the progress of the severe strife of which
we have given a partial history. Its terrors were not
less imposing to them than they were to those who had
been actors in the conflict. To the young maidens,
indeed, it certainly was far more terrible than to the
brave men, warmed with the provocation and reckless
from the impulses of strife. And yet, how differently
did the events of the day affect the two maidens—how
forcibly did they bring out and illustrate their very different
characters. To the casual observer there was
very little change in the demeanour of Janet Berkeley.
She seemed the same subdued, sad, yet enduring and
uncomplaining creature, looking for affliction because
she had been so often subjected to its pressure; yet,
from that very cause, looking for it without apprehension,
and in all the strength of religious resignation.
Not so with her more volatile companion. The terrors
of the fight, so near at hand, so novel in its forms,
and so fearful to one who never, till now, had associated
it in her thought with any other features than those of
old romance—where the gorgeousness and the glitter
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the cheering music and the proud array, were contrived
to conceal the danger, if not to salve the hurts—brought
to her other and more paralyzing sensations. All her
levity departed with the approach and presence of the
reality, of which, hitherto, she had but dreamed, and
the images of which, seen through the medium of her
imagination and not her heart, had, until now, presented
her with no other forms than those of loveliness or
power. The first dread sounds of battle, the first
crash and commotion of the conflict, taught her other
feelings; and, with each reiterated shout or groan, her
emotion increased to a passion of fear that became painful
even to her companion—herself full of the warmest
apprehensions for her lover's safety, and labouring under
a true sense of the growing and gathering miseries
around her. But it is at such a moment that the true
nature of the mind—the true strength of the heart—the
spirit, and the soul, and the affections—rise into impressive
and controlling action. It was then that the majesty
of a devoted woman, conscious of all the danger,
yet not unprepared to meet it with him to whom her
heart was given, shone forth in the bearing of Janet
Berkeley. The light, thoughtless heart of Rose Duncan,
untutored and unimpressed as yet by any of the
vicissitudes of life, had few moods but what were hurrying
and of a transient nature. She was unprepared
for any but passing impressions. Her fancy had been
active always, and her heart, in consequence, had
grown subordinate. Affliction, the subduer—the modifier—
she who checks passion in its tumults, and tempers
to sedateness the warm feelings which would sometimes
mount into madness—had brought her no sober
counsels. Small, but accumulating cares, which benefit
by their frequent warnings, had never taught her to
mediate much or often upon the various sorrows, and
the many changes, as frequent in the moral atmosphere
as in the natural, which belong to life. That grave
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talebearer, Time, whose legends are never wanting in their
moral to those who read, had taken no heed of her education.
That stern strengthener and impelling mistress,
Necessity, had never, in order to bring out its
resources, subjected each feeling of her heart to bondage—
putting a curb upon the capricious emotion and
the buoyant fancy. She heard of care from books—
which seldom describe it in its true features—but it was
only to regard it as a something which is to give a zest
to pleasure, by sometimes changing its aspect, as in
conserves we employ a slight bitter, in order to relieve
pleasantly the cloying insipidity of their sweet. She
had never yet seen in Sorrow the twin sister of Humanity—
born with it at its birth, keeping due pace
with it, though perhaps unseen, in its progress through
the flowery places as well as through the tangled wilderness:
clinging to it inseparably through all its fortunes—
clouding at times its most pleasant sunshine
with a look of reproof—chiding its sweetest anticipations
with the language of homily, and pressing it downward
at last to the embrace of their common mother
Earth, until even Hope takes its flight, yielding the
struggle for the present, and possibly withholding its assurance
from the future.
Thus, utterly uneducated by the heart's best tutors,
the novel terrors now before her eyes left her entirely
without support in reflection. She was convulsed with
apprehension; the fierce oaths of the hurrying troops
grated with a new form of danger upon her fancy: every
wild shout smote painfully upon her senses; and the
sharp shot, directed, as she now knew it to be, against
the bosom of a feeling and a living man, while teaching
her properly to realize the truth, totally unnerved, and
left her powerless. She shrunk upon the floor in her
terrors, as the dreadful din came to her ears, and crawled
to the window, where her cousin sat in speechless
apprehension. There, like a frightened child, she sat
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clinging to the drapery of Janet, while continued sobs
and momentary exclamations betrayed her new consciousness
of danger, and her own inadequacy of
strength to contend with it.
How different was the deportment of Janet. How
subdued her grief—how unobtrusive her emotions—how
sustained her spirit—how governing her reason. She
shrunk not from the contemplation of that danger,
whose terrors her mind had long since been taught to
contemplate at a distance. Drawing her chair beside a
little window, which looked forth directly upon the scene
of battle, and scarcely in perfect security from its random
shot, she gazed upon the progress of events, and exhibited,
in comparison with Rose—who sat upon the floor
and saw nothing—but little consciousness, and certainly
no fears, of its awful terrors. Yet her emotions were
not less active, her feelings not less susceptible and
warm, than those of her companion. It was, indeed,
because her consciousness was so deep, her love so
abiding, her fears so thick and overflowing, that she had
no audible emotions. The waters of her heart were too
far down for display; it is only in the shallows that the
breakers leap up, and chafe, and murmur. They speak
not for themselves, but for the overfull and heaving
ocean that gathers, and settles, gloomily and great, in
the distance. The clamour of her cousin's fear had
spoken for hers; and yet how full of voice, how
touching the language of silence, when we know that
the full heart is running over. How thrilling is the
brief, gasping, sudden exclamation, which utters all, because
we feel that it has uttered nothing.
She sat with her hands clasped—her soul sad and
sick, but strong—her eyes intently gazing, as if they
would burst from their sockets, upon the wild scene of
confusion going on around her. And when the strife began
warmly in the first stage, and before the house was
fired—when she knew nothing of the progress of events,
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and heard nothing but the sharp and frequent shot, without
knowing what had been its effect,—when the shriek
of agony reached her ears faintly from afar, and there
came no word to her to say that the wounded victim
was not the one of all in that controversy to whom her
thought and her prayer were most entirely given; it was
then that she felt the agony which yet she did not speak.
In her mind she strove to think a prayer for his success
and for his safety, and sometimes the words of aspiration
were muttered brokenly from her lips; but the
prayer died away in her heart, and the dreadful incidents
of earth, going on around her, kept back her thoughts
from God.
A terrible cry of satisfaction was uttered by the partisans
as, in the conflict, they beheld one of the defenders
of the house distinctly fall back from the window at
which he had exposed himself. The rifle had been too
quick and fatal for his escape. The sound smote upon
the senses of Janet with a new fear; and Rose, in her
childish terror, nearly dragged her from the seat.
“Father of mercies, spare him—spare them all!
Soften their hearts—let them not spill blood!” was the
involuntary prayer of Janet. “Rose, do not go on so;
do not fear; you are not in danger, dear Rose; but keep
on the floor, the shot cannot reach you there.”
“But you, Janet, you are in danger at the window;
come down, dear Janet, and sit with me. The bullets
will be sure to hit you. Come down. I'm so afraid.”
“Pull me not down, Rose; there is no danger here,
for the shot do not fly in this direction. They fly all towards
the garden, where our people are, under the trees.”
“Where? do you see them, Janet?” cried Rose, half
rising.
“Yes; bush—there!” but a cry and a shot at that
moment frightened the other to her place upon the
floor, and she sank down with renewed trepidation.
“I see them now—all of them; some stand behind
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the water-oaks: and I see two crawling along under
the bushes. God preserve them! Should Barsfield
know they are there, he could kill them, for there are no
trees between them and the house: nothing but the
bushes. Oh! God—”
The exclamation startled Rose with a new terror.
“What, Janet?”
“I see him! Rash Mellichampe! I see him, and
he is mounted. The tories must see him too. Why!
oh, why will he expose himself! why does he not keep
behind the trees! He stands—he does not move!
Barsfield must soon see him now. Fly, fly, Earnest!”
and her emotion assuming the ascendency, she arose
from her chair, and motioned with her hand, and cried
with her voice, now feeble and husky from affright, as if
he, to whom it was addressed, could hear it at such a
distance.
“He hears me—he moves away! Oh, dear Ernest!
he is now behind the trees. Thank God, he is safe!”
and she sank again into her seat, and fondly believed, at
that moment, that he had heard her warnings and complied
with her entreaties. There was a pause in the
conflict. Neither shot nor shout came to their senses.
“Is it over, Janet?” cried Rose. “Have they done
fighting? I hear nothing. There is no danger now.”
“Would it were over, Rose; but I fear it is not. I
see the men watching behind the trees. Some are riding
away, and some are creeping still around the
fence. It blinds me to look; it maddens me to think,
Rose that he is there, exposed to the murderous aim
of those merciless tories, in the danger which I may not
keep him from, which I do not share with him. Pray,
Rose, pray, dearest, for the safety of our men. Pray,
for I cannot. I can only look.”
“Nor I. But how can you look? the very thought
of it is too horrible.”
“The thought of it to me is more dreadful than the
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sight,” was the answer of Janet. “Months have gone
by, Rose, since I first began to think of battle and of
Mellichampe's hourly danger; and when I thought of
it then, it was far more terrible than now, when I look
upon it before me. But oh! dearest Rose, how awful
is that silence. There is no shouting—there are no
cries of blood and death, and yet they are planning
death. They are meditating how best to succeed in
slaughtering their fellow-creatures.”
“Do you see them now, Janet?”
“Yes; there, behind the trees. Look now, Rose
There is now no danger, I think.”
The more timid girl rose to survey the distant array
which she did with all the eager curiosity of childhood.
The bugle sounded.
“Ah, Rose! they are in council. See them under
the great oak yonder, to the left—there, close by the
stunted cedar?”
“I see, I see! How their swords glitter, Janet
How beautiful; how strange! And that trumpet, how
shrilly sweet, how strong and wild its notes, seeming
like the cry of some mighty bird as it rushes through the
storm. Oh, Janet, what a beautiful thing is war.”
“So is death, sometimes. Beautiful, but terrible.
Alas! that man should seek to make crime lovely!
Alas! that woman should so admire power and courage
as to forget the cruelties in their frequent employ.
God keep us! they are going to fight again.”
With a scream Rose sank again to the floor, grasping
the dress of her companion, and clinging to it with
all the trepidation of childhood.
“Ah! they lift their rifles. I see three of them that
kneel behind the trees, and they have their aim upon
something, but what I cannot see. What is it they
would shoot? They are pointed to the house, too. I
see now: two of the tories are at one window. God
help them, why do they not hide themselves?”
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“Are they gone now, Janet?” asked Rose, in the
momentary silence of her companion.
“I know not; I cannot look again. Ha! the shot!
the shot!—the rifles!—they are slain!”
The sharp sudden sound of the rifles followed almost
instantly the inquiry of Rose Duncan, and the eyes
of Janet instantly turned, as under some fascination,
towards the window. The troopers were no longer to
be seen. Shuddering as with convulsion, she turned
from the window and sank down beside her more timid
companion. But her heart was too full of anxiety to
suffer her to remain long where she had fallen. The
sounds again ceased, and she ventured to rise once
more and look forth upon the prospect. She now saw
the scene more distinctly. The partisans had somewhat
changed their position, and were now nearer the
cottage. Singleton stood beneath a tree, with several
of his officers about him. The quick eye of Janet
readily distinguished her lover among them. He stood
erect, graceful and firm as ever, and she forgot her fears—
her sorrows. He was unhurt. While she looked
they moved away from the spot, and she now beheld
them making a circuit round the park so as to avoid
unnecessary exposure to the tory bullets, and approaching
the little cottage in which the family found shelter.
“Heavens! Rose, they are coming here—the officers.
What can they want? There may be some one
hurt. Yet no, it does not look so.”
“Then the fighting is over, Janet.”
“No, no, I fear not, for I see the riflemen all around
the house, and watching it closely from beneath the
trees. But here they come, the officers, and he is
among them. Go, Rose, dearest, and send my father
to meet them. I cannot. I will rather sit here and
wait until they are gone.”
The partisans sought the house the better to carry
on their deliberations. They obtained some
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refreshments from Mr. Berkeley, and then proceeded to confer
on the subject of the leaguer. We have seen the
result of their deliberations, in the gift which Janet had
made to her lover of the bow and arrows. It will not
need that we dwell longer upon the event. Let us proceed
to others, in which she also had a share.
CHAPTER II.
Throughout the conflict, a close and deeply interested
observer, Janet Berkeley had never once departed
from her post of watch. She had felt all the sickness—
the dreadful sickness—of suspense. She suffered
all the terrors of one anxious in the last degree about
the result of the battle, yet perfectly conscious of its
thousand uncertainties. The wild and various cries of
the warriors,—now of triumph and now of defeat, or
physical agony,—went chillingly to her heart; yet, the
sentinel of love, jealous of her watch, and solicitous of
the safety of that over which it was held, she kept her
place, in spite of all the solicitations of Rose and of her
equally apprehensive father. She did not seem conscious
of her own danger while she continued to think
of that of Mellichampe; and, so long as the battle lasted,
could she think of any thing else? She did not.
We have seen the patriotic resolution with which she
devoted the family mansion to destruction. She had
beheld the application of the torch,—she had seen the
arrow winged with flame smiting the sacred roof which
had sheltered so many generations, and with that glorious
spirit which so elevated the maidens of Carolina during
the long struggle of the revolution—making them rather
objects of national than of social contemplation,—she
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had felt a triumphant glow of self-gratulation that it had
been with her to contribute to a cause doubly sacred, as
it involved the life of her country not less than that of her
lover. With hands clasped and tearful eyes, she had
prayed as fervently for the conflagration of the dwelling
as, at another time and other more favourable auspices,
she would have prayed and laboured for its preservation
and safety.
With an intensity of feeling not surpassed by that of
any one of the brave men commingling in the strife, she
had beheld the progress of the flame. How her heart
beat when, more remote from the smoky cloud which
hung all around the dwelling, she had seen, sooner than
the partisans, the impetuous rush—mounted all, and
with blazing weapons—of Barsfield and his party! But
when she heard the clash of sabres in front of the dwelling,
and in the narrow avenue which led to it,—when
she listened to the sounds of that conflict which she
could no longer see,—it was then that her spirit sickened
most. Imagination—the feverish fancy—grew active
and impatient. Crowding fears came gathering about
her heart, which grew cold under their influence. Her
head swam dizzily, until at length, in utter exhaustion,
she sank from the seat at the window, and strove feebly,
on bended knees, by the side of the trembling Rose,
once more to pray. But she could not: the words refused
to come to her lips; the thoughts of her mind
were too wild, too foreign, and not to be coerced; they
were in the field of battle—striving in its strife—in
the cruel strife of man with man. How could she bring
her mind, thus employed, and at such a moment, with
all its horrid and unholy associations of crime and terror,
even for the purposes of supplication, into the presence
of her God? She dared not.
She started from her knees as she heard the tread of
hurrying feet around the dwelling. She reached the
window in time to see that four of the partisans were
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employed in bearing one in their arms, who seemed
dead or fatally wounded. They laid him down under
the shelter of some trees behind the house, and the
moment after she saw them hurrying back to the avenue.
She tried to call to them,—she sought to know who was
the wounded man; but the words died away in inarticulate
sounds. She could not speak; and, in an instant,
they were out of sight. Her agony became insupportable.
Who was the victim? Her fears—her imagination,
answered. She watched her time, during the
momentary inattention of her father, and, without declaring
her intention to Rose, she stole out of the apartment.
She hurried from the house unseen. She
reached the tree under which the dead body had been
laid. It was covered with a cloak, which was stained
with blood, apparently still flowing from the bosom of
the wounded man. She dared not lift the garment.
Her hand was extended, but trembled feebly above it.
But she heard approaching voices, and was nerved for
the occasion. She hastily threw the cloak from the
face, and once more she breathed freely: the features
were unknown—happily unknown. There was none to
feel the loss while bending over him; and she rejoiced,
with a sad pleasure, that the loss was not hers.
She hurried back with a new life to the apartment,
and had scarcely reached it when she heard the sound
of a trumpet borne upon the winds from a direction
opposite, and beyond, that in which the combatants had
been engaged. A new enemy was at hand. The shrill
and inspiriting notes approached rapidly, swelling more
and more loudly until the avenue was gained, and then
there was a pause—a dreadful silence—among those
who had lately been so fearfully at strife. In a few
moments after, and she saw Major Singleton rush
towards her, followed by several of his men. She heard
his orders distinctly, and they brought a new terror to
her soul.
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“Forward, John Davis, with a dozen rifles, and bring
off Mellichampe: that bugle is Tarleton's, and the whole
of the mounted men of the legion are upon him. Give
the advance a close fire, and that will relieve him; then
fall back behind those bays—reload, and renew your
fire. That done, take to the branch, and stand prepared
to mount. Away!”
They obeyed him promptly, stole up behind the copse,
and received the advance of Tarleton with a fire as of
one man. We have seen the result: the enemy leaped
the ditch, broke through the copse, and found no foe.
But the purposed relief of Mellichampe came too late to
bring off the brave youth for whose succour it had been
intended. The personal effort of Witherspoon had failed
also. That faithful attendant had barely crossed the ditch
when the riflemen came forward. Having no rifle, he
could not contribute to their strength; and, with a word,
pointing out to them a proper cover, he hurried forwards
with all despatch to the place of rendezvous. But,
though he strove to avoid being seen by any of the
household while passing, as he was compelled to do, the
little cottage in which the Berkeley family were collected,
he could not escape the quick, apprehensive eye of
Janet. She saw him approaching,—she saw that he
was seeking safety in flight,—and, what was of more
appalling concern to her, knowing his attachment to
Mellichampe, she saw that he fled alone. How quick,
how far darting, is the eye of apprehension! She could
read the expression of his countenance as he approached,
even as a book. She saw the question answered
in his face which her lips had yet not asked.
How slowly did he approach: she rose,—her hand was
lifted and waved to him; but, when he looked towards
her, he increased his speed. She cried aloud to him in
her desperation:—
“Come to me, John Witherspoon—come to me, if
you have pity—but for one moment!”
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Did he hear her? He did not answer; but, as if he
guessed her meaning from her action, he flung up his
arms in air, as if to say, “Despair, despair!—all's
lost!”—for so her heart interpreted his action—and in
another instant he was out of sight. The riflemen followed
soon behind him, stealing from cover to cover in
the neighbouring foliage, and had scarcely been hidden
from her gaze before the fierce troopers of Tarleton
came bounding after them. Vainly did her eyes strain
in the examination of the forms of those who fled: she
saw not the one of all,—he whom alone she sought for;
and the fear of his fate grew into absolute certainty
when the blue uniforms of the terrible legion came out
on every hand before her. She saw them hurrying fast
and far after the flying partisans, and every blast of the
trumpet, as it died away in the distance, brought a new
pang into her mind, until the agony became insupportable.
She determined to suffer no longer under the
gnawing suspense which clamoured at her heart.
“I will know the worst: I cannot bear this agony,
and live!”
Thus murmuring, she started from her place by the
window, and turned to the feeble Rose, who still lay
upon the floor at her feet, in a degree of mental and
physical prostration full as great, even now, as at the
first moment in which the battle joined.
“Rose—dear Rose, will you go with me?”
“Where—go where, Janet? You frighten me!”
“There is no danger now. Go with me, Rose—
dear cousin—let me not go alone.”
“But tell me where, dearest Janet? Where would
you go?—and you look so strange and wild,—put up
your hair, Janet.”
“No—no—no matter. It is no time. I must go,—
I must seek him, Rose, and I would not go alone.
Come with me, dearest—my sister—come with me.
Believe me, there can be no danger,—only to the avenue.”
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“What, where they've been fighting, and in all that
horrid blood?” cried the other, in a voice that was a
shriek.
“Even there—where there is blood,—where—oh,
God, be with me!—where there must be death. I go
to seek for it, Rose, though I would not find it if I
could,” solemnly, and with clasped and uplifted hands,
responded the devoted maiden.
“Never—never,” cried the other.
“Rose—dear Rose, will you let me go alone? I
beg you, Rose—on my knees—there is no danger
now.”
“There is danger, Janet, and they will murder us. I
heard them crying and shouting only a minute ago; and,
there—there is that dreadful trumpet now, whose sounds
go like a sword-stab to my heart. I cannot, Janet—I
dare not: there is danger.”
“None: on my life, Rose, there is no danger now.
Our people have retreated, and the dragoons have all
gone off in pursuit. They are now a great way off, and
we can get back to the house long before they return.
Do not fear, Rose, but go with me, only for a little
while.”
“I cannot, I will not go among the dead bodies.
You would not have me go there, Janet,—you surely
will not go yourself?”
“Ay, there, Rose—even there, among the dying and
the dead, if it must be so. I may serve the one,—I
have no cause to fear the other. It may be—it must
be—dreadful to look upon, but my heart holds it to be a
duty that I should go there now, and, if not a duty, it is
a desire that I cannot control. I must go, Rose, and
I would not go alone.”
“I will not; forgive me, Janet, but I should go
mad to see the blood and the dead bodies. I cannot go.”
“God be with me!—I must go alone:” and, as she
replied thus, giving her solemn determination, her eyes
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were uplifted in a holy appeal to the Almighty Being,
whose presence, in the absence of all others, she had
invoked for her adventure.
“Hold me not, Rose—I am resolved. I must go,
though I go alone. Yet, I should not, Rose, if you
would but reflect. There are no noises now—there are
no alarms: the troops have gone—there is no sort of
danger.”
She looked appealingly to her companion while she
spoke, but her eye met no answering sympathies in that
of Rose Duncan. The terrors of the latter were unabated.
There was a vital difference of character between
the two. The elastic spirit of the more lively
maiden was one merely of the physical and external
world. She was the summer-bird—a thing of glitter
and of sunshine. She could not live in the stormy
weather—she could not bide the turbulence of strife.
It was at such a time that the spirit of Janet Berkeley
came forth in strength, if not in buoyance; even as the
eagle, who takes that season to soar forth from his
mountain dwelling, when the black masses of the tempest
growl and gather most gloomily around it.
“You will not, Rose?”
“No,—do not ask me, Janet.”
The firm and determined maiden, without another
word, simply raised her finger, and pointed to the adjoining
apartment, where her father was. The uplifted
finger then pressed her lips for a moment, and in the
next she was gone from sight. Rose did not believe
that she would go forth after her refusal to accompany
her, and she now earnestly called her back. But she
was already out of hearing: she had gone forth to the
field of blood and battle; and, strong in love, and fearless
in absorbing and concentrative affections, she had
gone alone.
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CHAPTER III.
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Love is the vital principle of religion—it is religion.
It is the devotion that fears not death—which is not won
by life—which cannot be seduced from duty—which is
patient and uncomplaining amid privation. Its existence
becomes merged in that of the object which it
worships, and its first gift is the sacrifice of—self.
There is no love if the heart will not make this sacrifice,
and the heart never truly loves until this sacrifice be made.
Self is that life which we surrender when we gain the
happiness of the blessed. Seldom made in this life, it
is yet the only condition upon which we are secure of
the future. Ah! happy the spirit which is soonest ready
for the sacrifice. To such a spirit, Heaven and Immortality
are one!
The destiny of such a creature as Janet Berkeley
might even now be written. She is secure. There can
be no change in such a character. Time, and fortune,
sickness, the defeat of hope, and the consciousness of
approaching death, could never alter one lofty mood, one
self-devoting impulse of her soul. Surely, though she
seeks the field of terror unaccompanied by human form,
she will not necessarily be alone. The God whose worship
calls only for love, will not be heedless of the safety
of her who toils for the beloved one. He is with her.
Resolute as she was to seek the field of strife, and
fearless as her conduct approved her spirit, she was yet
sufficiently maiden in her reserve, to desire, as much as
possible, to conceal from stranger eyes the object of her
adventure. With a cautious footstep, therefore, she stole
from cover to cover, until she reached the artificial bank,
clustering and crowded with shrubs and vines, which
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supported the trees on one side of the spacious avenue.
With a trembling hand she parted the shrubbery before
her, and her eyes took in for an instant the field of battle,
and then, immediately after, shutting out its objects,
closed, as if with a moral comprehension of their own.
She could not be mistaken in the dreadful objects in her
sight. The awful testimonies of the desperate fight
were strewn around her. Her uplifted foot, in the very
first step which she had been about to take from the
bank, hung suspended over the lifeless body of one of
its victims. She turned suddenly and sickeningly away.
She strove, but she could not pass into the avenue at
that point, and she receded through the thicket, and
made her way round to another quarter, in which she
hoped to find an unobstructed passage. There was but
little time for delay, and with this thought a new resolution
brought strength to her frame. Again her hand
parted the copse, making a passage for her person.
This time she dared not look. She did not again permit
herself either to think or look, but resolutely leaping
across the ditch, she stood for a moment, awed and
trembling, but still firm, in the presence of the dead.
She was motionless for several seconds, but her mind
neutralized, in its noble strength of purpose, the otherwise
truly feminine feebleness of her person. She was
about to move forward in her determined task; but, when
she strove to lift her foot, it seemed half fastened to the
ground. She looked down, and her shoe was covered
with clotted blood. She stood in a fast freezing puddle
of what, but an hour before, had been warm life and feeling.
But she did not now give heed to the obstruction—
she was unconscious of this thought. Her mind was
elsewhere, and her eyes sought for another object. The
anxiety of her heart was too intense to make her heedful
of those minor influences, which, at another time,
would have shocked the sensibilities and overthrown all
the strength of her sex. She hurried forward, and her
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eyes were busy all around her. The whole length of
the avenue seemed marked by the suffering victims, or
those who had ceased to suffer. Death had been busy
in this quarter, and tory and rebel had equally paid tribute
to the destroyer. A deep moaning, feebly uttered,
but full of pain, came to her ears. It guided her steps.
She followed the one sound only. A wounded man lay
half in the ditch, to which he had crawled as if to be out
of the way of the horses. His head and shoulders were
on the bank—the rest of his body was concealed. A
frightful gash disfigured his face, and the blood-smeared
features were yet pale with the sickness of death. He
stretched out a feeble arm as she approached. He muttered
a single word—
“Water.”
At another time, she would have run with the speed
of charity to bring him the blessed draught for which
he prayed, but now she gave him no heed. There
was nothing in his face which spoke to her heart, and
that moaning sound yet reached her ears at intervals.
She hurried onward, and the pleading wretch sank
back and perished, even as he prayed. She heard his
last gasping groan, but it had no effect upon her feeling.
Her mind was sensible only of the one sound which had
so far guided her footsteps. It seemed, through the medium
of some strange instinct, at once to convey itself to
her soul. She reached the bend in the avenue from
whence it came. On the edge of the ditch, half buried
in the water and the long grass, lay the wounded man.
A single glance informed her. She could not mistake
the uniform.
“Mellichampe,” she cried, in a thrilling voice of terror,
as, with one desperate bound, she rushed forward to
the spot, and, heedless of the thick blood which had died
the grass all around where he lay, sank on her knees
beside him, while her infolding arms were wrapped about
his bosom.
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“Ernest—dear Ernest!—speak to me—tell me that
you live—say that you are mine still—that I do not lose
you. Look at me, Ernest—speak to me—speak to me
only once.”
He was in her arms—he breathed—he felt—but he
spoke not, and did not seem conscious. Her heart was
strong, though suffering; and her feeble strength of person,
under its promptings, was employed with an energy
of which she had never before conjectured one half the
possession, to drag him forth from the vines and brambles
which lay thick around his face—the concealing
cover in which he had been studiously placed by the
trusty Witherspoon the moment before his own flight.
From this cover she now strove to lift the form of her
lover, and, though wounding her delicate fingers at every
effort with the thorns, the devoted Janet felt nothing of
their injuries as she laboured with this object. With
great effort she succeeded in drawing him upon the bank,
and his head now rested upon her arms. A writhing
of his person—a choking, half-suppressed groan, attested
the returning consciousness with the increased
pain following this movement, and mixed moans and
menaces fell incoherently from his lips. Even these
signs, though signs of pain to him, and holding forth no
encouragement or hope to her, were yet more grateful
than the unconsciousness in which he lay before. She
spoke to him—the words bursting forth in an intensity
of natural eloquence from her tongue, which could scarce
have failed to arouse him, even from the stupor of overcoming
death itself.
“Speak to me, Mellichampe—dear Ernest, speak to
me Tell me that you live—that you are not hurt to
death. It is Janet—your own Janet that calls upon you.
Look up and see—look up and hear me—it is my arms,
dear Ernest, that hold you now—the bloody men are all
gone.”
And his dim eyes did unclose, and they did look up
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with a sweet mournfulness of expression, vacant and
wild, that grew into a smile, almost of pleasure, when
they met the earnest, commiserating glance of hers.
They closed again almost instantly, however, but he
murmured her name at the moment.
“Janet—you?”
“Your own—in life and death, Ernest—ever your
own.”
And she clung to him with a tenacious hold at that
instant, as if determined that death should take no separate
victim. He was again conscious, and spoke,
though feebly:
“I fear me it is death, Janet. I feel it—this pain
cannot long be endured, and my limbs are useless.”
“Speak not thus, Ernest—I know it is not so. Stay—
move not. I will lift you to the house—I will—”
“You!” and he smiled feebly and fondly, as he arrested
the idle speech.
“God of Heaven! have mercy!—what shall I do?—
I may not help him,” and the exclamation burst spontaneously
from her lips, as she found, after repeated efforts,
that her feeble arms were inadequate to the task even of
lifting him from his present painful position to a drier
spot upon the bank. In her bewilderment and anguish,
she could only call his name in a bitter fondness. He
heard her complaints, and seemed to comprehend their
occasion. His lips parted, and, though with pain and a
sensible effort, he strove to speak to her. The words
were faint and inaudible. She bent down her ears, and
at length distinguished what he said. He but named to
her the faithful negro who had once before stood so opportunely
between him and his enemy, and had nearly
suffered a dreadful and ignominious death in consequence
of his fidelity.
“Scip—Scipio—he will come—Scip.”
His eyes closed with the effort, but her face brightened
as she listened to the words. She immediately
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laid his head tenderly upon the bank, pressed the pale
unconscious forehead with her lips, and, bounding away
through the thicket, hurried with all the fleetness of a
zealous and devoted spirit to the completion of her task.
CHAPTER IV.
She was not long in finding the faithful Scipio. He
sprang with all the alacrity of a genuine zeal in obedience
to her commands. When he heard from her faltering
lips the melancholy occasion which called for his
attendance, his own emotion was unrestrainable, though
he affected to doubt the certainty of her information.
“Who—who da hurt, misses? You no say da Mass
Arnest? I no blieb it. Mass Arnest, he too strong,
and he too quick for let dem dam tory hurt a bone in
he body. He somebody else, misses. You no 'casion
for scare; he somebody else hab knock on he head—
no Mass Arnest, I berry sartin. But I go long wid
you all de same, dough I no guine tink da Mass Arnest
git hurt. He hab much hurt, I turn soger myself.
I run 'way from old mossa, and take de bush after dem
tory. I sway to God nothing guine 'top me I once in
de woods. But, come, young misses, show me de
place whay the person hurt, dough I know berry well
'taint Mass Arnest.”
Denying her assertion, yet fearing at every step that
he took—and, indeed, only denying that he might the
more readily impose upon himself with the unbelief
which he expressed, but with which he was yet not satisfied—
the sturdy Scipio followed his young mistress
towards the avenue. They had not reached the little
copse, however, by which it was girdled, before they
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heard the rush of horses, and the shrill blast of the
bugle.
“'Top in dis bush, young misses—squat down here
under dis percimmon, whay day can't see you.”
“No, Scipio, let us go forward. I think we can get
to the avenue before they come up, and I would have
you lift him into the bushes out of the way of the
horsemen, before they have passed by. Do not fear,
Scipio; we shall have time—but you must go forward
quickly.”
The black looked into her face with astonishment,
as well he might. Her words were unbroken, and her
tones quick and unaffected, equable, even musical,
while his own, accustomed as he had been all his life
to utter and complete subordination, were tremulous
with timidity and fear.
“Gor-a-mighty, Miss Janet, you no scare? You
no frightened, and you only young gal? Scip member
you when you been only so high, and here you
tall—you 'tan' up traight—you look all round—you no
trouble, dough you hear de horn blow and de sogers
coming. Wha' for you no scare like Scipio?”
She could not smile at that moment, as at another she
could scarcely have refrained from doing; but her eye
was turned upon the half-unnerved negro, and her taper
finger rested on his sable wrist, as she said, in tones
which strengthened him, as he felt they came from one
who was herself supernaturally strengthened,
“Fear nothing, but come on quickly. I need all
your strength, Scipio; and, if you will mind what I say
to you, there will be no danger. Come on.”
He opposed nothing farther to her progress, but followed
in silence. They had reached an outer fence, the
rails of which had been let down in order to the free passage
of the cavalry before, when the increasing clamour
of the approaching detachment under Barsfield again
impelled Scipio to other suggestions of caution to his
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[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]
youthful mistress. But she heeded him not, and continued
her progress. Nor did he shrink. He could
perish for her as readily as for Mellichampe; and, to
do the faithful slave all justice, his exhortations were
prompted not so much by his own danger or hers, as by
a natural sense of the delicacy of that position in which
she might involve herself, under that strong and passionate
fervour of devoted love, which blinded her to all
feeling of danger, and placed her infinitely beyond the
fear of death. Other fears she had not. Her maiden
innocence had never yet dreamed of a wrong to that purity
of soul and person, of which her whole life might
well have been considered the imbodied representative.
But the forbearance of the negro, and his ready compliance
hitherto, all disappeared when, on reaching the
copse, he beheld the bright sabres flashing in his eyes
immediately in the courtyard, as, rounding the yet
blazing fabric, the troopers of Barsfield were even then
making with all speed towards the avenue. He caught
the wrist of his mistress, and pointed out the advancing
enemy. She saw at a glance that, in another moment,
they would make their appearance in the avenue quite as
soon as herself. But a few paces divided her from Mellichampe;
and, as she hesitated whether to pause or proceed,
she trembled now, for the first time in her movement.
In that moment of doubt, the more ready physical
energy of the negro obtained the ascendency. With
something like fear he drew her to a part of the copse
which was thicker than the rest, and here she partially
crouched from sight, he taking a place humbly enough
immediately behind her. What were her feelings then,
in that position—what her fears! She bore them not
long. The anxiety and the suspense were infinitely beyond
all estimation of the danger in her mind; and,
with fearless hands, after a few moments of dreadful
pause and apprehension, she divided the crowding
bushes from before her, and looked down into the ditch
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which separated her from the avenue. At that moment,
leading his squad and moving rapidly at their head,
Barsfield rode into the enclosure. Instinctively, as she
beheld his huge form and fiercely-excited, harsh features,
her hands sunk down at her side, and the slender
branches which she had opened in the copse before her,
with their crowding foliage, resumed in part their old position,
and would most completely have concealed her;
but when, in the next instant, she beheld the fierce tory
ride directly to the spot where Mellichampe lay—when
she saw him rein up his steed and leap with onward
haste to the ground—when her eye scanned the intense
malignity and mingled exultation and hatred of his
glance, and she saw that his bloody sabre was even
then uplifted—she had no farther fears—she had no farther
thoughts of herself. She tore the branches away
from before her, and, in defiance of all the efforts of the
faithful Scipio to restrain her, she leaped forward directly
into the path of the tory, and in the face of his uplifted
weapon. Her appearance was in the last degree
opportune. Another moment might have ended all her
cares for her lover. Barsfield was standing above
him, and Mellichampe had exhibited just life enough to
give the tory an excuse sufficient to drive the sword
which he held into the bosom of that enemy whom, of
all the world, he was most desirous to destroy. The
meditated blow was almost descending, and the feeble
youth, stimulated by the presence of his foe, was vainly
struggling to rise from the earth, which was all discoloured
with his blood. His dim eyes were opening in momentary
flashes, while his sinewless arm was feebly
striving to lift the sabre, which he had still retained tenaciously
in his grasp, in opposition to that of Barsfield.
The instinct rather than the reason of love prevailed.
Indeed, the instinct of love is woman's best reason.
With a shriek that rose more shrilly upon the air than
the bugle of the enemy, she threw herself under the
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weapon—she lay prostrate upon the extended and fainting
form of her lover—she clasped his head with her
arms, and her bosom formed the sweet and all-powerful
barrier which, in that perilous moment, protected his.
The weapon of the tory was arrested. He had heard
her cry—he had seen the movement—and he did not,
he could not then, strike.
“Save him, spare him, Barsfield!—he is dying,—you
have already slain him! Strike no other blow; have
mercy, I pray you,—if not upon him, have mercy upon
me. I have never wronged you—I will not,—let us go
free. Why will you hate us so—why—why?”
“Fear not, Miss Berkeley—you mistake my purpose:
I mean not to destroy him. Leave him now,—
let one of my men attend you to the house; and Mr.
Mellichampe shall be taken care of.”
“I will not leave him,” she exclaimed; “I dare not
trust you, Barsfield,—I can take care of him myself.”
The fierce brow of the tory blackened as this reproachful
speech met his ears.
“What! not trust me, Miss Berkeley?”
“Why should I? Did I not behold you, even now,
about to strike his unguarded bosom?”
“He strove to fight—he offered resistance,” was the
somewhat hasty reply of the tory.
“He strove to fight!—he offered resistance!—oh,
shame, Captain Barsfield—shame to manhood—that you
should speak such language! What resistance could
he offer?—how could he fight, and the blood that could
only have given him strength for such a conflict soaking
up the earth about him? If that blood were now in his
heart, Mr. Barsfield, you would not now speak thus, nor
would I have occasion, sir, to plead for his life at any
hands, and, least of all, at yours.”
She had raised herself from the body, over which she
still continued to bend, under the indignation of her
spirit at the unmanly speech of the tory. Her eyes
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flashed forth a fire as she spoke, 'neath which his own
grew humbled and ashamed. His muscles quivered
with rage and vexation, and his only resort for relief
was to that natural suggestion of the lowly mind which
seeks to conceal or fortify one base action by the commission
of another.
“Take her away, Beacham,” he said to one of the
troopers; “carry her to the house—tenderly, Beacham—
tenderly; hurt her not. Be careful, as you value
my favour.”
“Touch me not,” she cried aloud, “touch me not:
put no hand upon me. This is my home, Captain
Barsfield,—I am here of right, while you are but the
guest of our hospitality. Do not suffer these men to
lay hands upon me.”
“But you are here in danger, Miss Berkeley.”
“Only from you, sir—only from you and yours. I
am in no danger, sir, from him—none—none. I will
cling to him for safety to the last, though he hear me
not—though he never hear me again. He is mine, sir,
and I am his; but you knew this before. He is mine,—
you shall not tear me from my husband.”
“Husband!” cried Barsfield, in unmitigated surprise
and unconcealed vexation.
“Yes, husband, before God, if not in the eye of man!
Living or dead, Ernest, I am still yours—yours only.
I swear it by this unconscious form,—I swear it by all
that is good and holy—all that can hallow an innocent
love, and make sacred and strong so solemn and so
dear a pledge! You cannot now separate us,—you
dare not!”
“You know not, Miss Berkeley, how much I can
dare in the performance of my duty.”
“This is no duty of yours,—I need none of your
guardianship.”
“Ay, Miss Berkeley, you do not, perhaps, but he
does. He is my prisoner, under charge of a heavy
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crime—of treason to his sovereign, and of being a spy
upon my camp.”
“What! he—Mellichampe! Oh, false, false—foolish
and false!” was her almost fierce exclamation.
“True as gospel, Miss Berkeley, as I shall prove to
his conviction, if not yours. But this is trifling, surely.
Beacham, remove the lady; treat her tenderly, but remove
her from the body of the prisoner: we must secure
him at all hazards—living or dead.”
The rugged soldier, in obedience to these commands,
approached the maiden, who now clung more firmly
than ever to the half-conscious form of her lover. Her
arms were wound about his neck, and, with convulsive
shrieks at intervals, she spoke alternately to Barsfield
and her lover. In the meantime, beholding the approach
of the soldier who had been instructed to bear
her away, the faithful Scipio, though entirely unarmed,
did not hesitate at once to leap forward to her assistance.
He made his way between her and the soldier
Beacham, and, though his arms hung without movement
at his side, there was yet enough in his manner to show
to the tory that he meditated all the resistance of which,
under the circumstances, he could be considered capable.
His teeth were set firmly; his eyes sought those
of the soldier, and were there fixed; and his head rested
upon one shoulder with an air of dogged determination
which, even before he spoke, conveyed all the eloquence
of his subsequent words.
“Say de wud, misses—only say de wud, and I hammer
dis poor buckrah till he hab noting leff but de white
ob he eye. He hab sword for stick, and Scip only hab
he hand and teet'; but I no 'fraid ob um; only you say
de wud—dat's all!”
But poor Scipio, as was natural enough at such a
moment, in the presence of his mistress, and his blood
mounting high at seeing the condition of Ernest Mellichampe,
had grievously miscalculated his own strength.
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He had scarcely spoken when a stroke from the back
of a sabre across the head brought him to the ground,
like a stunned ox, and taught Janet how little commiseration
she was to expect from the fierce man who
stood before her, wielding at that instant her entire destiny.
The soldier advanced, though with some evident
reluctance, and he laid his hand upon her. She started,
on the instant, and rose immediately to her feet.
“If you are resolved upon violence towards me,
Captain Barsfield, I will spare myself, as much as possible,
the pain of suffering it. You have, sir, all the
shame of having commanded it. I know that you have
the strength to tear me away from him; you are wise,
perhaps, as you seem only to employ it when the difference
is so manifest. But I will not be separated from
him, though you declare him your prisoner: I will be a
prisoner also; I will cling to him wherever you may
decree that he shall be carried; for know, sir, that I
trust you not. The man who will employ violence to a
woman would murder his sleeping enemy!”
“Remove her to the house, Beacham,” was all that the
tory said; but his words were uttered with teeth closely
clinched together, and his whole frame seemed to quiver
with indignation. At that moment the sound of Tarleton's
returning bugle smote suddenly upon the ears of
all; and the quick sense of Janet immediately saw, in
the features of Barsfield, that the intelligence was not
pleasing to his mind. He hurried his commands for
the removal of Mellichampe's body, and was now doubly
anxious to convey her to the house. Without a definite
motive for refusing now to do that to which, but a
moment before, she had consented, she sprang again to
the person of her lover, again threw her arms about him,
and refused to be separated. While thus situated, the
tones of another voice were heard immediately behind
the group. The deep, subdued, but stern accents of
Tarleton himself were not to be mistaken; and Barsfield
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started in obvious agitation, as he heard the question
which first announced to him the presence of his superior.
CHAPTER V.
The group, at that moment in the avenue, formed a
striking picture. The voice of Tarleton seemed to have
the effect of paralyzing and fixing to his place each of
the parties. Janet, on bended knee, with her person
half stretched over the insensible body of her lover, her
face turned and her hand uplifted to the legionary colonel,
looked, at the same moment, relieved and apprehensive.
She felt that the presence of Tarleton was a
restraint upon the vindictive personal hostility of Barsfield;
but did she not also know that the name of the
legionary was synonymous in Carolina with every thing
that was bloody and revengeful? She hoped and trembled,
yet she was better pleased that the destinies of her
lover should rest with the latter than the former. Tarleton
could have no individual hatred to Mellichampe;—
she well conceived the viperous and unforgiving hate
which rankled against him in the bosom of the tory.
The quiet inquiry—the even and subdued tones, of
Tarleton, had the effect of a like paralysis upon the
limbs of Barsfield. His mood was rebuked—his violent
proceedings at once arrested, as he heard them:
yet they were words of simple inquiry.
“What does all this mean, Captain Barsfield?—why
is this lady here?”
The tory explained, or sought to explain, but he performed
the task imperfectly.
“A wounded enemy—a prisoner, sir. I would have
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conveyed him where he could procure tendance, but
Miss Berkeley resisted.”
The maiden rose. She approached Tarleton, and said
to him, in low, but still audible tones,
“Because I would not trust him. He would have
killed him—he would have murdered him with his
bloody sword, if I had not come between.”
“But who is he, young lady—what is the youth in
whom you take such interest?”
Her lips quivered, and a faint flush spread itself over
her cheeks, but she did not reply.
“Who is the prisoner, Captain Barsfield?”
“A rebel, sir—one Mellichampe.”
“Son of Max Mellichampe?” demanded Tarleton,
interrupting him.
“The same, sir; as malignant a rebel as his father;
and one not only liable to be dealt with as such, but one
whom I would secure for trial as a spy.”
At these words she spoke. The accusation against
her lover aroused her. Her eye flashed indignant fires
upon the tory as she spoke fearlessly in reply.
“It is false, sir—a wilful falsehood, believe me. Ernest
Mellichampe was no spy; he could not be. This
man conceives his enemy's character from his own.
Mellichampe is incapable, sir, of so base an employment;
and Captain Barsfield knows him sufficiently
well to know it. Ernest did but come to the house to
see us, as he was accustomed to come; and it so happened
that Captain Barsfield, with his troop, came that
very day also. My father always extended to Ernest
Mellichampe the same hospitality which he extended to
Captain Barsfield; and so, sir, you see that Ernest was
our visiter, our guest, like Captain Barsfield, and one of
them could no more be a spy than the other. Captain
Barsfield knows all this; and, if he did not hate Ernest,
I should not have to tell it you. But I tell you the
truth, sir, as I am a woman: Ernest was no spy, and
the charge against him is false and sinful.”
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She paused, breathless and agitated. Tarleton smiled
faintly as he heard her through, and his eyes rested with
a gentle and most unwonted expression upon the glowing
face of the fair pleader. Her eye shrunk from,
while her whole frame trembled beneath, his gaze.
“But why is he here, my good young lady—why, if
he is our friend—why is he here?” inquired Tarleton, in
the gentlest language.
“I said not that, sir—I said not that he was a loyalist,—
Ernest Mellichampe, sir, is one of Marion's
men.”
“Ha!” was the quick exclamation of Tarleton, and
his brow was furrowed with a heavy frown as he uttered
it.
“But not a spy—oh no, sir, not a spy!—an open,
avowed, honourable enemy, but no spy. He fought
against this man, sir—this man Barsfield—who hates
him, sir, and came here only just now, sir—I saw it myself—
and would have killed Ernest with his sword, sir,
and he senseless, if I had not come between him and
the weapon.”
“Is this so, Captain Barsfield?” inquired Tarleton,
gravely.
“The rebel's weapon was uplifted, Colonel Tarleton,
and he opposed me when I sought to make him my
prisoner.”
“Oh! false—false, sir—and foolish as it is false!”
was her reply; “for how could he fight, sir, when he
was so hurt, and lying almost senseless on the grass?”
“He could offer but little resistance, indeed, Captain
Barsfield!” remarked Tarleton, sternly and coolly; “and
this reminds me that he will the more speedily need the
assistance of our surgeon. Here, Decker—Wilson—
Broome—go one of you and request Mr. Haddows to
prepare himself for a wounded man—sabre-cut, head
and shoulder,—away!—and you—a score of you, lift
the body and bear it to the house. Tenderly, men—
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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
tenderly: if you move so roughly again, Corporal Wilson,
I'll cleave you to the chine with my sabre. Ha!
he shows his teeth again!—a fierce rebel, doubtless,
young lady, and a troublesome one, too, though you
speak so earnestly in his behalf.”
The latter remark of Tarleton was elicited by the
feverish resistance which the partly-aroused Mellichampe
now offered to his own removal. The soldiers had
sought to wrest his sabre from his grasp, and this again,
with the pain of the movement, had provoked his consciousness.
He struggled desperately for an instant,
gnashed his teeth, threw his eyes round upon the group
with an air of defiance even in their vacancy, then closed
them again, as he fainted away in a deathlike sickness
in the arms which now uplifted him.
Janet would have clung still to her lover as they bore
him towards the dwelling, but Tarleton interposed.
He approached her with a smile of gentleness, which
was always beautiful and imposing when it made its appearance
upon his habitually sombre features.
“Come, Miss Berkeley, let us go forward together.
You will not fear to take the arm of one whom you
doubtless consider in the character of an enemy—one,
probably, of the very worst sort. Your rebel there, in
whom you have taken such a sweet interest, has no
doubt taught you to believe me so: and you have readily
believed all that he has taught you. I see how matters
stand between you—nay, blush not—you have nothing
to blush for. You have only done your duty—the
duty of a woman, always a more delicate, often a more
holy, and sometimes a far more arduous duty than any
of those which are peculiarly the performance of man.
I admire you for what you have done, and you will regard
me as a friend hereafter, though I am at war now
with some of those whom you love most dearly. This
matters nothing with me: nor am I always the stern
monster which I appear to so many. I am, they say,
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fond of blood-spilling, and I fear me that much of what
they say is true; but Bannister Tarleton was not always
what he now appears. Some of his boy feelings
have worked in your favour; and, so long as they last—
and Heaven grant that they may last for ever—I will
admire your virtues, and freely die to preserve and promote
them. Go now and attend upon this youth: and,
hear me, young lady, persuade him back to his true allegiance.
You will do him as good a service by doing
that, as you have done him now. He will be well attended
by my own surgeon, and shall want for nothing;
but he must remain a prisoner. The charges of Captain
Barsfield must be examined into, but he shall have
justice.”
“Oh! sir, do not believe those charges—do not believe
that man. He is a bad man, who personally hates
Ernest, and will do all he can to destroy him, as he destroyed
his father.”
“His father! Yes—yes—I remember. Max Mellichampe—
his plantation was called—”
“Kaddipah.”
“I see! I see!” responded Tarleton, musingly, and
his eyes were on the ground; while the sabre, which he
had carried in his hand, still in its sheath, came heavily
to the earth with a clatter that made the maiden start.
A few moments pause ensued, when Tarleton proceeded:
“Fear nothing for the safety of the youth. He shall
be tried impartially, and treated honourably, though we
must now keep him a prisoner, and Barsfield must have
his keeping.”
“Oh, sir—not Barsfield—anybody else.”
“It cannot be,” was the response; “but there is no
danger. I shall say but a few words to Barsfield, and
Mr. Mellichampe will be much safer in his custody than
in that of any other. Take my word that it will be so.
You have some prejudices, I perceive, against Barsfield,
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which do him injustice. You will discover, in the end,
that you have wronged him.”
“Never, sir, never. You know him not, Colonel
Tarleton, you know him not.”
“Perhaps not, my dear young lady; but I know that
Mr. Mellichampe will be safe after I have given my orders.
All I request of you is to be patient. Encourage
the prisoner—tell him to fear nothing; and fear
nothing yourself.”
She hesitated—she would have urged something farther
in objecting to Barsfield as the keeper of her lover;
but a sudden change came over the countenance
of the legionary, even as an unlooked-for cloud enlarges
from a scarce perceptible speck, and obscures
the hitherto untroubled heavens. His figure suddenly
grew erect, and his air was coldly polite, as he checked
her in the half-uttered suggestion.
“No more, Miss Berkeley, I have determined. The
arrangements most proper for all parties shall be made,
and all justice shall be done the prisoner. Have no
doubts—rely on me, I pray you, and be calm—be confident
in the assurances I give you. For once believe
that Bannister Tarleton can be humane—that tenderness
and justice may both be found at his hands. Go
now to your dwelling. You have duties there; and
oblige me, if you please, by saying to your father that,
if agreeable to him, I will take dinner with him to-day.”
He kissed her hand as he was about to leave her,
with a grave, manly gallantry, that seemed to take the
privilege as a matter of course; and she did not resist
him. Murmuring her acknowledgments, she hurried
away to the dwelling, and was soon out of sight.
Tarleton stood for a few moments watching her progress,
with a painful sort of pleasure evident upon his
pale countenance, as if some old and sacred memories,
suddenly aroused from a long slumber, were busy stirring
at his heart.
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CHAPTER VI.
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Tarleton, however, whatever may have been his
feelings or his thoughts, gave but little time to their
present indulgence. As soon as Janet Berkeley was
out of sight he again sought out Barsfield, whom he
found in no very excellent humour. The tory was mortified
on many accounts. He was irritated at the
escape of Mellichampe, a second time, from the fate
which he had prepared for him, and which, at one moment,
he had considered certain. He was annoyed at
the sudden appearance of his superior, and that superior
Tarleton, just when his controversies with a woman
placed him in an attitude so humiliating to a man and a
soldier. His brow was clouded, therefore, as these
thoughts filled his mind, and the scowl had not left his
features when Tarleton again made his appearance.
The fierce legionary was a man of promptitude, quick
decision, and few words:—
“So, Captain Barsfield, this prisoner of yours is the
son of Max Mellichampe?”
“The same, sir; a malignant I had thought quite too
notorious to have escaped your recollection.”
“It had not; though, at the moment when I first
heard it, I was confounding one name with another in
my memory.”
“I thought it strange, sir.”
“You must have done so,” was the cool reply of
Tarleton, “for the fine estate and former possessions of
Mellichampe, now yours through our sovereign's favour,
are too closely at hand not to have kept the old proprietor
in recollection. But our speech is now of the son:
what of him, Captain Barsfield?”
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There was a good deal in this speech to annoy the
tory, but he strove successfully to preserve his composure
as he replied to the latter part of it.
“He, sir, is not less malignant—not less hostile to
our cause and sovereign, than his father. He is an exceedingly
active officer among the men of Marion; and,
like his father, endowed with many of the qualities which
would make him troublesome as an enemy. He is
brave, and possessed of considerable skill; quite too
much not to render it highly advantageous to us to have
him a prisoner, and liable to certain penalties as a criminal.
It was my surprise, Colonel Tarleton—” and a
little hesitation here, in the words and manner of the
tory, seemed to denote his own apprehensions of encroaching
upon delicate ground quite too far,—“it was
my surprise, sir, that, knowing his name and character,
you should have proceeded towards him with so much
tenderness.”
The legionary did not seem to feel the force of the
rebuke which this language conveyed. His thoughts
were elsewhere, evidently, as he replied, with an inquiring
exclamation,
“Eh?”
“You knew him, sir—a rebel—a spy,—for such I asserted
and can prove him to be,—yet you spared him.”
“I did,” said Tarleton; “you wonder that I did so.
Does your surprise come from the belief that I did him
or myself injustice? To what do you ascribe my forbearance?
or would you rather have had me truss him
up to a tree, because he merited such a doom, or sabre
him upon the ground, in order to preserve my consistency?”
The tory looked astounded, as well he might. There
was a strange tone of irony in the language of Tarleton,
and the words themselves had a signification quite
foreign to the wonted habit of the latter. He knew not
how to construe the object or the precise nature of the
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question. The whole temper of the fierce legionary
seemed to have undergone a change, and was now a
mystery to Barsfield, as it had been a wonder to the
men around them. There was a sarcastic smile on the
lips of the speaker, accompanying his words, which
warned the tory to be heedful of the sort of reply to
which he should give utterance. He paused, therefore,
for a few moments, in order so to digest his answer as
to guard it from every objectionable expression; yet he
spoke with sufficient promptitude to avoid the appearance
of premeditating what he said.
“Surely, Colonel Tarleton, the rebel who resists
should die in his resistance—”
“But when wounded, Barsfield—when wounded, and
at your feet—” was the abrupt interruption of Tarleton,
who certainly did not diminish the surprise of Barsfield
while thus making a suggestion of mercy to the conqueror.
The tory could not forbear a sarcasm: with a
smile, therefore, he proceeded:—
“And yet, Colonel Tarleton, it has seldom been the
case that you have left to his majesty's enemies, even
when you have overthrown them, a second opportunity
of lifting arms against him.”
The bitter smile passed from the lips of the legionary,
and his eye rested sternly upon the face of the tory.
The sarcasm was evidently felt, and, for a few moments,
there was in Tarleton's bosom something of that fierce
fire which, at one period, would have replied to the
sharp word with the sharper sword, and to the idle sneer
with a busy weapon. But the sternness of his brow, a
moment after, became subdued to mere seriousness, as
he replied—
“It is true, Captain Barsfield, my sabre has perhaps
been sufficiently unsparing. I have been a man
of blood; and heretofore, I have thought, with sufficient
propriety. I have deemed it my duty to leave my king
as few enemies as possible, and I have not often paused
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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
to consider of the mode by which to get rid of them;
but—”
He did not conclude the sentence. His face was
turned away from the listener. Thought seemed to
gather, like a cloud, upon his mind; and a gloomy and
dark hue obscured his otherwise pale features. The
tory regarded him with increased surprise as he again
addressed him; he could no longer conceal his astonishment
at the change in the mood and habits of the
speaker.
“May I ask,” he continued, “what has wrought the
alteration which I cannot but see now in your deportment,
Colonel Tarleton?”
“Is it not enough,” was the quick response of the legionary,
“that Cornwallis has grown merciful of late?”
“It has been of late that he has become so,” said
Barsfield, with a smile; “only since the battle of Gum
Swamp, may we reckon?”
“He, at least, requires that I shall be so,” said
Tarleton, calmly, “though the indulgence of a different
temper he still appears to keep in reserve for himself.
He would monopolize the pleasure of the punishment,
and, perhaps, the odium of it also. That, at least, I do
not envy him.”
“And in that respect your own mood seems to have
undergone a change which could not have been produced
by any command of his?”
Barsfield was venturing upon dangerous ground in this
remark, but he presumed thus freely as he listened to
the tacit censure which Tarleton had expressed in reference
to the conduct of his superior.
“It has, Captain Barsfield, and the proof of it is to
be found in the proceedings of this day. Under your
representations I should, at another time, with the full
sanction of Cornwallis, have strung up this rebel Mellichampe
to the nearest tree, though but a few moments
of life were left him by the doubtful mercies of your
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
sabre or mine. I have not done so; and my own mood
is accountable for the change, rather than the orders of
my superior. The truth is, I am sick of blood after the
strife is over; and I relieve myself of the duties of the
executioner by the alteration of my feelings in this respect.
Mellichampe will, perhaps, complain of my
mercy. He must remain your prisoner, to be carefully
kept by you, for trial in Charleston, as soon as his
wounds will permit of his removal to the city. An execution
is wanted there, for example, in that unruly city;
and this youth, coming of good family, and an active insurgent,
is well chosen as the proper victim. I am instructed
to secure another for this purpose, and my
pursuit now is partly for this object. Two such subjects
as Walton and Mellichampe, carted to an ignominious
death through the streets of Charleston, will
have the proper effect upon these insolent citizens, who
growl where they dare not bite, and sneer at the authority
which yet tramples them into the dust. You
must keep this youth safely for this purpose, Captain
Barsfield; I shall look to you that he escape not, and
that every attendance and all care be given him, so that
he may, as soon as possible, prepare for his formal trial,
and, as I think, for his final execution. My own surgeon
shall remain with him, the better to facilitate these
ends, which, as you value your own loyalty, you will do
your utmost to promote.”
“Am I to remain here, then, Colonel Tarleton?
Shall I not proceed to Baynton's Meadow, agreeably to
the original plan, and afterward establish myself in post
at Kaddipah?”
“No! you must establish yourself here. The position
is safer and better suited to our purposes than
Kaddipah. Surround yourself with stockades, and summon
the surrounding inhabitants. The probability is,
that you are too late for the gathering at Baynton's
Meadow. I fear me that Marion is there now. You
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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
should have crossed the river yesterday; the delay is
perhaps as fatal in its consequences as it was unadvised
and injudicious. But it is too late now to think upon.
To-morrow I will move to Baynton's Meadow, if I do
not first find Marion in the swamp.”
The conference was interrupted at this moment by
the approach of Blonay. His features suddenly caught
the eye of the legionary, who called him forward. The
Half-Breed, with his ancient habit, stood leaning against
a neighbouring tree, seeming not to observe any thing,
yet observing all things; and, with a skill which might
not readily be augured from his dull, inexpressive eye
and visage, searching closely into the bosoms of those
whom he surveyed, through the medium of those occasional
expressions of countenance, which usually run
along with feeling and indicate its presence.
“Ah! you are the scout,” said Tarleton. “Come
forward; I would speak with you.”
The Half-Breed stood before him.
“And you promise that you can guide me directly
to the camp of the rebel Marion?”
“Yes, colonel, I can.”
“You have seen it yourself?”
“I have, colonel.”
“Unseen by any of the rebel force?”
“Yes, colonel.”
“Can you guide us there, too, undiscovered?”
“Adrat it—yes—if the scouts ain't out. When I
went the scouts were all in, since there was no alarm,
and Marion was guine upon an expedition.”
“What expedition?”
“Well, I don't know, colonel—somewhere to the
north, I reckon—down about Waccamaw.”
“And suppose his scouts are out now—will they
see us—can we not make our way undiscovered?”
“'Taint so easy, colonel; there's no better scouts in
natur than the `swamp fox' keeps. They will dodge all
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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
day long in one thicket from the best ten men of the
legion.”
“Is there no way of misleading the scouts?”
“None, colonel, that I knows. If you could send
out a strong party of the horse in a different direction,
as if you was trying to get round them, you might trick
the old fox into believing it; but that's not so easy to
do. He's mighty shy, and ain't to be caught with
chaff.”
“Nor will I try any such experiment. Hark'ee, fellow:
if I find that you deceive me, I shall not stop a
moment to give your throat the surety of a strong cord.
Your counsels to break my force, to be cut up when
apart, are those of one who is drawing both right and
left, and argues but little respect for my common sense.
But I will trust you so far as you promise. You shall
guide me to the hole of the fox, and I will do the rest.
Guide me faithfully, and stick close to your promise,
and I will reward you; betray me, deceive me, or even
look doubtfully in our progress, and, so sure as I value
the great trust in my hands, your doom is written. Away
now, and be ready with the dawn.”
The scout bowed and retired. The moment that his
back had been turned upon the speaker, Tarleton motioned
two soldiers, who stood at a little distance, and
who kept their eyes ever watchfully upon Blonay.
They turned away at the signal, and followed the scout
at a respectful distance, but one not too great to render
the escape of the suspected person at all easy. Every
precaution was taken to prevent the scout from noticing
this surveillance; but the half-oblique eye which
he cast over his shoulder at intervals upon the two,
must have taught any one at all familiar with the character
of the Half-Breed, that he was not unconscious
of the close attention thus bestowed upon him. He
walked away unconcernedly, however, and it was not
long before, upon the edge of the forest, he had gained
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a favourite tree, against the sunny side of which he
leaned himself quietly, as if all the cares and even the
consciousness of existence had long since departed
from his mind.
It was in this spot, an hour after, that he was sought
out by Barsfield. The tory captain had some cause of
displeasure with the scout, who had evaded his expressed
wish to gain the clew to the retreat of Marion. He
had other causes of displeasure, which the dialogue between
them subsequently unfolded.
“Where did you meet with Colonel Tarleton to-day,
Mr. Blonay? You had no knowledge of his approach?”
“None, cappin—I heard his trumpet a little way off,
when I was making a roundabout for the swamp thicket,
and he came upon me with a few dragoons afore I seed
him.”
“It is strange, Mr. Blonay, that a good scout, such as
you are, should be so easily found when not desiring it.
Are you sure that you tried to keep out of his way?”
“No, cappin—there was no reason for me to try, for
I saw first that they were friends and not rebels; and
so I didn't push to hide, as I might have done, easy
enough.”
“And by what means did Colonel Tarleton discover
that you could lead him to the camp of Marion, unless
you studiously furnished him with your intelligence?”
“I did tell him, cappin, when he axed me. He axed
me if I knowed, and I said I did, jist the same as I said
to you; and he then axed me to show him, and I said I
could.”
“But why, when I asked you, did you deny your
ability to show me the way? Was it because you looked
for better pay at the hands of Tarleton?”
“No, cappin: but you didn't ax me to show you—
you only axed me to describe it, and that I couldn't do.
I can go over the ground, cappin, jist like a dog; but I
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
can't tell the name of the tree that I goes by, or this
bush, or that branch; and I haint any name for the
thicket I creeps through. I knows them all when I
sees them, and I can't miss them any more than the
good hound when he's once upon trail; but, if you was
to hang me, I couldn't say it to you in talking, so that
you could find it out for yourself.”
Blonay was right in a portion of his statement, but his
correctness was only partial. He could not, indeed,
have described his course; but he had been really
averse to unfolding it to Barsfield, and he had, with the
view to a greater reward, thrown himself in the way of
Tarleton, of whose approach he had been apprized. He
was true, in all respects, to the simple and selfish principle
upon which his education had been grounded by
his miserable mother. Barsfield had no farther objection
to urge on the subject. He was entirely deceived
by the manner of the scout. But there was yet another
topic of interest between them, and to this he called his
attention.
“You have not yet been successful with this boy?—
he lives yet—”
“Yes, but you have him now, and he can't help himself.
He is under your knife.”
“Ay!” exclaimed the tory, with an expression of
countenance the most awfully stern, and with a tone of
concentrated bitterness,—“ay! but I am as far off—
farther off, indeed—than ever. My hands are tied; he
is intrusted to my charge in particular, and my own
fidelity is interested in preserving him.”
“Eh?” was the simple and interrogative monosyllable
with which the scout replied to what was too nice a
subtlety in morals to be easily resolvable by a mind so
unconventional as his own. Barsfield saw the difficulty,
and tried to explain.
“I cannot violate a trust which is confided to me. I
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[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
must preserve and protect, and even fight against his
enemies, so long as he remains in my custody.”
“He is your enemy?” said Blonay, still wholly uninfluenced
by the remark of Barsfield.
“Yes, he is still my enemy.”
“And you his?”
“Yes.”
“He is aneath your knife?”
“Yes, entirely.”
The savage simply replied by taking his knife from
its sheath and drawing its back across his own neck,
while his countenance expressed all the fierce emotions
of one engaged in the commission of a murder. The
face of Barsfield took no small portion of the same
fierce expression: catching the hand of the speaker
firmly in his own, he replied—
“Ay, and no stroke would give me more pleasure
than that. It would be life to me—his death,—and why
may it not be done? It may be done! Blonay, we
will speak again of this; but be silent now, keep close,
and tell me where I may look for you to-night?”
“There!” and he pointed to a little swamp or bay,
in which he had slept before. It lay at the distance of
a mile, more or less, from the camp, which had been
already formed in the park, and near the yet consuming
mansion.
“There—I keep in the bay at night; for, though it
taint got no cypresses, sich as I used to love down upon
the Ashley, and about Dorchester, yet it's a close place,
and the tupolas and gums is mighty thick. You'll find
me there any time afore cockcrow. You have only to
blow in your hands three times—so—” producing a
singular and shrill whistle at the same time, by an application
of his mouth to an aperture left between his
otherwise closed palms,—“only blow so three times,
and I'll be with you.”
The tory captain tried to produce the desired sounds,
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in the suggested manner, which he at length succeeded
in doing. Satisfied, therefore, with the arrangement, he
left his accomplice to the contemplation of his own loneliness,
and hurried away to his duties in the camp.
CHAPTER VII.
Meanwhile the hurts of Mellichampe had all been
carefully attended to. Tarleton, so far, had kept his
pledged word to the maiden. He was removed to a
chamber in the house which gave temporary shelter to
the family, and the surgeon of the legionary colonel had
himself attended to his injuries. They were found to
be rather exhausting than dangerous. A slight sabre-stroke
upon his head had stunned him for the time, but
afforded no matter for very serious consideration. The
severest wound was the cut over the left shoulder, which
had bled profusely; but even this required little more
than close attendance and occasional dressing. A good
nurse was more important than a skilful surgeon, and no
idle and feeble scruples of the inferior mind stood in the
way to prevent Janet Berkeley from devoting herself to
the performance of this duty to her betrothed.
The intelligence of Mellichampe's true situation was
conveyed by Tarleton himself to Mr. Berkeley, in the
presence of his daughter. It seemed intended to, and
did, reassure the maiden, whose warm interest in the
captive was sufficiently obvious to all; as her tearful and
deep apprehensions on his account, and for his safety,
had been entirely beyond her power of concealment.
Tarleton dined that day with the Berkeley family.
His manners were grave, but gentle—somewhat reserved,
perhaps, but always easy, and sometimes elegant. He
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[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
spoke but little, yet what he said contributed, in no small
degree, to elevate him in the respect of all around. His
air was subdued, when he spoke, to a woman-mildness;
and his words were usually uttered in a low, soft tone,
little above a common whisper, yet sufficiently measured
and slow in their utterance to be heard without difficulty
by those to whom they were addressed. What a difference
was there between the same man sitting at the hospitable
board, and, when leading forward his army but a
few hours before, he rushed headlong, with kindled and
raging spirit, upon the tracks of his flying foe! There
was nothing now in his look or language which could
indicate the savage soldier. Was he, indeed, the same
bloodthirsty warrior, whose renown, by no means an
enviable one, had been acquired by the most wanton
butcheries in the fields of Carolina? This was the inquiry
in the minds of all those who now looked upon
him. Certainly a most remarkable alteration seemed, in
the eyes of all who before had known him, in a little
time to have come over the spirit of the fierce warrior;
and it is somewhat singular and worthy of remark, that
he gained no distinction, and won no successes of any
moment, after this period. His achievements were few
and unimportant; and two repulses which he received at
the hands of Sumter, followed up, as they were, by the
terrible defeat which he sustained at the Cowpens, finished
his career as a favourite of fortune in the partisan
warfare of the south. His name lost its terrors soon
after this among those with whom it had previously been
so potent; and, though his valour was at all periods above
suspicion, yet, in his reverses, it became the fashion to
disparage his soldierly skill, even among those whom he
commanded. It was then discovered that he had only
contended, hitherto, with raw militiamen, whom it required
but little merit, beyond that of mere brute courage, to
overthrow; and that his successes entirely ceased from
the moment when that same militia, taught by severe and
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[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
repeated experience of defeat, had acquired, in time,
some little of the address of regular and practised warfare.
There was, no doubt, much that was sound in this
opinion.
But—the dinner was fairly over, and Tarleton withdrew,
after a few moments devoted to pleasant conversation
with the now composed Rose Duncan, from whose
mind all the terrors of the previous combat, in which she
had shared so much, seemed entirely to have gone. She
was only a creature of passing impressions. To Janet
he said but little; but his eyes sometimes rested upon her
with an air of melancholy abstraction, which gave to his
otherwise pale features an expression of feeling and nice
sensibilities, which his profession might seem to belie.
But, before he took his departure, he led her aside to a
window in the cottage, and thus addressed her, in the
style of one sufficiently her friend and senior to speak
firmly and directly, even on a topic the most difficult and
delicate in the estimation of a maiden.
“I have given Captain Barsfield his orders touching
our prisoner, Miss Berkeley,—perhaps it would not be
unpleasing to you to know what those orders are?”
She looked down, and her desire to hear was sufficiently
shown in her unwillingness to speak. He proceeded,
after a brief pause, in the course of which his lips
put on the same sweet smile of graciousness which had
won the heart of the maiden before; while, at the same
time, it commanded a something more in the way of return
than a mere corresponding deference of manner.
So foreign to his lips was that expression—so adverse to
his general character was that smile of gentleness, that,
even while it gratified her to behold it, she looked up to
the wearer of it with a feeling little short of awe.
“Mr. Mellichampe is in no danger—no present danger—
as my surgeon informs me; but he must be kept
quiet and without interruption until well, as he appears
feverish, and his mind seems disposed to wander. The
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[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
better to effect this object, I have ordered that, except my
surgeon and his assistant, none but your father and yourself
shall be admitted to his chamber. I have made this
exception in your favour, Miss Berkeley, as my surgeon
at the same time informs me that he will need the offices
of a careful nurse—”
“Oh, sir—” was the involuntary exclamation of Janet,
as she heard this language; but Tarleton did not allow
her to proceed.
“No idle objections, my dear young lady—no false
notions of propriety and a misplaced delicacy at this moment.
I know sufficiently your secret; which is no
secret now to any in our troop. Your duty commands
that you attend this young man, and none but the feeble
mind will find any fault with you for its performance. In
matters of this sort, your own heart is the best judge,
and to that I leave it, whether you will avail yourself of
the privilege which I have granted you or not. The
youth is in no danger, says my surgeon, but he may be
if he is not carefully nursed. Pardon me for so long detaining
you—I shall do so no longer. My orders are
given to secure you at all times admission to the chamber
of Mr. Mellichampe, should you desire it.”
“But, oh! sir—what of Captain Barsfield? These
charges—”
“Are slight, no doubt, but must be inquired into. Mr.
Mellichampe is the prisoner of Captain Barsfield, and
must await his trial. I can do nothing farther, unless it
be to promise that all justice shall be done him.”
“But may he not be put in other hands, Colonel
Tarleton, than those of Captain Barsfield? Oh! sir—
I dread that man. He will do Mellichampe some
harm.”
“Fear not—Captain Barsfield dare not harm him—
he has quite too much at venture. It is for this very
reason, with the view to the perfect security of the prisoner,
that I have made Barsfield his keeper. His
-- 051 --
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fidelity is pledged for the security of his charge, and I have
dwelt upon the responsibility to him in such language as
will make him doubly careful. But you do Captain Barsfield
wrong—he has no such design as that you speak of—
his hostility to Mr. Mellichampe is simply that of the
soldier towards his enemy. Unless in fair fight, I am
sure he would never do him harm.”
Janet shook her head doubtfully as she replied, “I
know him better, sir,—I know that he hates Mellichampe
for many reasons—but I may not doubt the propriety of
your arrangements. I will, sir, take advantage of the
permission made in my favour, and will myself become
the nurse of Mr. Mellichampe. Why should I be afraid
or ashamed, sir? Am I not his betrothed—his wife in
the sight of Heaven? I will be his nurse—why should I
be ashamed?”
“Ay—why should you, Miss Berkeley? Truth and
virtue may well be fearless, at all times, of human opinion;
and they cease to be truth and virtue when the fear
of what men may think, or say, induces a disregard of
that which they conceive to be their duty. With me you
lose nothing by the declaration you have just made. It
is one I looked for from you. The confidence of virtue
is never unworthy of the source from which it springs,
and it doubly confirms and strengthens virtue itself, when
it shows the possessor to be resolute after right, without
regard to human arrangements, or the petty and passing
circumstances of society. It is the child's love that is
driven from its ground by the dread of social scandal.
The only love that man esteems valuable is that which
can dare all things, but wrong, in behalf of the valued
object. This is your love now, and you have my prayer—
if the prayer of a rough soldier like myself be not a
wrong to so pure a spirit—that it be always hallowed in
the sight of Heaven, and successful beyond the control
of earth.”
He took a respectful parting, and, on leaving her to
-- 052 --
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rejoin the party, his manner changed to that of the proud
man he commonly appeared. An inflexible sternness
sat upon his pale and stonelike countenance—the lips
were set rigidly—the eye was shrouded by the overhanging
brow, that gathered above it like some heavy cloud
over some flaming and malignant planet. He spoke but
few words to the rest of the family. A cold word of
acknowledgment to Mr. Berkeley—a courteous bow
and farewell to Rose Duncan, whose confidence was
now half restored, the din of battle being over—and a
single look and partial smile to Janet, preceded his immediate
departure to the edge of the forest, where, during
the dinner repast, his temporary camp had been
formed. From this point he threw out his sentinels and
sent forth his scouting parties. These latter traversed
the neighbouring hummocks, and ransacked every contiguous
cover, in which a lurking squad of rebels might
have taken up a hiding-place, in waiting for the moment
when a fancied security on the part of the foe should invite
to the work of annoyance or assault. Such was the
nature of the Indian warfare which the “swamp fox,”
with so much general success, had adopted as his own.
Tarleton knew too well the danger of surprise, with a foe
so wary in his neighbourhood, and accordingly spared
none of those precautions to which, in ordinary cases,
hitherto, he had been rather indifferent. He cited Blonay
before him on reaching his camp—examined him closely
as to the route they were next day to pursue, and concluded
by warning him to be in readiness with the dawn
of day.
“You shall be well rewarded if we succeed,” were
his concluding words to the scout—“well rewarded if
you are faithful, even though we do not succeed; but if
you fail me, sirrah—if I catch you playing me false—
the first tree and a short cord are your certain doom.”
The Half-Breed touched his cap, and, without showing
any emotion at this language, retired from the presence
of the legionary.
-- 053 --
CHAPTER VIII.
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
That night, as soon as he deemed it prudent, Barsfield,
punctual to his engagement with the Half-Breed,
left the camp, and, without observation, proceeded to
the place of meeting which had been determined upon
between them. He was not long in finding the person
he sought. Blonay was no less punctual than his employer,
and the shrill whistle of the latter, thrice repeated
through his folded hands, soon brought him from his
cover. The Half-Breed answered the signal readily,
and in a few moments after emerged from the hummock
in which, with a taste of his own, he had taken up his
abode. A dim light was shining from the sky, only
sufficient to enable the tory to recognise the outline, but
not the several features, of his companion's person.
Blonay freely extended his hand, and the fleshless, bony
fingers took in their grasp those of Barsfield, who did
not hesitate to follow his guidance, though he somewhat
loathed the gripe of his conductor.
“Why go farther,—why not remain and talk here?”
was his demand.
“There's no telling, cappin, who's a listening. Singleton's
men's watching me now; and Colonel Tarleton,
he doesn't trust me, and there's two of the dragoons
that's kept close on my heels ever since I seed him last.
It's true I dodged 'em when the sun went down, but
they're on the look-out yet, I reckon.”
“And why did you dodge them—you didn't mean to
run?” demanded the other.
“No, but I'd rather a man shoot me than peep over
my shoulder; it's like a log round the neck, to be
always looked after.”
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“And wny do you think that Singleton's men are also
looking out for you?”
“'Cause one of them knows I'm in these parts, and
he knows I'm dangerous.”
“But can he find you?”
“He's a born swamp-sucker like myself, and he's
dangerous too. He know's I'm hereabouts, and I
reckon he can't sleep easy till he finds me—or I find
him.”
Barsfield no longer objected, and together they penetrated
the covert until they reached a dry spot, where,
with a fancy as natural as it was peculiar, the Half-Breed
had chosen his temporary dwelling, in preference
to that of the camp or plantation. A few brands of
the resinous pine, in which commodity the country
around was abundantly supplied, were huddled together
and in a blaze, which, though bright enough to illumine
all objects around them, was imperceptible on the outer
edge of the hummock, from the exceeding density of its
foliage. A huge gum-tree, that stood upon the bank,
sent up bulgingly above the surface a monstrous series
of roots, which, covered with fresh moss, had made the
pillow of the inhabitant. A thick coat of clustering oakleaves,
the tribute of a tree that had made such a deposite,
probably, for a hundred winters, composed the sylvan
couch of the outlier, while the folding and thicklyleaved
branches overhead afforded him quite as gracious
a cover from the unfriendly dews as it was in the nature
of a form so callous to need or to desire. But the
place seemed cheerless to Barsfield, in spite of the genial
temperature of the season, and the bright flame
burning before him.
“And you sleep here, Mr. Blonay?” was his involuntary
question.
“Yes, cappin, here or further in the bush. If I hear
strange noises that I don't like, I slips down further into
the bay, and then I'm sure to be safe, for it's a mighty
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
troublesome way to take, and very few people like to
hunt in such bottoms; it's all sloppy, and full of holes,
and the water's as black as pitch.”
“What noise is that?” said Barsfield.
“Oh, that!—that's only my big alligator: I can tell
his voice from all the rest, for it sounds hoarse, as if he
had cotched a cold from coming out too soon last May.
He's a mighty big fellow, and keeps in a deep dirty
pond jist to the back of you. I shouldn't be supprised
to see him crawling out this way directly; he sometimes
does when I'm lying here in the daytime.”
Barsfield started and looked round him, as an evident
rustling in the rear seemed to confirm the promise of
Blonay. The latter smiled as he proceeded—
“Don't be scared, cappin, for if a body ain't scared
he can't do no harm with 'em. When he comes out and
looks at me, I jist laughs at him, and claps my hands,
and he takes to his heels directly. They won't trouble
you much only when they're mighty hungry, and ain't
seed hog-meat for a long time, and then they won't
trouble you if you make a great noise and splash the
water at 'em.”
“Why don't you shoot him?”
“Adrat it! I didn't load for him: it's no use,—if I
had been to shoot alligators, I needn't have come up
from Goose Creek. I could have had my pick there,
at any time, of a dozen, jist as big and not so hoarse as
this fellow: I picked my bullet for quite another sort of
varmint.”
“And what of him—have you seen him?”
“Yes,” was the single and almost stern reply.
“Within rifle shot?”
“Not twenty yards off,” was the immediate answer.
“And why did you spare him?”
“Other people was with him: I would have shot him
by himself.”
“I see; you had no wish to be cut up immediately
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
after. Your hatred to your enemy, Blonay, does not
blind you to the wisdom of escaping after you have murdered
him?”
The Half-Breed did not seem to understand what
Barsfield said; but his own meaning was so obvious to
himself, that he did not appear to think it necessary to
repeat his words, or undertake more effectually to explain
them. His, indeed, was the true Indian warfare,
as, in great part, his was the Indian blood and temper.
To win every advantage—to secure success and triumph
without risk and with impunity, are the principles
of the savage nature always; and to obtain revenge
without corresponding disadvantage, makes the virtue
of such an achievement. These, indeed, may be held
the principles of every people conscious of inferiority
to those whom they oppose and hate.
So far the dialogue between Barsfield and his comrade
had been carried on without any reference to the
particular subject of interest which filled the bosom of
the former. He seemed reluctant to speak farther upon
this topic; and, when he did speak, his reluctance, still
preserved, produced a halting and partial utterance only
of his feelings and desires, as if he somewhat repented
of the degree of confidence which he had already reposed
in the person to whom he spoke. But the desire
to avail himself of the services of this man, and the
consciousness of having already gone so far as to make
any future risk of this sort comparatively unimportant,
at length impelled him to a full expression of his desire to
get Mellichampe out of his way, and, with this object,
to hear from Blonay, and to suggest himself sundry
plans for this purpose. The great difficulty consisted
in the position of Barsfield himself, in relation to the
prisoner so particularly intrusted to his charge by Tarleton,
and with orders so imperative and especial. This
was the grand difficulty, which it required all the ingenuity
of Barsfield to surmount. Had Mellichampe been
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
the prisoner of Tarleton, or of any other person than
Barsfield himself, the murder of the youth would most
probably have been effected that very night, such was
the unscrupulous hatred of the tory, if not of Blonay.
For the present we may say, that the Half-Breed might
not so readily have fallen into any plan of Barsfield
which would have made him the agent in the commission
of the deed.
“You go with Tarleton to-morrow: you will not keep
with him, for he goes down to Baynton's Meadow.
When do you return?”
“Well, now, there's no telling, cappin, seeing as how
the colonel may want me to go 'long with him.”
“He will not, when you have shown him to the camp
of Marion.”
“Well, if so be he don't, I'll be back mighty soon
after I leaves him. I don't want to go with him, 'cause
I knows there's no finding a man's enemy in pertic'lar,
when there's a big company 'long.”
“It is well. You will be back, then, by to-morrow
night, and I will then put you upon a plan which will
enalbe you to get this boy out of the way for me.”
“Well, but, cappin, ha'nt you got him now? It's
mighty easy now, as I tell'd you before, to do for him
yourself.”
“You do not seem to understand, Blonay. I am
prevented from doing any thing, as Tarleton has made
me directly responsible for the appearance of the prisoner.”
“Adrat it, who's to know when the colonel's gone?
The chap's hurt and sick. Reckon he can die by natur.”
Barsfield understood him, and replied—
“Yes, and nature might be helped in his case, but
that Tarleton's own surgeon and assistants remain, and
none but the Berkeley family are to be admitted to the
prisoner. If I could report at my pleasure on his
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
condition, it might easily be done; but I cannot. It must
be done by another, if done at all, and in such a way as
will show that I could have had no hand in it. I have
a plan in my mind for this purpose, which you shall execute
on your return, by which means I shall avoid
these difficulties. You are willing?”
“Well, yes, I reckon. It don't take much to finish
a chap that's half dead already; but—I say, cappin—
does you really think now that that 'ere gal has a notion
for him?”
The question seemed to Barsfield exceedingly impertinent,
and he replied with a manner sufficiently
haughty.
“What matters it to you, sirrah, whether she has
such a notion or not? How does it concern you?—
and what should you know of love?”
“No harm, cappin—I doesn't mean any harm; it
don't consarn me, that's true. But, adrat it, cappin,
she's mighty fine gal: and she does look so sweet and
so sorry all the time, jist as if she wouldn't hurt a
mean crawling black spider that was agin the wall.”
Barsfield looked with some surprise at the speaker,
as he heard him utter a language so like that of genuine
feeling, and in tones that seemed to say that he felt
it; and he was about to make some remark when Blonay,
who had stood during this dialogue leaning with his
shoulder against a tree, and his head down in a listless
manner upon his bosom, now started into an attitude
and expression of the most watchful consciousness.
A pause of a few moments ensued, when, hearing nothing,
Barsfield was about to go on with the speech which
the manner of his companion had interrupted, when the
Half-Breed again stopped him with a whisper, while
his finger rested upon the arm of the tory in cautious
warning.
“Hist; I hear them—there are no less than three
feet in that swamp—don't you hear them walking in the
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
water? There, now. You hear when the flat of the
foot comes down upon the water.”
“I hear nothing,” said Barsfield.
Without a word, the Half-Breed stooped to the single
brand that was now blazing near them, and gathering
a double handful of dirt from the little hillock, he
threw it upon the flame and extinguished it in an instant.
The next moment they heard the distant crackling
of dry sticks and a rustling among the leaves.
“It may be your great alligator,” said Barsfield.
“No—it's men—Marion's men, I reckon—and
there's three of them, at least. They are spying on
the camp. Lie close.”
Barsfield did not immediately stoop, and the Half-Breed
did not scruple to grasp his arm with an urgency
and force which brought the tory captain forward. He
trod heavily as he did so upon a cluster of the dried leaves
which had formed the couch of Blonay, and a slight whistle
reached their ears a moment after, and then all was
silence. The tory and his companion crouched together
behind the huge gum under which the latter had been
accustomed to sleep, and thus they remained without a
word for several minutes. No sound in all that time
came to their senses; and Barsfield, rather more adventurous
than Blonay, or less taught in the subtleties of
swamp warfare, tired of his position, arose slowly from
the ground and thrust his head from behind the tree, endeavouring,
in the dim light that occasionally stole from
the heavens into those deep recesses, to gather what he
could of the noises which had disturbed them. The
hand of the Half-Breed, grasping the skirts of his coat,
had scarcely drawn him back into the shelter of the
tree, when the whizzing of the bullet through the
leaves, and the sharp crack of the rifle, warned him of
his own narrow escape, and of the close proximity of
danger.
“I knows where they are now,” said Blonay, in a
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
whisper, changing his position; “we are safe enough if
you can stick close to me, cappin.”
“Lead on—I'll follow,” was the reply, in the same low
whisper which conveyed the words of Blonay. The
Half-Breed instantly hurled a huge half-burnt chunk
of wood through the bushes before him, the noise of
which he necessarily knew would call the eyes of the
scouts in that direction; then, in the next instant,
bounding to the opposite side, he took his way between
two clumps of bays which grew in the miry places
along the edge of the tussock on which they had been
standing. Barsfield followed closely and without hesitation,
though far from escaping so well the assaults of
the briers and bushes upon his cheeks. His guide,
with a sort of instinct, escaped all these smaller assailants,
and, though he heard the footsteps behind of his
pursuers, he did not now apprehend any danger, either
for himself or his companion, having thrown the thick
growth of bays between them.
The party which so nearly effected the surprise of the
two conspirators came out of their lurking-place an instant
after their flight. The conjecture of the Half-Breed
had been correct. They were the men of Marion.
“You fired too soon, Lance,” were the words of
Humphries, “and the skunk is off. Had you waited
but a little longer we should have had him safe enough.
Now there's no getting him, for he has too greatly the
start of us.”
“I couldn't help it, Mr. Humphries. I saw the shiny
buttons, and I thought I had dead aim upon him.”
“But how comes he with shiny buttons, John Davis?”
said Humphries, quickly. “When you saw him to-day
he had on a blue homespun, did he not?”
“Yes—I seed him plain enough,” said Davis, “and I
could swear to the homespun—but didn't you hear as if
two was walking together?”
“No.
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
“Well, I did; and 'twas reasonable I should hear
before you, seeing I was ahead. I heard them clear
enough—first one and then t'other—and one walked in
the water while t'other was on the brush.”
“D—n the skunk—that I should lose him—it's all
your fault, Lance. You're too quick and hot-headed
nowadays, and it'll be a long time before you can
be a good swamp fox, unless you go more slowly, and
learn to love less the sound of your rifle. But it's
useless to stay here now, and we've got other work
to do. Our sport's spoiled for this time, and all we
can do is to take off as quick as we can; for it won't
be long before the scouts of Tarleton will be poking
here after us. That shot must bring them in this direction,
so we'll push round to the opposite side of the
bay, where the rest of the red-coats are in camp.”
“But, Mr. Humphries, can't I go now and pick off
that sentry we passed by the avenue?” demanded
Lance Frampton, with much earnestness.
“No—d—n the sentry; if you had picked off this
skunk of a Half-Breed, it would have been something
now I should have thanked you for—that's what I mostly
come after. As for the other—there's too much risk
now. We must take a cross track, and get round to
the river by the gum-flats. Come, push—away.”
They had scarcely moved off when a stir and hum
in the direction of Tarleton's camp announced to them
that the alarm had been given, and hurried the preparations
of Humphries for their departure. The scouts of
Barsfield, led by the tory himself, and guided by Blonay,
after a while, scoured narrowly the recesses of the
bay: but the men of Marion had melted away like
spectres in the distant woods; and, chafed and chagrined,
the tory went back to his quarters, fatigued with
the unprofitable pursuit, and irritated into sleeplessness,
as he found himself in the close neighbourhood of a
foe so wary and so venturesome.
-- 062 --
CHAPTER IX.
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
At day-dawn the next morning the trumpet of the
legion sounded shrilly over the grounds where Tarleton,
during the night, had made his encampment. With the
signal each trooper was at his post. Tarleton himself
was already dressed, and about to buckle the heavy
sabre at his side which his arm had ever been so proverbially
ready to wield. The fire—the stern enthusiasm—
which grew out of his impatience for the strife, already
glowed balefully and bright upon his countenance. He
was joined at this moment by another—an officer—a
man something his senior, and, like him, accustomed,
seemingly, to command.
“Your trumpets sound unseasonably, Tarleton, and
destroyed as pleasant a vision as ever came from the
land of dreams. I fancied the wars were over—that
I was once again in Old England, with all the little ones
and their sweet dam about me, and your heartless trumpet
took them all from my embrace—all at one fell
swoop.”
Tarleton smiled, but smiled in such a sort that the
speaker almost blushed to have made his confession of
domestic tenderness to such uncongenial ears. He
continued—
“But you care nothing for these scenes, and scruple
not to break into such pleasures to destroy. You have
no such sweet cares troubling you at home.”
“None, Moncrieff—none, or few. Perhaps I might
please no less than- surprise you, were I to say that I
wish I had; but I will not yield you so much sympathy;
particularly, indeed, as there is no time for these matters
or such talk when we are on the eve of grappling with
an enemy.”
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“Enemy! what enemy?” demanded the other.
“Our old enemy, the `swamp fox,” responded Tarleton,
coolly.
“What, Marion!—why, where is he?”
“But a few miles off. I hope to have late breakfast
with him—time serving, God willing, and our appetite
for fight as good as that for breakfast.”
“But know you where he is, and how? Will he stand
for your coming? Will he not fly, as usual—double himself
round a cypress while you are piercing your way
through its bowels?”
“Ay, doubtless, if he can—we must try to prevent
that; and I have hopes that we can do it. His scouts
have been around us, like so many vultures, all night;
and Barsfield reports that one has had the audacity to
fire upon a sentinel. This shows him to be at hand, and
in sufficient force to warrant the belief that he will stand
a brush.”
“But how find him, Tarleton? His own men cannot
easily do that, and you have never yet been allowed to
see his feathers.”
“I shall now, however, I think—for I perceive our
guide stands in readiness. Look at him, Moncrieff—did
you ever see such a creature? Look at his eyes—do
they not give you pain—positive pain, to survey them?
They seem only to be kept in his head by desperate
effort; and yet, behold his form. He does not appear
capable of effort—scarcely, indeed, of movement. His
limbs seem hung on hinges, and one leg, as you perceive,
appears always, as now, to have thrown the whole
weight of the body upon the other.”
“A strange monster, indeed: and is that the creature
to serve you? Can he put you on the trail?”
“He pledges himself to do so. He has seen the
`swamp fox' and his men, all at ease, in their camp, and
promises that I shall see them too, under his guidance.”
“And you will trust him?”
-- 064 --
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
“I will.”
“What security have you that he does not carry you
into trap?”
“His own neck; for, as sure as he makes a false
move, he swings from the nearest sapling. He shall be
watched.”
“If this be the case, Tarleton, how can you go forward?
Will it not be for me then to execute my mission?”
“Not till I fail. If I can drub Marion, and either put
him to death or make a prisoner of him, your mission
will be null. There will be no use in buying one whom
we can beat. But, if he now escapes me, I give it up.
He would escape the devil. You may then seek him
out with your most pacific aspect—offer him his pension
and command among us, as our sagacious commander-in-chief
has already devised, and make the best use afterward
of his skill in baffling Green, as he so long has
baffled us. If he does half so well for his majesty as
for his continental prog-princes, he will be worth quite as
much as you offer for him, and something more.”
“True—but, Tarleton, this chance may never offer
again. We may never get a guide who will be able to
pilot me through these d—d impervious and pestilential
morasses—certainly few to show me where to find him
out.”
“We must risk that, Moncrieff. I will not give up
my present chance of striking him, though you never
have the opportunity you seek. He has baffled me too
long already, and my pride is something interested to
punish him. The prospect is a good one, and I will not
lose it. Hark you, fellow!”
The last words were addressed to Blonay, who, in
sight of the speaker all the while, now approached at the
order. The stern, stony eye of the fierce legionary
rested upon him searchingly, with a penetrating glance
scarcely to be withstood by any gaze, and certainly not
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[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
by that of the Half-Breed, who never looked any one in
the face. Some seconds elapsed before Tarleton spoke,
and when he did his words were cold, slow, brief, and
to the purpose.
“You are ready, sir?”
The reply was affirmative.
“You hold to your assertion that you can lead me to
where Marion camps?”
“I can lead you, sir, to his camp, but I can't say for
his being in it. He may get wind of you, if his scouts
happen to be out.”
“I know, I know—you said this before, and proposed,
if I remember rightly, that I should divide my force in
order to mislead. But I know better than to do that. I
risk nothing now when I know nothing of his force, and
I am not so sure, sir, that you are altogether the man to
be relied on. I shall watch you, sirrah; and remember,
it is easier, fellow, to hang you up to a bough than to
threaten it. Go—prepare. Ho! there, Hodgson—put
half a dozen of your best dragoons in charge of this
guide, and keep him safe, as you value whole bones.”
“I will not run, sir,” said Blonay, looking up for the
first time into the face of Tarleton.
“I know that, sir—you shall not,” responded the other,
coolly.
The signal to move was given in a few moments after,
and Barsfield saw the departure of Tarleton in pursuit
of Marion with a singular feeling of satisfaction and
relief.
It is not our present purpose, however, to pursue the
route taken by Colonel Tarleton in search of his famous
adversary. Such a course does not fall within the purpose
of our present narrative. It may be well, however,
as it must be sufficient, to say, that, under the guidance
of Blonay, he penetrated the spacious swamp of the
Santee, and was led faithfully into and through its intricacies—
but he penetrated them in vain. Step by step, as
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the dense body pressed its way through brake, bog, and
brier, did they hear the mysterious signals of the watchful
partisans, duly communicating to one another the approach
of the impending danger. Vainly did Tarleton
press forward his advance in the hope of arriving at the
camp before these signals could possibly reach it; but
such a pathway to his heavily-mounted men was very
different in its facilities to those who were accustomed
daily to glide through it; and the scouts of Marion hung
about Tarleton's advance in front, sometimes venturing
in sight, and continually within hearing, to the utter defiance
of the infuriated legionary, who saw that nothing
could be done to diminish the distance between them.
At length they reached the island where the “swamp
fox” made his home, but the bird had flown. The couch
of rushes where Marion slept was still warm—the fragments
of the half-eaten breakfast lay around the logs
which formed their rude boards of repast, but not an
enemy was to be seen. Stimulating his men by promises
and threats, Tarleton still pursued, in the hope to
overtake the flying partisans before they could reach the
Santee; but in vain were all his efforts; and, though
moving with unexampled celerity, he arrived on the
banks of the rapid river only in time to behold the last of
the boats of the “swamp fox” mingling with the luxurious
swamp foliage on the opposite side. The last twenty-four
hours had been busily and profitably employed by
Marion. He had utterly annihilated the tories who had
gathered at Baynton's Meadow. Never, says the history,
had surprise been more complete. He came upon
the wretches while they played at cards, and dearly did
they pay for their temerity and heedlessness. They were
shot down in the midst of dice and drink, foul oaths and
exultation upon their lips, and with those bitter thoughts
of hatred to their countrymen within their hearts which almost
justified the utmost severities of that retribution to
which the furious partisans subjected them.
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CHAPTER X.
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Let us now return to Janet Berkeley and the wounded
Mellichampe. Tarleton had not deceived the maiden.
The hurts of her lover, though serious and painful,
were yet not dangerous, unless neglected; and as the
privilege was accorded her—the sweetest of all privileges
to one who loves truly—of being with and tending
upon the beloved one, there was no longer reason to
apprehend for his safety from the injuries already received.
The apprehensions of Janet Berkeley were,
naturally enough, all addressed to the future. She knew
the enemy in whose custody he lay; and, though half
consoled by the positive assurances of Tarleton, and
compelled, from the necessity of the case, to be satisfied,
she was yet far from contented with the situation
of her lover.
His first moment of perfect consciousness, after his
wounds had been dressed, found her, a sweet minister,
waiting at his side. Her hand bathed his head and
smoothed his pillow,—her eye, dewy and bright, hung
like a sweet star of promise above his form,—her watchful
care brought him the soothing medicine,—her voice
of love cheered him into hope with the music of a
heaven-born affection. Every whisper from her lips
was as so much melody upon his ear, and brought with
it a feeling of peace and quiet to his mind, which had
not often been a dweller there before. Ah, surely, love
is the heart's best medicine! It is the dream of a perfect
spirit—the solace of the otherwise denied—the first,
the last hope of all not utterly turned away from the
higher promptings and better purposes of a divine humanity.
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How sweet became his hurts to Mellichampe under
such attendance! The pain of his wounds and bruises
grew into a positive pleasure, as it brought her nigh
to him—and so nigh!—as it disclosed to his imagination
such a long train of enjoyments in the future, coming
from the constant association with her. Love no
longer wore her garb of holyday, but, in the rustic and
unostentatious dress of home, she looked more lovely to
his sight, as she seemed more natural. Hitherto, he
had sought her only for sweet smiles and blessing words;
now she gave him those cares of the true affection which
manifested its sincerity—which met the demand for
them unshrinkingly and with pleasure,—and which bore
their many tests, not only without complaint or change,
but with a positive delight. It was thus that her heart
proved its disinterestedness and devotion; and though
Mellichampe had never doubted her readiness to bestow
so much, he yet never before had imagined the extent
of her possession, and of the sweet liberality which
kept full pace with her affluence. Until now, he had
never realized, in his most reaching thought, how completely
he should become a dependant upon her regards
for those sweet sympathies, without which life is a barren
waste, having the doom of Adam—that of a stern labour—
without yielding him any of the flowers of Eden,
and certainly withholding all, if denying that most cherished
of all its flowers which he brought with him from
its garden—the flower of unselfish love. To be able to
confide is to be happy in all conditions, however severe;
and this present feeling in his heart—the perfect reliance
upon her affection—assured and strengthened the warm
passion in his own, until every doubt and fear, selfishness
and suspicion, were discarded from that region,
leaving nothing in their place but that devotedness to the
one worthy object which, as it is holy in the sight of
Heaven, must be the dearest of all human possessions
in the contemplation of man.
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With returning consciousness, when he discovered
how she had been employed, he carried her hand to his
lips and kissed it fervently. He felt too much for several
minutes to speak to her. When he did, his words
were little else than exclamations.
“Ah, Janet—my own—my all!—ever nigh to me,
as you are ever dear—how can I repay, how respond
to, such sweet love? I now feel how very poor—how
very dependant—how very destitute I am!”
These were almost the first words which he uttered
after awakening from a long, deep, and refreshing sleep,
into which he had been thrown by an opiate judiciously
administered for that object. She had no reply, but,
bending down to his pillow, her lips were pressed upon
his forehead lightly, while her uplifted finger warned him
into silence. He felt a tear—but a single tear, upon his
cheek, while her head hung above him; and so far from
being destitute, as he had avowed himself before, he now
felt how truly rich he was in the possession of such dear
regards.
“Heaven bless you, my angel,” he continued, “but
I must talk to you, unless you will to me. Speak to
me,—tell me all,—let me know what has passed. What
of Major Singleton and our men?”
“They are gone—safe.”
“Ah!—that is good. But Witherspoon—what of
him?—he was fighting, when I saw him last, with two:
they were pressing him hard, and I—I could give him
no aid. What of him—is he safe? Tell me; but do
not say that harm has befallen him.”
“He, too, is safe, dear Ernest; I saw him as he
fled.”
“Ha! did he leave me, then—and where? I looked
not for that from him. Perhaps—it is so—he brought
me to you,—did he not?”
“He did not, but then he could not, dearest. He
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was compelled to fly in haste. I saw him while he fled,
and the dragoons came fast after him.”
He would have put a thousand other questions, and
vainly she exhorted him to silence. She was compelled
to narrate all she knew, in order to do that which her
entreaties, in the great anxiety and impatience of his
mind, failed to effect. She told him of the continued
fight in the avenue,—of the approach of Tarleton,—and
how, when the enemy had gone in pursuit of the flying
partisans, she had sought and found him. Of these
events he had no recollection. She suppressed, however,
all of those matters which related to the second
attempt of Barsfield upon his life while he lay prostrate,
and of her own interposition, which had saved him; and
took especial care to avoid every topic which could
stimulate his anger or increase his anxiety. Of the
conduct of Tarleton, so unusual and generous, she gave
a full account,—an account which gave the hearer quite
as much astonishment as pleasure. It certainly presented
to his mind's eye a new and much more agreeable
feature in the character of that famous, or rather infamous,
soldier.
So sweet was it for him thus to hear, and so grateful
to her to have such a pleased auditor, that the hours
flew by imperceptibly, and their mutual dream of love
would not soon have been disturbed but for the sounds
of Barsfield's voice, which came from the passage-way,
while he spoke in harsh dictation to the sentinels who
watched the chamber of the wounded Mellichampe.
The youth started as the well-known and hated accents
met his ears. His brow gathered into a cloud,
and he half raised himself from his pillow, while his eye
flashed the fire of battle, and his fingers almost violently
grasped the wrist of the maiden, under the convulsive
spasm of fury which seized upon and shook his enfeebled
frame.
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“That voice is Barsfield's. Said you not, Janet,
that I was Colonel Tarleton's prisoner?”
She answered him quickly, and with an air of timid
apprehension—
“I did, dear Ernest; but Colonel Tarleton has gone
in pursuit of General Marion—”
“And I am here, at the mercy of this bloody wretch—
this scoundrel without soul or character,—at his mercy—
without strength—unable to lift arm or weapon, and
the victim of his will. Ha! this is to be weak—this
is to be a prisoner, indeed!”
Bitterly and fiercely did he exclaim, as he felt the
true destitution of his present condition.
“Not at his will—not at his mercy, dear Ernest.
Colonel Tarleton has promised me that you shall be
safe—that he dare not harm you.”
She spoke rapidly in striving to reassure her lover.
Her arm encircled his neck—her tears flowed freely
upon his cheeks, while her voice, even while it uttered
clearly the very words of assurance which Tarleton had
expressed, trembled as much with the force of her own
secret fears as at the open expression of his. But her
lover remained unsatisfied. He did not know the nature
of those securities which Barsfield tacitly placed in
the hands of his superior.
“Alas, Janet, I know this monster but too well not
to apprehend the worst at his hands. He is capable of
the vilest and the darkest wrongs where he hates and
fears. But why should I fear? The power of the
base and the tyrannical, thank Heaven! has its limits,
and he can but—”
“Say not, Ernest—say not. He dare not—he will
not. I believe in Colonel Tarleton.”
“So do not I; but I fear not, my beloved. I have
dared death too often already—I have seen him in too
many shapes, to tremble at him now. I fear him not:
but to die like a caged rat, cooped in a narrow dungeon,
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and only preparing myself for the knife of the murderer,
is to die doubly; and this, most probably, is the doom
reserved for me.”
“Think not so—think not so, Ernest—I pray you,
think not so. God keep me from the horrible thought!
It cannot be that Tarleton will suffer it—it cannot be
that God will suffer it. I would not that you should
speak so, Ernest; and I cannot think that this bad man—
bad enough, though I believe him to be, for any thing—
will yet dare so far to incur the danger of offending
his superior as to abuse his trust and gratify his malignity
in the present instance. Oh, no! he greatly fears
Colonel Tarleton; and, could you but have seen the
look that Tarleton gave him, as he ordered him to take
all care of you,—had you but heard his words to me
and to him both,—you would not feel so apprehensive;
and then, you know, Colonel Tarleton's own surgeon is
left with you, and none are to be permitted to see you
but myself and such persons as he thinks proper.”
“I fear nothing, Janet, but distrust every thing that
belongs to this man Barsfield. Colonel Tarleton, I
doubt not, has taken every precaution in my favour,
though why he should do so I am at a loss to determine;
but all precautions will be unavailing where a
man like Barsfield is bent upon crime, and where, in addition
to his criminal propensity, he has the habitual
cunning of a man accustomed to its indulgence. He
will contrive some means to shift the responsibility of
the charge, in some moment or other, to other shoulders,
and will avail himself of that moment to rid himself
of me, if he possibly can. We must only be heedful
of all change of circumstances, and seek to apprize
Witherspoon of my situation. He will not be far off, I
well know; for he must be miserable in my absence.”
“Oh, trust me, Ernest, I shall watch you more
closely than those sentinels. Love, surely, can watch
as well as bate.”
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“Better—better, my Janet. May I deserve your
care—your love. May I always do you justice, living
or dying.”
Her cheek rested upon his, and she wept freely to
hear his words. He continued—
“I know that you will watch over me, and I chafe
not more at my own weakness than at the charge and
care that this dreary watch must impose upon you.”
“A sweet care—a dear, not a dreary, watch. Oh!
Ernest—it is the sweetest of all cares to watch for the
good of those we love.”
“I feel it sweet to be thus watched, dearest; so
sweet that, under other circumstances, I feel that I
should not be willing to relieve you of the duty. But
you have little strength—little ability, in correspondence
even with your will to serve me. This villain will elude
your vigilance—he will practise in some way upon you;
and oh, my Janet, what if he succeed in his murderous
wish—what if—”
With a convulsive sob, that spoke the fulness of her
heart and its perfect devotion, she threw herself upon
his bosom, and her lips responded to his gloomy anticipations
while interrupting them.
“I am not strong enough to save you, Ernest, and to
contend with your murderer, if such he should become;
but there is one thing that I am strong enough for.”
“What is that, dearest?”
“To die for you at any moment.”
And, for an hour after, a tearful silence, broken only
by an occasional word, which spoke, like a long gathering
tear, the overcrowding emotions to which it brought
relief, was all the language of those two loving hearts,
thus mingling sweetly together amid the strife and the
storm—the present evil, the impending danger, and the
ever threatening dread. The strife and the hate without
brought neither strife nor hate to them; and, like
twin forms, mutually devoted to the last, amid the
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
raging seas and on a single spar, they clung to each
other, satisfied, though the tempest raged and the waves
threatened, to perish, if they might perish together.
They were not, in those sad moments, less confident
and conscious of the sweets of a mutual love, though
filled with anticipations of evil, and though they well knew
that a malignant and unforgiving Hate stood watching at
the door. And the affection was not less sweet and sacred
that it was followed by the thousand doubts and
apprehensions which at no moment utterly leave the
truly devoted, and which, in the present instance, came
crowding upon them with a thousand auxiliar terrors
to exaggerate the form of the danger, and to multiply the
accumulating stings of fear.
CHAPTER XI.
“How sweet the days of Thalaba went by!” Mellichampe,
under such attendance, soon grew insensible
to all his sufferings. The bruises quickly disappeared—
the wounds were healing rapidly. The care of the
nurse surpassed in its happy effects the anticipations of
the physician, and the youth was getting well. The
spirits of the two became strong and confident with the
improvement of the patient: and their hearts grew happier,
and their hopes more buoyant, with each day's continued
association. The world around them was gradually
excluded from their contemplation; and, blessed
with the presence of each other, the chamber of Mellichampe—
his prison, as it was—closely watched by
hostile eyes and guarded by deadly weapons—was large
enough for the desires of one, at least, of the two within it.
The relation existing between Janet Berkeley and
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Ernest Mellichampe appeared now to be understood by all
parties. Her father had nothing to oppose—the maiden
herself in the perilous moment, as it was thought, to the
safety of her lover, had fearlessly and proudly proclaimed
the ties existing between them; and, if the prude
Decorum could suggest nothing against the frequent and
unobstructed meeting of the two, Virtue herself had no
reason to apprehend; for, surely, never yet did young
hearts so closely and fervently cling to one another—
yet so completely maintain the purity and the ascendency
of their souls. Love, built upon esteem, is always
secure from abasement—it is that passion, falsely
named love, which grows out of a warm imagination
and wild blood only, which may not be trusted by others,
as it is seldom entirely able to trust or to control
itself.
Rose Duncan complained, however, as she suffered
much by the devotion of Janet Berkeley to her lover.
This young girl was one of those, thousands of whom
are to be met with hourly, who derive all their characteristics
from the colour of events and things around
them. She had little of that quality, or combination
of qualities rather, which we call character. She was
of a flexible and susceptible temperament. The hues
of her mind came from the passing zephyr, or the over-hanging
cloud. She lacked those sterner possessions of
intrinsic thought which usually make their proprietor
independent of circumstances, and immoveable under
the operation of illegitimate influences. Unlike her
graver companion, she had no sorrows, simply because
she had little earnestness of character. She was usually
lively and elastic in the extreme; and he who only
casually observed might have imagined that a spirit so
cheerful as hers usually appeared would not readily be
operated upon or kept down by the occurrence of untoward
events. But, if she lacked all of those features
of sadness which mellowed and made the loveliness of
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[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
Janet's character, and softened the quicker emotions of
her soul, she was, at the same time, entirely wanting in
that concentration of moral object which enables the
possessor to address himself firmly and without scruple
to the contest of those evils, whether in prospect or in
presence, which, nevertheless, even when overcome,
make the eye to weep and the soul to tremble. Rose
Duncan would laugh at the prediction of evil, simply
because she could never concentrate her thoughts sufficiently
upon its consideration; and thus, when it came
upon her, she would be utterly unprepared to encounter
it. Not so with Janet Berkeley. Her heart, gentle
and earnest in all its emotions, necessarily inclined her
understanding and imagination to think upon and to estimate
all those sources of evil, not less than of good,
which belong to, and make up, the entire whole of human
life. Its sorrows she had prepared herself to endure
from the earliest hours of thought; and it was
thus that, when sorrow came to her in reality, it was the
foregone conclusion to which her reflections had made
her familiar, and for which her nerves were already prepared.
The tale of suffering brought forth no less
grief than the actual experience of it, and far less of
that active spirit of resistance and that tenacious soul of
endurance with which she was at all times prepared to
contend with its positive inflictions. It was thus that
she was enabled, when her more volatile companion lay
unnerved and terrified at her feet, to go forth fearlessly
amid all the danger and the dread, traverse the field of
strife unshaken by its horrors, and, from among the dying
and the dead, seek out the one object to whom,
when she had once pledged her heart, she had also
pledged the performance, even of a duty so trying and
so sad; and, though she had sickened at the loathsome
aspect of war around her, she had felt far less of terror
in that one scene of real horrors than she had a thousand
times before in the dreams begotten by an active
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imagination, and a soul earnest, devoted, and susceptible
in the extreme.
Often did Rose Duncan chide the maiden for her
exclusive devotion to her lover, as she herself suffered
privation from her devotedness.
“There is quite too much of it, Janet; he will be
sick to death of you before you are married, if, indeed,
you ever are married to him, which ought to be another
subject of consideration with you. It would be very
awkward if, after all these attentions on your part—this
perfect devotion, I may call it—he should never marry
you. I should never trust any man so far.”
“Not to trust is not to love. When I confide less in
Mellichampe, I shall love him less, Rose, and I would
not willingly think of such a possibility. In loving him
I give up all selfish thoughts: I must love entirely, or
not at all.”
“Ah, but how much do you risk by this?”
“It is woman's risk always, Rose, and I would not
desire one privilege which does not properly belong to
my sex. I have no qualifications in my regard for
Mellichampe. To my mind, his honour is as lofty as,
to my heart, his affections are dear. I should weep—
I should suffer dreadfully—if I thought, for an instant,
that he believed me touched with a single doubt of his
fidelity.”
“Very right, perhaps, Janet, and you are only the
better girl for thinking as you do; but marriage and
love are lotteries, they say, and it is no wisdom to stake
one's all in a lottery. A little venture may do well
enough, but prudent people will be well minded, and
keep something in reserve. I like that Scotchman's
advice of all things—
“ `Aye free aff han' your story tell
When wi' a bosom crony,
But still keep something to yoursel,
You seldom tell to ony.
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[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
“`Conceal yoursel, as well's ye can,
Fra' critical dissection,
But keek through every other man
Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection.”'
“And I think it detestable doctrine, Rose Duncan,”
Janet responded, with something like indignation overspreading
her beautiful, sad countenance for the instant,
as a flash of parting sunlight sent through the deep
forests in the last moment of his setting—
“I think it detestable doctrine, only becoming in a
narrow-minded wretch, who, knavish himself, suspects
all mankind of a similar character. Such doctrines are
calculated to make monsters of one half of the world
and victims of the other. No, no, Rose,—I may be
wrong—I may be weak,—I may give my heart fondly
and foolishly,—I may train my affections unprofitably,—
but, oh, let me confide still, though I suffer for it!
Let me never distrust where I love—where I have set
my heart—where I have staked all that I live for.”
Rose was rebuked, and here, for a few moments, the
conversation ended. But there was something still in
the bosom of Janet which needed, and at length forced,
its utterance:—
“And yet, Rose, there is one thing which you have
said which pains me greatly. It may be true, that
though, in seeking Mellichampe day by day, and hour
by hour, I only feel myself more truly devoted to him;
it may be that such will not be the feeling with him; it
may be that he will, as you say, grow tired of that which
he sees so frequently; it may be that he will turn away
from me, and weary of my regards. I have heard before
this, Rose, that the easy won was but little valued
of men,—that the seeker was still unsought,—and that,
when the heart of woman was secured, she failed to
enchain that of her captor. Oh, Rose, it is death to
think so. Did I dream that Mellichampe would slight
me,—did I think that he could turn from me with a
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[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
weary spirit and an indifferent eye, I should pray to
perish now—even now, when he speaks to and smiles
upon me in such sort as never man spoke to and smiled
upon woman whom he could deceive, or whom he did
not love.”
And her head sank upon the shoulder of her companion,
and she sobbed with the fulness of her emotion,
as if her heart were indeed breaking.
It was long that day—long in her estimate, not less
than in that of Mellichampe—before she paid her usual
visit to the chamber of her lover. She was then compelled
to listen to those reproaches from his lips which
her own heart told her were justly uttered. Influenced
more than she was willing to admit, even to herself, by
the suggestions of Rose Duncan, she had purposely
kept away until hour after hour had passed—how drearily
to both!—before she took courage to reject the idle
restraints of conventional arrangement, which never yet
had proper concern with the business of unsophisticated
affection. Gently he chid her with that neglect for
which she could offer no sort of excuse; but she hid
her head in his bosom, and murmured forth the true
cause of her delay, as she whispered, in scarce audible
accents—
“Ah, Ernest, you will tire of me at last,—you will
only see too much of me, and I am always so same—
so like myself—and have so few changes by which to
amuse you, that you will weary of the presence of your
poor Janet.”
“Foolish fears—foolish fears, Janet, and too unjust
to me, and too injurious to us both, to permit me to
suffer them longer. It is because you are always the
same—always so like yourself, that I love you so well.
I am secure, in this proof, against your change. I am
secure of your stability, and feel happy to believe that,
though all things alter besides, you at least will be inflexible
in your continued love for me.”
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“Ah, be sure of that, Ernest; it is too sweet to love,
and too dear to be loved by you, for me to change, lest
I should find you change also. I cannot change, I feel,
until my very heart shall decay. The seeds of love
which have been sown within it were sown by your hands,
and they acknowledge you only as the proper owner.
Their blight can only follow the blight of the soil in
which they are planted, or only perish through—”
She paused, and the tears flowed too freely to permit
her to conclude the sentence.
“Through what, Janet?” he demanded. In a murmuring
and low tone she replied, instantly,
“Only through the neglect of him who planted them.”
He folded her to his heart, and she believed the deep,
fond asseveration in which he assured her that no fear
was more idle than that which she had just expressed.
The shrill tones of the trumpet startled the lovers
from their momentary dream of bliss.
“That sound,” he said,—“it makes my wound shoot
with pain, as if the blood clamoured there for escape.
How I hate to hear its notes,—sweet as they are to me
when I am on horseback,—here in this dungeon, and
denied to move!”
An involuntary sigh escaped the maiden as she listened
to this language, and it came to her lips to say,
though she spoke not—
“But you are here with me, in this dungeon, Ernest,
and with you I am never conscious of restraint or regret.
Alas for me! since I must feel that, while I have
no other thought of pleasure but that which comes with
your presence, Ernest, your pulse bounds and beats
with the desire of a wider world, and of other conquests,
even when I, whom you so profess to love beyond all
other objects, am here sitting by your side!”
The sigh reached the ears of Mellichampe, and his
quick sense and conscious thought readily divined the
cause of her emotion.
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“Wonder not, my Janet,” he exclaimed, as he caught
her to his bosom,—“wonder not that I chafe at this restraint,
even though blessed with your sympathy and
presence. Here I am not less conscious of the tenure
by which I hold your presence and my own life, than of
the thousand pleasures which your presence brings me.
I love not the less because I pine to love in security;
and feel not the less happy by your side because I long
for the moment to arrive when no power can separate
us. Now, are we not at the mercy of a wretch, whom
we know to possess no scruples of conscience, and who
feels few, if any, of the restraints of power? In his
mood, at his caprice, we may be torn asunder, and—
but let us speak of other things.”
And the conversation turned upon brighter topics.
The uttered hopes and the wishes of Mellichampe
cheered the heart of the maiden, until, even while the
tears of a delicious sensibility were streaming from her
eyes, she forgot that hope had its sorrows,—she forgot
that love—triumphant and imperial love—has still been
ever known as the born victim of vicissitudes.
CHAPTER XII.
Three days elapsed from the departure of Blonay
with Colonel Tarleton before he returned to Piney
Grove. Barsfield grew impatient. He had matured
his plan in his mind—he had devised the various processes
for the accomplishment of his purpose, and he
was feverish and restless until he could confer with his
chief agent in the business. He came at last, and first
brought intelligence to the tory of the failure of the legionary
colonel to surprise the wary Marion.
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“And where now is Colonel Tarleton?” demanded
Barsfield.
“Gone up after the `game cock.”[1]
“I'm glad of it,” said the tory, involuntarily. “He
might have been in our way. When did you separate
from him?”
“Day before yesterday—he went up the river. I
went back into the swamp.”
“And why? Had not the rebels left it? Did you
not say that they crossed the river on the approach of
Tarleton?”
“Yes—but, adrat it! they crossed back mighty soon
after Tarleton had gone out of sight.”
“And they are even now in the swamp again?”
“Jist as they was at first.”
“The devil! And you have seen them there since
the departure of Tarleton?”
“Reckon I has.”
“They are audacious, but we shall rout them soon.
My loyalists are coming in rapidly, and I shall soon be
able, I trust, to employ you again, and I hope with more
success, in ferreting them out. But why did you delay
so long to return? Have you seen your enemy?”
“Adrat it, yes,” replied the other, coldly, though with
some show of mortification.
“Where—in the swamp?”
“No—on the road here, jist afore dark last night—a
leetle more than long rifle shot from the front of the
avenue.”
“Well?”
“'Tworn't well. I tracked him over half a mile afore
I could git a shot—”
The Half-Breed paused.
“What then?” demanded Barsfield, impatiently.
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“Adrat it! jist as I was guine to pull trigger, a pain,
something jist like a hammer-strike, went into my elbow,
and the bullet—'twas a chawed one, too—must have
gone fur enough from the scull 'twas aimed fur.”
“You missed him?” inquired Barsfield.
“Reckon I did. He stuck to his critter jist as if
nothing had happened strange to him, and rode off in a
mighty hurry.”
“And how came you to miss him? You hold yourself
a good shot.”
“'Tain't often I miss; but I felt all over, afore I pulled
upon him, that I was guine to miss. Something seemed
to tell me so. I was quite too quick, you see, and didn't
take time to think where I should lay my bullet.”
“Yet you may have hit him. These men of Marion
sometimes stick on for hours after they get the deathwound—
long enough, certainly, to get away into some
d—d swamp or other, where there's no getting at the
carcass.”
“Adrat it—I'm fear'd I hain't troubled him much. I
felt as if I shouldn't hit him. I was so consarned to hit
him, you see, that my eye trimbled. But there's no
helping it now. There's more chances yet.”
“You seek him every day?” inquired Barsfield, curious
to learn the habits of a wretch so peculiar in his
nature.
“And night—a'most every day and night, when I reckon
there's a chance to find him.”
“But how do you calculate these chances?”
“I've got a'most all his tracks. He's a master of the
scouts, and as I knows pretty much where they all keeps,
I follows him when he goes the rounds.”
“Why, then, have you not succeeded better before?
Have you not frequently seen him before last night?—did
you never get a shot till then?”
“Yes, three times—but then he had other sodgers
with him—good shots, too, and raal swamp-suckers—
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sich as John Davis—who's from Goose Creek, and can
track a swamp-sucker jist as keen as myself. A single
shot must be a sure shot, or 'tain't a safe one. So we
always says at Dorchester—and it's reason, too. It
wouldn't be no use to shoot one, and be shot by two
jist after. There wouldn't be no sense in that.”
“No, but little—and yet I shall probably have to take
some risk of that sort with my enemy. Do you know,
Blonay, that I'm thinking to let Mellichampe run?”
“You ain't—sartin now, cappin! Don't you hate
him?”
“Yes! as bitterly as ever. You wonder that I should
so determine towards my enemy. He is still such, and
I am his, not less now than ever. But I have been
thinking differently of the matter. I will meet him only
like a man, and a man of honour. His life is in my
hands—I could have him murdered in his bed, but I will
not. More than this—my word, as you know, will convict
him as a spy upon my camp, and this would hang
him upon a public gallows in the streets of Charleston.
I will even save him from this doom. I will save him,
that we may meet when neither shall have any advantage
other than that which his own skill, strength, and courage
shall impart. You shall help me, or rather help him, in
this.”
“How?” was the very natural response of the Half-Breed.
“Assist him to escape. Hear me—if he does not
escape before the week is out, I am commanded to conduct
him to Charleston, to stand his trial as a spy, under
charges which I myself must bring forward. He must
be convicted, and must perish as I have said, unless he
escapes from my custody before. He is too young,
and, I may add, too noble, to die in so disgraceful a
manner. Besides, that will be robbing me of my own
revenge, which I now desire to take with my own
hands.”
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The last suggestion was better understood by the Indian
spirit of Blonay than all the rest. The tory captain
proceeded—
“There are yet other reasons which prompt me to
desire his escape—reasons which, though stronger than
any of those given, it is not necessary, nor, indeed, would
it be advisable, for me to disclose now. It is enough
that I save him from a fate no less certain than degrading.
You cannot object to give your co-operation in
saving the life which you were employed to take.”
The Half-Breed did not refuse the new employment
thus offered to his hands; but his words were so reluctantly
brought forth as clearly to imply a doubt as to
whether the one service would be equally grateful with
the other.
“How!” exclaimed Barsfield; “would you rather
destroy than save?”
“Adrat it, cappin, it's easier to shoot a man than take
a journey.”
The tory captain paused for a moment, and surveyed
closely the features of the savage. His own glance denoted
no less of the fierce spirit which had dictated the
answer of the latter, and gladly, at that moment, would
he have sent the assassin forward to the chamber of his
enemy, in order to the immediate fulfilment of the contemplated
crime. But a more prudent, if not a better
thought, determined him otherwise. He subdued, as well
as he could, the rising emotion. He strove to speak
calmly, and, we may add, benevolently, and a less close
observer of bad passions and bad men than Blonay might
have been deceived by the assumed and hypocritical demeanour
of Barsfield.
“No, no, Mr. Blonay—it must not be. He is my
enemy, but he is honourably such; and as an honourable
enemy I am bound to meet him. I must take no
advantage of circumstances. He must have fair play,
and I must trust then to good limbs, and what little skill
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I may have in my weapon, to revenge me of my wrongs
upon him. You, perhaps, do not comprehend this sort
of generosity. Your way is to kill your enemy when
you can, and in the most ready manner; and, perhaps,
if the mere feeling of hostility were alone to be considered,
yours would be as proper a mode as any other.
But men who rank high in society must be regulated by
its notions. To gratify a feeling is not so important as
to gratify it after a particular fashion. We kill an enemy
for our own satisfaction; but our seconds have a taste to
be consulted, and they provide the weapons, and say
when and how we shall strike, and stand by to share the
sport.”
“Adrat it, but there's no need of them. A dark wood,
close on the edge of the swamp, where you can roll the
carrion in the bog, and that's all one wants for his enemy
after the bullet's once gone through his head.”
“So you think, and so, perhaps, you may think
rightly; but I move in a different world from you, and
am compelled to think differently. I cannot revenge
myself after your fashion. I must give my enemy a
chance for a fair fight. I must devise a plan for his escape
from the guards, and in that, Blonay, I require your
assistance.”
“Adrat it, cappin, if so be all you want is to let the
fellow off, why don't you let him run without any fuss.
You don't want my help for that. He'll promise to
meet you, I reckon, in any old field, and then you can
settle your consarn without more trouble.”
“What! and be trussed up by Cornwallis or Tarleton
a moment after, as a traitor, upon the highest tree!
You seem to forget, Mr. Blonay, that, in doing as you
now advise, I must be guilty of a breach of trust, and a
disobedience of orders, which are remarkably positive
and strict. Your counsel is scarcely agreeable, Blonay,
and any thing but wise.”
“Adrat it, cappin, won't it be a breach of trust, any
-- 087 --
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how, supposing the chap gits off from prison by my
help?”
“Not if I can show to my superior that I maintained
a proper guard over him, and used every effort for his
recapture.”
“But how can he git off if you does that?” inquired
the seemingly dull Blonay.
“I will not do so. I will not maintain a proper guard.
I will give you certain opportunities, which shall be
known only to yourself, and, at the same time, I shall
keep up an appearance of the utmost watchfulness; so
that, whatever blame may attach to the proceeding, will
fall full, not upon my head, but the sentinel's.”
“Adrat it, cappin, I suppose it's all right, as you say.
I can't say myself. I don't see, but should like to hear,
cappin, what all's to be done.”
“Hear me:—the prisoner must be taught that you are
his friend—willing, for certain reasons, and for good rewards,
to extricate him from his predicament.”
“Yes—but how is he to know that? You won't let
anybody to see him—nobody but the doctor and the
young lady.”
“True—but it is through the young lady herself that
the matter is to be executed—”
“I won't do nothin to hurt the gal, cappin,” exclaimed
Blonay, quickly and decisively.
“Fool! I ask no service from you which can possibly
do her harm. Be not so hasty in your opinions, but
hear me out. It is through her that you are to act on
him. She has distinguished you with some indulgences—
she sent you your breakfast this morning—”
“She's a mighty good gal!” said the other, meditatively,
and interrupting the now deeply-excited and powerfully-interested
Barsfield.
“She is,” said the tory, in a tone artfully conciliatory.
“She is—and it will both serve and please her to
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extricate this youth from the difficulties which surround him.
He is an object of no small importance in her sight.”
“The gal loves him,” still meditatively said the other.
“Yes—and you now have an excellent opportunity
to offer her your service without being suspected of
any wrong. Your are to seek her, and tell her what
you have heard respecting the prisoner. Say that he is
to be sent to town to stand his trial—that there is no
doubt that he will be convicted if he goes, and that his
execution will follow as certainly as soon. You can then
pledge yourself to save him—to get him out of the camp—
to place him safely in the neighbouring woods, beyond
my reach and my pursuit. She will, no doubt, close
with your offer, and by this act you will serve me quite
as much as the prisoner and herself.”
To this plan Blonay started sundry little objections,
for all of which the tory had duly provided himself with
overruling answers. The Half-Breed, simply enough,
demanded why Barsfield, proposing, as he did, to render
so great a service to the prisoner, should scruple to say
to him and to the young lady who watched—both sufficiently
interested to keep his secret—what he now so
freely said to him? This was soon answered.
“They will suspect me of a design to involve the
prisoner in some new difficulty, as they have no reason
to suppose me desirous of serving either. I have no
motive to befriend him—none. But, on the contrary, they
know me as his enemy, and believe the worst of me accordingly.
You only know why I propose this scheme.”
The Half-Breed was silenced, though not convinced.
Suspicious by nature and education, he began to conjecture
other purposes as prevailing in the mind of his employer;
but, for the time, he promised to prepare himself,
and to comply with his various requisitions. It was
not until he reached the woods, and resumed his position
against his tree, that the true policy of the tory captain
came out before his mind.
eaf360v2.n1[1] Colonel Sumter—so styled by Tarleton himself. This was no
less the nom de guerre of Sumter, than was the “swamp fox” that
of Marion. Both names are singularly characteristic.
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CHAPTER XIII.
[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]
What were the designs of the tory? “What bloody
scene had Roscious now to act?” Could it be that Barsfield
was really prompted by a new emotion of generous
hostility? Had his feelings undergone a change,
and did he really feel an honourable desire, and meditate
to save his rival Mellichampe from an ignominious
death, only for the self-satisfying vengeance which he
promised to himself from the employment of his own
weapon? No! These were not the thoughts—not the
purposes of the malignant tory. The Half-Breed was
not deceived by the gracious and strange shows of newborn
benevolence which appeared to prompt him. Had
the death of Mellichampe been certain, as the result of
his threatened trial, Barsfield would have been content
to have obeyed his orders, and to carry the victim to
Charleston, for trial and execution. But that fate was
not certain. He felt assured, too, that it was not even
probable. Cornwallis and Tarleton, both, had shed
more blood wantonly already than they could well account
or atone for to public indignation. The British
House of Commons already began to declaim upon the
wanton and brutal excesses which popular indignation
had ascribed to the British commanders in America; and
the officers of the southern invading armies now half
repented of the crimes which, in the moment of exasperation,
they had been tempted to commit upon those
who, as they were familiarly styled rebels, seemed consequently
to have been excluded hitherto from the consideration
due to men. There was a pause in that
sanguinary mood which had heretofore stimulated Cornwallis,
Rawdon, Tarleton, Balfour, and a dozen other
-- 090 --
[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]
petty tyrants of the time and country, to the most atrocious
offences against justice and humanity. They began
to feel, if not the salutary rebukings of conscience,
the more obvious suggestions of fear; for, exasperated
to madness by the reckless want of consideration shown
to their brethren in arms when becoming captives to the
foe, the officers of the southern American forces, banded
and scattered, pledged themselves solemnly in writing
to retaliate in like manner, man for man, upon such
British officers as should fall into their hands; thus voluntarily
offering themselves to a liability, the heavy responsibilities
of which sufficiently guarantied their sincerity.
To the adoption of this course they also required
a like pledge from the commander-in-chief; and General
Greene was compelled to acquiesce in their requisition.
The earnest character of these proceedings,
known as they were to the enemy, had its effect; and the
rebukes of conscience were more respected when coupled
with the suggestions of fear.
Barsfield knew that the present temper of his superiors
was not favourable to the execution of Mellichampe.
He also felt that his own testimony against the youth
must be unsatisfactory, if met by that of Mr. Berkeley
and his daughter. He dreaded that Mellichampe
should reach Charleston, though as a prisoner, and
become known in person to any of the existing powers,
as he well knew the uncertain tenure by which the
possessions were secured which had been alloted to him
in a moment of especial favour by the capricious generosity
of the British commander. Guilt, in this way,
for ever anticipates and fears the thousand influences
which it raises up against itself; and never ceases to
labour in providing against events, which for a long time
it may baffle, but which, in the moment of greatest security,
must concentrate themselves against all its feeble
barriers, and overthrow them with a breath.
Barsfield had also his personal hostility to gratify,
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[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]
and of this he might be deprived if his prisoner reached
the city in safety. His present design was deeply
laid, therefore, in order that he might not be defrauded.
Janet Berkeley was to be the instrument by which Mellichampe
was to be taught to apprehend for his life, as
a convicted spy under a military sentence. The ignominious
nature of such a doom would, he was well
aware, prompt the youth to seize upon any and every
chance to escape from custody. This opportunity was
to be given him, in part. The guards were to be so
placed as at the given moment to leave the passage
from his chamber free. The road was to be cleared
for him at a designated point, and this road, under the
guidance of Blonay, the youth was to pursue. But it
was no part of Barsfield's design to suffer his escape.
An ambush was to be laid for the reception of the fugitive,
and here the escaping prisoner was to be shot
down without a question; and, as he was an escaping
prisoner, such a fate, Barsfield well knew, might be inflicted
with the most perfect impunity. The cruel
scheme was closely treasured in his mind, and only such
portions of his plan, as might seem noble without the
rest, were permitted to appear to the obtuse sense of the
Half-Breed, who was destined to perish at the same moment
with the prisoner he was employed to set free.
Long and closely did the two debate together on the
particular steps to be taken for carrying the scheme of
the tory into execution; and it was arranged that, while
he, Barsfield, should, in the progress of the same day,
apprize Janet of the contemplated removal of Mellichampe
to the city for his trial, Blonay should mature
his plan for approaching the maiden on a subject in
which, to succeed at all, it was necessary that the utmost
delicacy of address should be observed. The Half-Breed
was to assume a new character. He was to appear
before her with an avowal of sympathy which seemed
rather a mockery, coming from one so incapable and
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[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
low. He was to make a profession of regard for her,
and for him whom she regarded, and thus obtain her confidence,
without which he could do nothing. Barsfield
did not believe it possible for such a creature to feel, and
his only fear was that the task would be too novel and
too difficult for him to perform decently and with success.
But the tory was mistaken in his man. He did
not sufficiently dive into the nature of the seemingly obdurate
wretch before him; and he had not the most distant
idea of the occult and mysterious causes of sympathy
for the maiden which were at work in the breast
of the savage, whom he loathed even while employing,
and for whom he meditated the same doom of death, at
the same time, which his hands were preparing for Mellichampe.
But Blonay saw through his intentions; and, confident
that the plan was designed for the murder of Mellichampe,
he suspected, at the same time, the design
upon himself.
“He won't want me after that,” he muttered to himself,
as soon as he got into the woods; and he chuckled
strangely and bitterly as he thought over the affair. In
the woods he could think freely, and he soon conceived
the entire plan of his employer. He determined accordingly.
He was a tactician, and knew how much
was to be made out of the opinion entertained by Barsfield
of his stolidity. He was an adept at that art
which governs men by sometimes adopting, seemingly,
their own standards of judgment.
He went instantly back to the tory, and, drawing from
his purse the sum of five guineas which the other had
given while engaging him, he spoke thus, while returning
it:—
“I reckon, cappin, you'd better git somebody else to
do your business for you in this 'ere matter. I can't.”
“Can't! why?” responded Barsfield, in astonishment.
“Well, you see, cappin—I've been thinking over the
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
business, and, you see, I can't see it to the bottom. I
don't understand it.”
“And what then? Why should you understand it?
You have only to do what is told you. I understand it,
and that's enough, I imagine.”
“I reckon not, cappin—axing your pardon. I never
meddles with business I don't understand. If so be
you says, `Go to the chap's room, and put your knife in
him,' I'll do that for the money; but I can't think of the
other business. I don't see to the bottom,—it's all up
and down, and quite a confusion to me.”
The proposal to murder Mellichampe off-hand for the
five guineas would have been accepted instantly, were
it the policy of Barsfield to have it done after that fashion;
but he dared not close with the tempting offer.
The willingness of Blonay, however, to commit the act,
had the effect upon Barsfield's mind which the Half-Breed
desired. It induced a degree of confidence in
him which the tory was previously disposed to withhold.
He now sought to test his agent a little more closely.
“And you will go now to his room and put him to
death for the same money?”
“Say the word, cappin,” was the ready response,
uttered with the composure of one whose mind is made
up to the performance of the deed. The tory paused—
he dared not comply.
“And why not help in getting him clear? Where's
the difference?”
“'Cause I can't see what you want to clear him for,
when you want to kill him, and when you knows he's
guine to be hung. I can't see.”
“Never mind: it is my desire,—is not that enough?
I choose it,—it is my notion. I will pay you for my
notion. Do what I have said,—here are five guineas
more. Go to Miss Berkeley, and tell her what I have
taught you.”
The Half-Breed hesitated, or seemed to hesitate.
-- 094 --
[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
The bright gold glittered in his eye, and he was not
accustomed to withstand temptation. His habit almost
overcame his reflection, and the determined conviction
of his mind; but he resisted the suggestion, and adhered
to his resolve.
“I'd rather not, cappin; I reckon I can't. If you
says now that you wants to kill him, I'll help you,
'cause then I understands you; but to git him out, and
let him run free, jist when there's no need for it, and
when you hates him all over, is too strange to me—I
can't see to the bottom.”
“And you will not do as you have said?” demanded
the other, with some vexation in his tone and countenance.
“Well, now, cappin, why not speak out the plain
thing as it is,” said the Half-Breed, boldly; “don't I
see how 'tis? When you gits him out, you'll put it to
him,—that's what I understands. If it's so, say so, and
I'll go the death for you; but I ain't guine to sarve a
man that won't let me know the business I'm guine
upon. Let me see your hand, and I'll say if I back
you.”
This was bringing the matter home, and Barsfield at
once saw that there was no hope for the aid of the
Half-Breed but in full confidence. He made a merit
of necessity.
“I have only sought to try you. I wished to know
how far you were willing and sagacious enough to serve
me. I am satisfied. You are right. The boy shall not
escape me, though I let him run. You hear me,—can
I now depend on you?”
“It's a bargain, cappin,” and the savage received the
guineas, which were soon put out of sight,—“it's a bargain:
say how, when, and where, and there's no more
fuss.”
They closed hands upon the contract, and Barsfield
now unfolded his designs with more confidence. It was
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
arranged that Blonay should carry out the original plan,
so far as to communicating with Janet. Her acquiescence
following, Mellichampe was to be led, at a particular
hour, on a specified night, through a path in which
the myrmidons of the tory were to stand prepared; and
nothing now remained—so Barsfield thought—in the
way of his successful effort at revenge, but to obtain the
ministry of the devoted maiden in promoting the scheme
which was to terminate in the murder of her lover.
Barsfield, in the part prosecution of his design, that
very evening sought a private conference with Janet
Berkeley, which was not denied him.
“What!” exclaimed Rose Duncan, as she heard of
the application and of her cousin's compliance,—“what!
you consent,—you will see him alone? Surely, Janet,
you will not?”
“Why not, Rose?” was the quiet answer.
“Why not!—and you hate him so, Janet?”
“You mistake me, Rose. I fear Mr. Barsfield,—
I dread what he may do; but, believe me, I do not hate
him. I should not fear him even, did I not know that
he hates those whom I love.”
“But, whether you hate or fear, why should you see
him? What can he seek you for but to make his sickening
protestations and professions over and over again?
and I don't see that civility requires that you should
hear him over and over again, upon such a subject,
whenever he takes it into his head to address you.”
“It will be time enough to declare my aversion,
Rose, when I know that such is his subject. To anticipate
now would be not only premature, but in very
doubtful propriety, and surely in a taste somewhat indelicate.
Such, indeed, can scarcely be the subject on
which he would speak with me, for I have already answered
him so decisively that he must know it to be
idle.”
“Ah, but these men never take an answer: they are
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[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]
pertinacious to the last degree; and they all assume,
with a monstrous self-complaisance, that a woman does
not mean `no' when she says it. Be assured Barsfield
will have little else to say. His speech will be all
about hearts and darts, and hopes and fears, and all
such silly stuff as your sentimentalists deal in. He will
tell you about Kaddipah, and promise to make you its
queen, and you will tire to death of the struggles of the
great bear in an element so foreign to his nature as
that of love.”
And, while she spoke, the lively girl put herself in
posture, and adopted the grin and the grimace, the desperate
action and affected enthusiasm, which might be
supposed to belong to the address of Barsfield in the
part of a lover. Janet smiled sorrowfully as she replied—
“Ah, Rose, I would the matter upon which Barsfield
seeks me were not more serious than your thoughts
assume it to be. But I cannot think with you. I am
troubled with a presentiment of evil; I fear me that
some new mischief is designed.”
“Oh, you are always anticipating evil; you are always
on the look-out for clouds and storm.”
“I do not shrink from them, Rose, when they come,”
said the other, gently.
“No, no! you are brave enough: would I were half
so valiant, sweet cousin of mine! But, Janet, if you
dread that Barsfield has some new mischief afoot, that
is another reason why you should not see him. Be
advised, dear Janet, and do not go.”
“I must, Rose, and I will, for that very reason. I
will look the danger in the face; I will not blind myself
to its coming. No! let the bolt be shot—let the
wo come—let the worst happen, rather than that I
should for ever dream, and for ever dread, the worst.
Suffering is one part of life—it may be the greatest part
of mine. I must not shrink from what I was designed
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
to meet; and God give me strength to meet it as I
should, and cheer me to bear up against it with a calm
fortitude. I feel that this man is the bringer of evil
tidings: I am impressed with a fear which almost persuades
me to refuse him this meeting. But, as I know
this feeling to be a fear, and at variance with my duty
to myself not less than to Mellichampe, I will not refuse
him. I will go; I will hear what he would say.”
“And here I must remain, stuck up like a painted
image, to listen to Lieutenant Clayton's rose-water compliments.
The man is so bandboxy—so excruciatingly
tidy and trim in every thing he says—so measured and
musical—and laughs with such continual desperation—
that he sickens me to death to entertain him.”
“Yet you do entertain him, Rose?”
“How can I help it? You will not; and the man
looks as if he came for an entertainment.”
“And you never disappoint him, Rose.”
“'Twould be too cruel that, Janet, for you neither
look nor say any thing towards it. You might as well
be the old Dutch Venus, stuck up in the corner, whose
fat cheeks and small eyes used to give your grandfather
such an extensive subject for eulogy. You leave all the
task of keeping up the racket, and should not wonder if
I seek, as well as in me lies, to maintain your guests
in good-humour with themselves, at least.”
“And with you. You certainly succeed, Rose, in
both objects. Task or not, you are not displeased with
the labour of entertaining Lieutenant Clayton, if I judge
not very erroneously of your eyes and features generally.
And then your laugh, too, Rose—don't speak of
the lieutenant's—your laugh is, of all laughs, the most
truly natural when you hearken to his good sayings.”
“Janet, you are getting to be quite censorious. I
am shocked at you. Really, you ought to know that, to
entertain a body—if you set out with that intention—
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you are not to allow it to be seen that you are making
an effort. To please others, the first rule is always to
seem pleased yourself.”
“True—you not only seem pleased yourself, but,
Rose, do you know, I really think you are so. You
laugh as—”
“Pshaw, Janet—pshaw!—I laugh at the man, and
not with him.”
“I fear me, now I think of it, Rose, that he has discovered
that. Methinks he laughs much less of late
than ever: he looks very serious at times.”
“Do you really think so, Janet?”
“I do, really.”
“What can be the cause, I wonder?”
“Perhaps he has been ordered to join Cornwallis.
He spoke of some such matter, you remember, but a
week ago.”
“Yes, I remember; and at the time, if you recollect,
Janet, he looked rather grave while stating it,
though he laughed afterward: and yet the laugh did
not seem altogether so natural; there was something
exceedingly constrained and artificial in it.”
“It must be so,” replied Janet, as it were abstractedly.
The momentary humour which had prompted
her to annoy her thoughtless companion had passed
away in the sterner consideration which belonged to her
own difficulties. She turned away to a neighbouring
window, and looked forth upon the grove, and a little
beyond, where, on the edge of the forest, lay the encampment
of Barsfield, a glance at which involuntarily
drove her away from the window. When her eyes were
again turned upon Rose Duncan, she saw that the
usually lighthearted girl was still seated, in unwonted
silence, with her face buried in her hands. The
whole air of the damsel was full of unusual thought and
abstraction, and Janet might have seen that a change had
come over the spirit of her dream also, but that her
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fancy was saddened by the strong and besetting fears
which promised her a new form of trial in the meeting
with the tory.
CHAPTER XIV.
That evening, as she had promised, Janet Berkeley
indulged Captain Barsfield with the interview which he
desired; and while Rose Duncan was left to the task,
pleasant or otherwise, of entertaining the sentimental yet
laughter-loving lieutenant, the graver maiden, in an adjoining
apartment, was held to the severer trial of maintaining
the uniform complaisance of the lady and the
courteous consideration of the hostess, while listening
to one whose every movement she distrusted, and whose
whole bearing towards her and hers had been positively
injurious, if not always hostile. Barsfield, too, though
moved by contradictory feelings, was compelled to subject
them all beneath the easy deportment and conciliatory
demeanour of a gentleman in the presence of one
of the other sex. He rose to meet her upon her entrance,
and conducted her to a chair. A few moments
elapsed before he spoke, and his words were then
brought forth with the difficulty of one who is somewhat
at a loss where to begin. At length, as if ashamed of
his weakness, he commenced without preliminaries upon
the immediate subject which had prompted the desire
for the interview.
“My surgeon tells me, Miss Berkeley, that his patient—
yours, I should rather say—Mr. Mellichampe,
will soon be able to undergo removal.”
“Removal! sir,” was the momentary exclamation of
Janet, with a show of pain not less than of surprise in
her ingenuous countenance.
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“My orders are to remove him to the city, as soon
as the surgeon shall pronounce him in a fit condition to
bear with the fatigue. He tells me that such will soon
be the case. Mr. Mellichampe now walks his chamber,
I understand, and is in every respect rapidly recovering
from his hurts.”
“He is certainly better than he was, Captain Barsfield;
but he is yet very, very feeble—too feeble quite
to bear with the fatigues of such a journey.”
“You underrate the strength of the young gentleman,
Miss Berkeley. He is a well-knit, hardy soldier for
one so youthful, and will suffer less than you imagine.
I trust that my surgeon does not report incorrectly
when he states that, in all probability, it will be quite
safe to remove him at the commencement of the ensuing
week.”
“So soon!” was the unaffected, the almost unconscious
exclamation.
“It is painful to me to deprive you, Miss Berkeley,
of any pleasure—of one, too, the loss of which, even in
anticipation, seems to convey so much anxiety and sorrow;
but the duties of the soldier are imperative.”
“I would not wish, sir, to interfere with yours, whatever
my own wishes may be, Captain Barsfield,” replied
the maiden, with a degree of dignity which seemed
provoked into loftiness by the air of sarcasm pervading
the previous speech of the tory.
“It is for you, sir,” she continued, “to do your duty,
if you so esteem it, without reference to the weaknesses
of a woman, and, least of all, of mine.”
“You mistake, Miss Berkeley—you mistake your
own worth, not less than my feelings and present objects.
Your weaknesses, if it so pleases you to call
them, are sacred in my sight; and, though my duty
as a soldier prompts me to take the course with the
prisoner which I have already made known to you, such
is my regard to your wishes, and for you, that I am not
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unwilling, in some particulars, to depart from that
course with the desire to oblige you.”
The maiden looked up inquiringly.
“How am I to understand this, Captain Barsfield?”
“Oh, Miss Berkeley, there needs no long explanation.
If Mellichampe has loved you, you have been no
less beloved by me. I cannot now deceive myself on
the subject of your regards. I am not so self-blinded
as to mistake your feelings for him.”
“Nor I to deny them, Mr. Barsfield. There was a
time, sir, when I should have shrunk, as from death, from
such an avowal as this. It is now my pride, my boast—
now that he is deserted by friends, and in the hands
of enemies—”
“In your hands, Miss Berkeley,” he said, interrupting
her.
“How, sir?”
“In no other hands than yours. Let me show you
this. He is not in the hands of enemies, only as you
so decree it.”
“Proceed, sir, proceed,” she said, impatiently, seeing
that he paused in his utterance.
“A few words from you, Miss Berkeley, and, such
is your power over me, such my regard for you, that,
though Mellichampe be my deadly enemy—one who has
sought my life, and one whose life my own sense of
self-preservation prompts me with like perseverance
equally to seek, I am yet willing, in the face of my
pledges, my interest, my duty, to connive at his release
from this most unpleasant custody. I am willing to
place the key of his prison door in your hands, and to
give the signal myself when he shall fly in safety.”
“You speak fairly, sir—very fairly—very nobly,
indeed, if you have spoken all that you design—all
that you mean. But is it your regard for me alone
that prompts these sentiments—are there no conditions
which you deem of value to yourself? Let me hear
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all—all that you have in reserve, Captain Barsfield, for
you will pardon me if, hitherto, I have not esteemed you
one to forfeit your pledges, your interest, your duty, to
serve, without conditions, a poor maiden like myself.”
The cheek of the tory grew to a deep crimson as
he spoke, and his words were crowded and uttered
chokingly when he replied,
“I am not now to learn for the first time, that, influenced
as she has been by the speech of others, unfriendly
and malignant, the opinions of Miss Berkeley have
done me at all times less than justice. The words of
old Max Mellichampe, the father of this boy, were thus
hostile ever: and they have not been poured into unwilling
ears, having you for an auditor, Miss Berkeley.
And yet—I had thought that one so gentle as yourself
would have shrunk from the language of hatred and denunciation,
and been the last so keenly to treasure up
its remembrance.”
“Can Captain Barsfield wonder that I should remember
the opinions of Colonel Mellichampe with
reference to himself, when after circumstances have so
completely confirmed their justice? Is not Captain
Barsfield an active and bloody enemy to the people of his
own land—fighting against them under the banner of
the invader—and proving himself most bloody and hostile
to those with whom he once dwelt, and by whose indulgence,
as I have heard, his own infancy was nurtured?
Can I forget, too, that by his own hands the
brave old colonel perished in a most unequal fight?”
“But still a fair one, Miss Berkeley—still a fair
fight, and one of his own seeking. But what you have
just said, Miss Berkeley, gives me a good occasion to
set you right on some matters, and to unfold to you the
truth in all. The taking arms under the flag of England,
which you style that of the invader, and the death
of Colonel Max Mellichampe, form but a single page
of the same drama. They are as closely related, Miss
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Berkeley, as cause and effect, since it was Max Mellichampe
that made me—why should I blush to say it?—
a tory, in arms against my countrymen:—and to that
enrolment — fatal enrolment!—for even now I curse
the day on which it was recorded, and him no less that
moved it—he owes, and justly owes, his own defeat
and death.”
“I believe it not, sir. Colonel Mellichampe move
you to become a tory—to lift the sword against your
people? Never—never!”
“Hear me out, and you will believe—you cannot
else. He did not move me—did not argue with me to
become a tory—oh, no! He forced me to become
one. Would you hear?”
“Speak on.”
“When this cruel and unnatural war commenced in
South Carolina, I had taken no part on either side.
The violence of the whigs around me, Colonel Mellichampe
among them, and the most active among them,
towards all those not thinking with themselves, revolted
my feelings and my pride, if it did not offend my principles.
I was indignant that, while insisting upon all the
rights of free judgment for themselves, they should at
the same time deny a like liberty to others. And yet
they raved constantly of liberty. It was, in their
mouths, a perpetual word—and with them it signified
every thing and nothing. It was to give them a free
charter for any and every practice, and it was to deprive
all others of every right, natural and acquired. I dared
to disagree—I dared to think differently, and to speak
my opinions aloud, though I lifted no weapon, as yet, to
sustain them. Was I then a criminal, Miss Berkeley?
Was it toryism to think according to my understanding,
and to speak the opinions which I honestly
entertained? Do me justice and say, so far, I had
transgressed no law, either of morals or of the land.”
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“Do not appeal to me, Captain Barsfield; I am but
a poor judge of such matters.”
“If you have not judged, Miss Berkeley, you, at
least, have sentenced upon the authority of others; and
it is your sentence, and their authority, that I seek now
to overthrow.”
“Go on, sir; I would not do you injustice, and I
would rejoice to think that you could relieve yourself
from the unfavourable opinions even of one so humble
as myself. But I fear me you will fail, sir.”
“I hope not, at least, Miss Berkeley; and the fear
that you have uttered encourages and strengthens my
hope. I now proceed with my narrative. I had, as I
have told you, my own opinions, and this was presumption
in the eyes of a dictatorial, proud man like Max
Mellichampe. I uttered them, and loudly too, and this
was the error of one so weak, so wanting in public influence
and wealth as myself. Would you hear how
this monstrous error was punished?—this part of the
story, perhaps, has never reached your ears.”
“Punished, sir!” replied the maiden, with some show
of astonishment in her countenance,—“what punishment?
I had not heard of any punishment.”
“I thought not,—the punishment was too light—too
trivial—too utterly disproportioned to the offence, to
make a part of the narrative. But I was punished, Miss
Berkeley, and, for a crime so monstrous as that of thinking
differently from my neighbour, even you will doubtlessly
conceive the penalty a slight one.”
He paused; bitter emotions seemed to gather in his
bosom, and he turned away hastily, and strode to the
opposite end of the room. In another moment he returned.
“You have heard of my offence—you should know
how it was dealt with—not by strangers, not by enemies—
but by those with whom I had lived—by whose
indulgence I had been nurtured. Would you hear, Miss
Berkeley?”
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“Go on, sir.”
“Hear me, then. My neighbours came to me at
midnight—not as neighbours, but armed, and painted,
and howling—at midnight. They broke into my dwelling—
a small exercise of their newly-gotten liberty;—
they tore me from the bed where I was sleeping;—they
dragged me into the highway, amid a crowd of my
brethren—my countrymen—all cheering, and most of
them assisting in the work of punishment.”
“They surely did not this?” was her exclamation.
“They surely did!—but this was not all. An offence
so horrible as mine—free thinking in a free country—
was yet to have its punishment. What was that punishment,
do you think, Miss Berkeley?”
His eyes glared upon her with a ghastly stare as he
put this question, from which her own shrank involuntarily
as she replied—
“I cannot think,—I know not.”
“They bound me to a tree—fast—immoveable. I
could only see their proceedings, I could only endure
their tortures,—I could stir neither hand nor foot to resist
them—”
He shivered, as with a convulsion, while recalling
these memories, though the sympathizing and pitying
expression of her face brought, a moment after, a smile
into his own. He continued—
“There, bound hand and foot—a victim—at their
mercy, and hopeless of any plea, and incapable of any
effort to avoid their judgment, I bore its tortures. You
will ask, what more?—”
He paused, but she spoke not, and he went on almost
instantly—
“The lash—the scourge!—rods from the neighbouring
woods were brought, and I suffered until I fainted
under their blows.”
She clasped her hands, and closed her eyes, as if the
horrible spectacle were before her.
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“I came to life to suffer new tortures. They poured
the seething tar over me—”
“Horrible!—horrible!”
“Then, hurrying me to the neighbouring river—your
own Santee,—they plunged me into its bosom, and
more than once, more merciful than the waters, which
did not ingulf me, they thrust me back into their depths,
when with feeble struggles I had gained the banks.
I was saved by one—more tender than the rest—and
left at midnight, exhausted, by the river's side, despairing
of life and imploring death, which yet came not to
my relief.”
“Dreadful—dreadful!” exclaimed the maiden, with
emotions of uncontrolled horror, while her ghastly cheeks
and streaming eyes attested the deep pain which the
cruel narrative had imparted to her soul.
Quivering in every limb with the agonizing recollection
which his own horrible narrative had awakened in
his mind, Barsfield strode the floor to and fro, his hands
clinched in his hair, and his eyes almost starting from
their sockets.
In another moment Janet, recovering herself, with
something of desperation in her manner, hurried and
breathless, thus addressed him:—
“But the father of Ernest Mellichampe—he was not
one of these men?—he had no part in this dreadful
crime? You have not said that, Mr. Barsfield?”
“No!” was his bitter and almost fierce exclamation.
“Thank God!—thank God!” she exclaimed, breathlessly.
He rapidly crossed the floor,—he approached
her, and his finger rested upon her arm—
“Stay!” he exclaimed,—“be not too fast. The
father of your—of Ernest Mellichampe, did, indeed, lift
no hand—he was not even present on the occasion,—
but he was not the less guilty—the deed was not the
less executed by him.”
“How!—speak!”
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“He was the most guilty. The mere instruments of
the crime—the miserable, and howling, and servile
wretches, who would have maimed and mangled a creature
formed in their own, not less than in the image of
God—were not the criminals; but he who set them on—
he whose daily language was that of malignant scorn
and hostility,—he was its author,—he was the doer of
the deed, and to him I looked for vengeance.”
“But how know you that he set them on? Did you
hear?”
“Oh, Miss Berkeley, I say not that he told them,
`Go, now, and do this deed;' I know not that he did;
but had not Max Mellichampe pronounced me deserving
of Lynching,—had he not said that I was a tory, and
that tar and feathers were the proper desert of the tory,—
had he not approved of those tortures, and of others
which degrade humanity—the torture of the rail—the
suffocation of the horse-pond,—would these wretches,
think you, who take their colour and their thoughts always
from the superior,—would they have been prompted,
by their own thoughts, to such a crime? No!—
they were prompted by him. He approved the deed—
he smiled upon its atrocities—and he perished in consequence.
Hence my hate to him and his, and it is the
hatred of justice which pursues even to the third and
fourth generations; for crimes and their penalties, like
diseases, are entailed to son and to son's son,—all
guilty, and all doomed, alike. Hence it is, that I am
a tory. Hence it is, that I lift the sword, unsparingly
to the last, against the wretches who taught me in that
night of terror—of blistering agony—of manhood's shame—
and a suffering worse infinitely than death—of what
nature was that boon of liberty which they promised,
and which it was in the power of such monsters to bestow.
Can you wonder now, Miss Berkeley—not that
I am what I am—but that I am not worse? You cannot.
I were either more or less than human to be other
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than I am. Whether these things may excuse my conduct,
I do not now ask: all that I may claim from you
is, that you will, at least, spare your sarcasms in future
upon what you are pleased to call the unnatural warfare
which I wage against my countrymen.”
CHAPTER XV.
The maiden was indeed silenced. If she did not
sympathize entirely with Barsfield, she at least saw what
a natural course had been his, under the dreadful indignities
which he had been made to suffer. She now looked
on him with a feeling of pain and mortification as he
paced the apartment to and fro; and her eyes more than
once filled with tears, as she thought how far guilty in
this transaction had been the father of her lover. At
length the tory captain turned to her once more. His
countenance had recovered something of its serenity—
though the cheek was yet unusually flushed, and when
he spoke there was a convulsive unevenness in his accent,
which denoted the yet unsubdued emotions of his
heart. Still, with a moral power which he certainly possessed,
however erringly applied, he subdued the feverish
impulse; and, after the pause of a few moments, which
the excited and wounded feelings of Janet did not suffer
her to interrupt, he proceeded to a more full development
of his purpose and his desire.
“I have said to you, Miss Berkeley, that I am commanded,
so soon as the condition of my prisoner will
permit, to convey him to the city. Are you aware with
what purpose?—have you any notion of his probable
destiny?”
The manner of the question alarmed the maiden much
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more than the question itself. It was grave and mysteriously
emphatic. His face wore all the expression of
one conscious of the possession of a secret, the utterance
of which is to produce the most trying emotions in
the hearer, and which the possessor, at the same time,
however, does not yet dare to withhold. Janet was silent
for a few seconds while gazing into the countenance
of the speaker, as if seeking to gather from his
glance what she yet trembled to demand from his lips;
but remembering the solemn decision of her thoughts
when she granted the interview, to seek to know the
worst that her enemy could inflict, she recovered and
controlled her energies. With a firm voice, therefore,
unfaltering in a single accent, she requested him to proceed.
“I am not strong—not wise, Captain Barsfield, and
I am not able to say what my thoughts are now, or what
my feelings may be when I hear what you have to unfold.
But God, I trust, will give me strength to endure
well, if I may not achieve much. Your looks and manner,
more than your words, would seem to imply something
which is dangerous to me and mine. Speak it out
boldly, Captain Barsfield—better to hear the worst than
to imagine error, and find worse in wrong imaginings. I
am willing to hear all that you would say, and I beg that
you would say it freely, without hesitation.”
“I am glad that you are thus strong—thus prepared,
Miss Berkeley; for it pains me to think how deeply must
be your sorrow and suffering when you learn the truth.”
He paused, and with a hypocritical expression of sympathetic
wo in his countenance, approached her when he
had done speaking. His hand was even extended with
a condoling manner, as if to possess itself of hers; but
she drew herself up reservedly in her chair, and he halted
before her. Her words promptly followed the action—
“I am neither strong to endure much, nor prepared
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to hear any particular cause of sorrow, as I can think of
none in particular. Speak it, however, Captain Barsfield,
since, whether strong or prepared, I am at least
desirous to know all which may concern my feelings in
the matter which you have to communicate.”
“You will think me precipitate in my communication
when you have heard it; and that you have not thought of
it hitherto, leads me to apprehend that you will even feel
it more forcibly than I had imagined. I deem it doubly
important, then, to bid you prepare for a serious evil.”
These preparatory suggestions, as they were designed
to do, necessarily stimulated still farther the anxieties and
apprehensions of the hearer, though she strove nobly, and
well succeeded, in mastering her emotions.
“Speak—speak—I pray you, sir,” she cried, almost
breathless.
“Do you know, then, Miss Berkeley, with what object
I am required to convey Mr. Mellichampe to the
city?”
“No, sir—object—what object—none in particular.
He is your prisoner—you convey him to prison,” was
the hurried reply.
“I do—I carry him to prison, indeed—but I also
carry him to trial.”
“To trial!”
“To trial as a spy.”
“A spy!—and what then?”
“He will be convicted.”
“Impossible! he is no spy—who will dare to utter
such a falsehood?”
“I will dare to utter such a truth. I will accuse—I
have accused him. I will prove my accusation; and
you, Miss Berkeley, can assist me in establishing the
proof. I could rest the entire proof upon your testimony.”
“Never—never! God help me, what audacity is
this! I scorn your assertion—I despise—I fear nothing
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of your threats. I know better, and am not to be terrified
by a tale so idle as this.”
“It is no idle tale, Miss Berkeley, and you are terrified,
as you must feel conscious of its truth. You know
it to be true.”
“I know it to be false!—false as—Heaven forgive
me, but this insolence also makes me mad. But I have
done now, and you too, sir, have done, I trust. I am not
to be frightened by such stories as these; for, know, sir,
that when this strange tale was uttered by you before, I
had the assurance of Colonel Tarleton—your superior,
sir—that there was nothing in it, and that I must not suffer
myself to be alarmed. Colonel Tarleton's words,
sir, are remembered—he would not give them idly, and
I believe in him. He will be there to see justice done
to Mellichampe, and with his pledge, sir, I defy your
malice. I, too, will go to the city—though I tread every
step of the way on foot—I will see Colonel Tarleton,
and he will protect the man whom you hate—but whom
you dare not fairly encounter—from your dishonourable
malice.”
“That I dare meet him, Miss Berkeley, his present
situation attests—it was by my arm that he was stricken
down in fair conflict—”
“I believe it not—you dared not. Your myrmidons
beset him, while you looked on. It was many to one;—
but of this I think not. It is enough that I am required
to speak with one, and to look upon one, who has
sought to destroy him, and me in him. It is enough—
I would hear no more. I believe not in this trial—Colonel
Tarleton will not suffer it, and I will go to him.
He will see justice.”
“He will,” said Barsfield, coolly, in reply to the passionate
and unlooked-for vehemence of the maiden—so
unlike her usual calm gravity of deportment.
“Colonel Tarleton will do justice, Miss Berkeley—
it is my hope that he will do so. I have his words for
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it, indeed, and it is from him the orders come which call
for the trial of the prisoner.”
“The orders—Colonel Tarleton!” were the simple
exclamations of the maiden, as she listened to the assertion.
Barsfield calmly drew the paper from his pocket,
and placed it in her hands. As she read, the letters
swam before her eyes; and, when she had finished, the
document fell from her nerveless fingers, and she stood
like a dumb imbodiment of wo, gazing with utter vacancy
upon her companion. There were the orders,
plainly and unequivocally written by Tarleton, as Barsfield
had said. Not a word wanting—not a sentence
doubtful in its import. Tarleton, who had promised her
that her lover was secure, or had led her, by his language
and general manner, to believe so, had commanded his
trial. Recalling all her energies, with eyes that never
once were removed from the countenance of Barsfield,
she again took the paper from his hands, as he was lifting
it from the floor, and once more read it carefully
over—counting the words—almost spelling them—in the
hope to find some little evasion of the first meaning—
some loop-hole for escape—some solitary bough upon
which a found hope might perch and rest itself. But in
vain. The letter was a stern and business-like one.
“You must convey the prisoner, Mellichampe,” so
ran that portion of it which concerned the maiden, “so
soon as his wounds will permit, under a strong guard, to
the city, where a court of officers will be designated for
his trial as a spy upon your encampment. You will
spare no effort to secure all the evidence necessary to
his conviction, and will yourself attend to the preferment
of the charges.” And there, after the details of other
matters and duties to be attended to and executed, was
the signature of the bloody dragoon, which she more
than once had seen before—
“B. Tarleton,
“Lt. Col. Legion.”
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She closed her eyes, gave back the paper, and
clasped her hands in prayer to Heaven, as the last reliance
of earth seemed to be taken away. She had so
confidently rested upon the personal assurances of Tarleton,
that she had almost dismissed entirely from her
thought the charge in question; and which Barsfield had
originally made when the legionary colonel was at
“Piney Grove.” Now, when she read these orders,
she wondered at herself for so implicitly confiding in the
assurances of one so habitually distrusted by the Americans,
and so notoriously fond of bloodshed. Yet, why
had he deemed it necessary to give these assurances to
a poor maiden—one not a party to the war, and to
whom he could have no cause of hostility. Why practise
thus upon an innocent heart and a young affection?
Could he be so wanton—so merciless—so fond of all
forms of cruelty? These thoughts—these doubts, all
filled the brain of the maiden, confusedly and actively,
during the brief moments in which she stood silently in
the presence of Barsfield, after having possessed herself
of the orders with regard to Mellichampe. Her fears
had almost stupified her, and it was only the voice of the
tory which seemed to arouse her to a full consciousness,
not less of the predicament in which her lover stood,
than of the presence of his enemy. She raised her
eyes, and, without a word, listened anew to the suggestions
of Barsfield; who, speaking, as he did, ungrateful
and unpleasant things, had assumed his most pleasant
tones, and put on a deportment the most courteous and
respectful.
“You doubt not now, Miss Berkeley?—the facts are
unquestionable. These are direct and positive orders,
and must be obeyed. In a few days Mr. Mellichampe
must be conveyed to the city—his trial must immediately
follow, and I need not say how immediately thereupon
must follow his conviction and—”
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“Say no more—say no more,” shrieked, rather than
spoke, his auditor.
“And yet, Miss Berkeley—”
“Yet what?” she demanded, hurriedly.
“These dangers may be averted. The youth may be
saved.”
She looked up doubtingly, and, as she saw the expression
in his eyes, she shook her head in despair. She
read at a glance the conditions.
“I see you understand me, Miss Berkeley.”
“I cannot deny that I think I do, sir,” was her prompt
reply.
“And yet, as you may not, better that I speak my
thoughts plainly. I can save Mr. Mellichampe—I am
ready to do so,—for, though my enemy, I feel that I love
another far more than I can possibly hate him. I will
save him for that other. Does Miss Berkeley hear—
will she heed?”
Barsfield might well ask these questions, for the
thoughts of Janet were evidently elsewhere. His finger
rested upon her hand, and she started as from a sudden
danger. There was a bitter smile upon the lips of the
tory, as he noticed the shuddering emotion with which
she withdrew her hand. Her attention, however, seeming
now secured, he continued his suggestions.
“I will save the life of the prisoner—he shall be free
as air, Miss Berkeley, if, in return, you will—”
“Oh, Captain Barsfield, this is all very idle, and not
less painful than idle. You know it cannot be. You
know me not if you can think it for a moment longer.
It is impossible, sir, that I can survive Mellichampe—
still more impossible that I can survive his love, or give
my own to another. Leave me now, sir, I pray you.
Leave me now. We can speak no more together. You
can have nothing farther to say, as you can have nothing
worse to communicate.”
“But, Miss Berkeley—”
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He would have spoken, but she waved her hand impatiently.
He saw, at a glance, how idle would be all
farther effort, and the murderous nature within him grew
active with this conviction. His hate to Mellichampe
was now shared equally with his betrothed. The parting
look which he gave her, as he left the apartment, did
not encounter any consciousness in hers, or she might
have dreaded, in the next instant, to feel the venomous
fang of the serpent. Her strength failed her after his
departure. Restrained till then, her emotions grew insupportable
the moment she was left alone; and when
Rose Duncan, apprized of Barsfield's absence, sought
her in the room where the conference had taken place,
she found her stretched upon the floor, only not enough
insensible to escape from the mental agony which the
new situation of things had forced upon her.
CHAPTER XVI.
“Is he gone?” were the first, shudderingly expressed
words, which the suffering maiden addressed to Rose
Duncan, as the latter assisted her in rising from the
floor. Her eyes were red and swollen—her glance
wild, wandering, and strangely full of light—her lips
compressed with a visible effort, as if to restrain the expression
of those emotions which were still so powerfully
felt and shown. Instead of replying to the question
of Janet, Rose could not forbear an exclamation of
partial rebuke.
“I warned you—I told you not to see him, Janet.
You are now sorry for it.”
“No—no! I must have known-it, and better as it is—
better, better as it is, to know it all,—there is no
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second stroke—no other that can now be felt, except—
God of Heaven! have mercy, and save me from that!'
She buried her face in the bosom of Rose, and sobbed
with convulsive sorrows, as her imagination presented
to her eye the probable result of the trial to
which her lover was to be subjected.
“He never spares, Rose—he has no mercies! From
the place of trial to the place of death, it is but a step!
So the malignant Barsfield said it, and so it will be with
such judges as Balfour and Tarleton.” And, as she
spoke, she closed her eyes, as if to shut out the dreadful
images of doom and death which were gathering thickly
before her. It was only in fitful starts of speech
that Rose could gather from her companion the truth
of her situation and the cause of her grief. It was
only by successive pictures of the dreadful events
which she anticipated, as they severally came to her
mind, and not by any effort at narration, that she was
enabled to convey to that of Rose the cruel nature of
the intelligence which Barsfield had conveyed in his
interview. The anger of Rose grew violent when she
heard it, and that of Janet immediately subsided. She
could the better perceive the futility of uttered grief,
when she perceived the inadequacy of all words to describe
her emotions. Grief, like Rapture, was born
dumb.
But if Janet suffered thus much at first hearing of this
sad intelligence, she did not suffer less when communicacating
it that evening to her lover. Could she have
suffered for him—could she have felt all the agony of her
present thoughts, assured that it lay with her alone to endure
all and let him go free, she would not have murmured—
she would have had no uttered grief. But the dreadful
task was before her of saying to her lover that the
hour of their parting, and probably their final parting,
was at hand. How much less painful to have heard it
from his lips to her, than to breathe it from her lips into
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his ears. She could endure the stroke coming from him,
but she thought—and this was the thought of one who
loved unselfishly—that she shared in the cruelty—that
she became a party to the crime, and its immediate instrument,
in unfolding the dreadful intelligence to him.
“He will hate me—he will regard it as my deed,—and
oh! how can I look as I tell him this,—how can features
express such feelings—such a sorrow as is mine!”
Such were the sobbing and broken words with which
she sought her lover. She strove, however, to compose
her countenance. She even laboured—foolish endeavour!
to restrain—to subdue her emotions. But
when was the heart of woman—properly constituted
only for intense feeling, and entire dependance that
admits of no qualified love—to be restrained and subjected
by a merely human will. There was that at her
heart which would not be compelled. The feeling only
gathered itself up for a moment the better to expand.
The restraint gave it new powers of action, and, though
she appeared in the presence of Mellichampe with a
countenance in which a smile even strove for place and
existence, it was yet evident to herself that the power of
self-control was rapidly departing from her. The strife
of encountering feelings was going on within—the
earthquake toiling below, though sunshine and flowers
only were visible without.
It was with a joy so intense as to be tremulous, that
Mellichampe received her. His confinement had made
him still more a dependant upon her presence and affections.
His love for her had duly increased with its
daily exercise; and, in the absence of other and exciting
influences, it had become a regular, constant, and increasing
flame, which concentrated almost all his thoughts,
and certainly governed and linked itself with all his emotions.
He longed for her coming as the anticipative
boy longs for the hour of promised enjoyment—with
a feverish thirst no less intense, and an anxious
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earnestness far more lofty and enduring. When the latch was
lifted he ran forward to receive her, caught her extended
hand in both of his own, and carried it warmly and
passionately to his lips. She could scarce effect her
release, and the blush mingled with the labouring smile
upon her lips, which it rather tended to strengthen than
displace.
“Oh, Janet—my own Janet—what an age of absence!
How long you were in coming this evening!—
what has kept you, and wherefore? Truly, I began to
fear that you were tired of your office.”
“No—no, Ernest—I cannot tire, since it is so sweet
to serve. If I sought for mere pleasure and amusement
in love, I might tire of its sameness; but the love of
my heart is its devotion, and the better feelings of our
nature, like the God from whom they come, are the
more dear to us, and the more lovely in his sight, as
they are never subject to change.”
“Beautiful sentiment!” was the involuntary exclamation
of the youth, as he looked in her face and saw,
through the gathering tears in her eyes, the high-souled
seriousness—the sanctified earnestness of heart, which
proved that she felt the truth of the thought which she
had uttered. Love was, indeed, the religion of Janet
Berkeley. It was in her to love all things in nature,
and to gather sweets from all its influences. Even the
subduing grief to which she was more than commonly
subject, brought into increased activity the love which
she felt for him who stood before her, yet awakened no
opposite feeling in her bosom against those who sought
to do him wrong.
“Beautiful sentiment!” he exclaimed, passionately,
“and worthy of your heart, my Janet. Love is its
constant occupation, and I believe, dearest, that you
could not help but love on, even if I were to forget
your devotedness and my own pledge to you. Would
you not, Janet?”
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“I know not that, Ernest. I have never thought of
that, but I think I could die then;” and the last words
were uttered in his folding arms, and came to his ears
like the sweet murmur of angel voices in a dream.
“Heaven forbid, my Janet, that I should ever do you
wrong, however slight! It would pain me to think that
you could imagine the possibility of a wrong at my hands,
and through my agency. True love, dearest, is a thing
of entire confidence, and nothing seems to me so sweet
as the knowledge that you have no emotion, no feeling
or thought, which you do not give up to my keeping.
It may be, indeed, that the thoughts and feelings of
women have little comparative value, so far as the interests
of men and of nations are concerned; but, valueless
or not, they are thoughts and feelings with her—
her all—her only,—and, as such, they should be of permanent
value with him who loves her. How much that
was unimportant—nay, how much that was positive
nonsense—did we say to each other last evening—and
yet, Janet, to me it was the sweetest nonsense.”
And, smiling and folding her in his arms with the respectful
fondness of a natural affection, he poured forth
as garrulous a tale in her ears as if he had not long and
frequently before narrated to her his own experience of
heart, and demanded hers in return. But she could not
now respond to his garrulity. It was not that she felt
not with him—not that the heart had suffered change, and
the love had grown inconstant, though, beholding her
abstraction, with this he had reproached her; but, reminded
as she was of the joys which they had promised
themselves togehter in their frequent and sweet interviews,
she was now only the more forcibly taught to feel
the violent wrenching away from hope which the cunning
of Barsfield, and the bloody tyranny of Balfour and
Tarleton, were preparing for them both. She could only
throw herself upon his manly bosom, like some heart-stricken
and desponding dependant, and sob, as if, with
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every convulsion, life would render up its sacred responsibility.
It is needless to say how alarmed—how
shocked was Mellichampe, as he witnessed emotions so
suddenly and strangely violent. Since he had been a
prisoner and wounded, with Janet attending upon him,
life had been to them both all couleur de rose. Insensibly
they had both forgotten the restraints and difficulties,
if not the dangers, of his situation. They had lived only
for love; they had forgotten all privations in its enjoyments;
and, as the circumstances attending Mellichampe
had made all farther concealment unnecessary of the tie
which bound them so sweetly and inseparably together,
their mutual hearts revelled in the freedom which
their release from all the old restraints necessarily
brought to them. Next to the joy of contemplating the
beloved object, is the pride with which we can challenge
it for our own; and that feeling of pride, of itself, grew
into a sentiment of pleasure in the hourly and free survey
of the object in the eye of others; as the devotee of
a new faith, who has long worshipped in secret, avails
himself of the first moment of emancipation to build a
proud temple to the God of his hidden idolatry. Thus
moved towards each other, and free, as it were, to love
securely for the first time, the two, so blessed, had forgotten
all other considerations. His wound ceased to
be a pain, and almost a care, since it was so entirely
the care of the maiden; and her tendance made the
moments precious of his confinement, and he blessed
the evils which placed him in a relationship the most desirable,
and far the most delightful, of any he had ever
known.
To the maiden, the very assumption of some of the
cares of life, in attending upon the object most beloved,
was eminently grateful, as it was the first step which she
had yet taken towards the performance of some of those
duties for which woman is peculiarly formed, and for
which her gentle regards and affectionate tendernesses
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make her particularly fitted. They occupied her mind
while they interested her heart the more; and so completely
did they absorb thoughts and affections in the
brief period of his confinement and sickness, that she no
longer heeded the hourly din of the military music around
her; and the shrill note of the bugle, which heretofore sent
a thrill of dreadful apprehension to her soul whenever
its warlike summons smote upon her ear, now failed
entirely to remind her of those causes of apprehension
to which she had been before always most sensitively
alive. From this dream of pleasure, in which every
thought and feeling which might have counselled pain
or doubt had been merged and lost sight of, she had
been too suddenly aroused by the cruel communication
of Barsfield. The long train of pleasant sensations,
hopes, and joys, departed in that instant; and in their
place rose up all the accustomed forms of fierce war
and brutal outrage, with the additional horrors of that
peculiar danger to which the circumstances connected
with her lover's captivity and situation had subjected
him. As these successive images of terror rose up
before her imagination and crowded upon her mind, the
strong resolution with which she had determined upon
their mastery quite gave way, and she fell upon the neck
of her lover, yielding to all the weakness of her heart,
and refusing any longer to contend with her griefs.
Nor could he for some time obtain from her a knowledge
of her cause of sorrow. She could only sob, not
speak. Once or twice she strove earnestly to articulate,
but the words choked her in their utterance, and
they terminated in convulsive but unsyllabled sounds.
He bore her to a seat, and knelt down beside her, supporting
her head upon his shoulder. Earnestly and
fondly did he seek to sooth the paroxysm under which
she suffered, and vainly, for a long while, did he implore
her to be calm and speak forth her griefs. When at
length she so far recovered herself as to raise her head
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from his shoulder and fix her eye upon his face, the
glance was instantly averted, as if with horror, and the
tears burst forth afresh. With that glance came the
thought of the hour when that noble head should be in
the grasp of the executioner—that manly, high, pure
white brow obscured by his cowling blind—and that
polished and lifted neck grasped by the polluting halter.
These were the dreadful thoughts which came crowding
to her mind on that instant; and they might have been
the thoughts and the apprehensions, at that period, of a
far more masculine mind than that of Janet Berkeley;
for, what was so common then as the certainty of execution
to the accused American?—what so sure as the
execution of death to one doomed by Balfour, Tarleton,
or Cornwallis? In these hands lay the destiny of her
lover. A few days would convey him to the place of
trial. A few hours travel through all its abridged forms,
and the hurried process of examination, misrepresenting
justice; and how brief was the sad interval allowed for
the final preparation between the doom and its execution.
These thoughts, which, to the strong and fearless
man, would have been only so many stirring apprehensions,
were a full conviction in the gentle heart
of the timid and fond Janet. She feared the worst, and,
being of no sanguine temper, she saw no hope upon
which to lean for succour. Nothing but clouds and
storms rose before her sight, and her love, undeviating
and growing warmer to the last, was the only star that
rayed out in blessing through the thickness and the
gloom.
“Oh, what, dearest Janet, is this suffering that wrings
you thus? What dream of danger,—what wild apprehension—
troubles you? Speak to me,—say what you
know. Let me relieve your sorrows, or, at least, share
them with you.”
It was thus that the youth pleaded—it was thus that
he fondly implored her to pour the griefs of her bosom
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into his, and make him a partaker of those evils which
she evidently was not strong enough to bear alone. She
replied by sobs, and it was only at remote intervals that,
coupling together the broken parts of her speech, he
was enabled to gather from her that he was about to be
carried to Charleston as a prisoner. Hearing thus
much, the first thought of Mellichampe was one gratifying
to his vanity, and grateful in the extreme to his own
warm affections. He clasped her fervently to his heart
as he replied—
“And you grieve thus at our parting—at the prospect
of our separation. Ah, dearest, sweet is this additional
evidence of your sole-hearted love. But it will not be
long,—I will soon return,—I only go to be exchanged.”
“Oh, no, no, no!—never—never! You will return
no more. It is false, Ernest—false! No exchange—
no exchange! They carry you to Balfour and to Tarleton,—
to be tried—to die!—to die!”
Incoherently then, but with the utmost rapidity, she
explained to him the circumstances which Barsfield had
narrated to her. His astonishment far exceeded her
own apprehensions, and, after the first feeling of indignant
surprise was over, he calmly and confidently enough
sought to reassure her mind on the subject.
“Fear nothing, my Janet. They dare do nothing of
what you fear; and this charge against me, of being a
spy upon their camp, is too ridiculous to need any refutation,
and should occasion no concern.”
The composure of her lover failed to satisfy her.
“Alas! Ernest, no charge is too ridiculous with
them. How many have suffered from charges equally
idle in the minds of honest men!”
This was a truth well known to Mellichampe, and
fully as strong in his mind as a cause of apprehension
as it was in the mind of the maiden; but, with that
pride of character and soldierly resolve which were becoming
in the man, he did not allow his own fears to
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strengthen hers. He overruled her reply, and rejected
entirely the anticipation of any danger resulting from
the prospect of a trial in the city under an allegation
which, in his case, he esteemed so idle.
“I can soon disprove the charge, my Janet,—I have
witnesses enough to show what my motives were in
coming to Piney Grove that night. For, Janet, you
yourself, dearest, could speak for me—”
“I could—I could, dear Ernest—”
“But should not,” he replied; “you should not suffer
such exposure to the rude soldiers as such a task
would call for. No, no, my love, there will be no need
of this. The scoundrel Barsfield only seeks to alarm
or to annoy you. Perhaps, too, he has some object in
it. This affair is his entirely; Tarleton and Balfour
have nothing to do with it, and Cornwallis is far off in
North Carolina.”
“Not so, Ernest. Barsfield has convinced me that
the orders are from Tarleton: for, when I doubted his
word, he showed me the letter of Tarleton, written with
his own hand.”
“Ah! then there is something in it,” was the involuntary
exclamation of the youth. Then, as he beheld
the immediate effect of his own gloomy look and
speech upon the countenance of the maiden, he proceeded
in a more cheerful manner.
“But I fear them not, my Janet—they cannot, they
dare not harm me. I can prove my innocence, even
should they proceed to the threatened trial, which I misdoubt
they never will do; and, if they do me less than
justice, my countrymen will avenge it.”
But such an assurance gave no animated hope to Janet.
Her tears burst forth afresh, and she clung to
his arm and hung upon his shoulder droopingly and despondingly.
“Hear me, Janet, dear love, and have no apprehensions.
You know not how strong is our security now
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against any such crimes in future, as these tyrants
have been in the habit of committing upon the brave
men who have fallen into their hands. We have required
our commander to retaliate unsparingly, and Marion
has pledged himself to do so. When his pledge is
given, it is sacred. We have called upon him to avenge
upon a prisoner of equal grade any execution of our
officers by the British commanders; and we have freely
subscribed our names to the paper, in which we offer
our lives freely to sustain him in such a course, and
thus afford a solemn proof of our sincerity. The enemy
is not unadvised of this, and they have become cautious
since that affair of Camden. We hear of no
more executions—they know better, my love, than to
proceed in this matter to any length. They will pay
dearly for every drop which is shed of my blood.”
“Alas! Ernest—this consoles me nothing. On the
contrary, this very pledge which you have given to Marion,
calling for retaliation upon the British, and promising
to abide the consequences with your own life, will it not
make you only the more obnoxious to them? Will
they not be the more disposed to punish you for that—
and will it not prompt them to receive the most ridiculous
charge with favour, if it promises to secure them a
victim in one who has shown so much audacity? I
fear me, Ernest, that this very matter has led Tarleton
to forget his promise to me, and determines him to
make you abide the penalty for which you have pledged
yourself. Perhaps, too, it may be, that Marion, in obedience
to the pledge given to you, has executed some
British officer.”
This was a plausible suggestion, and did not tend in
the slightest degree to assure Mellichampe of the integrity
of his own opinions. It made him thoughtful
for a while, and increased the gloomy density of the
prospect before him; but he did not suffer himself to
forget for an instant that it was his business to prevent
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the maiden from brooding apprehensively upon a subject
so calculated to make her miserable, and which
had already so painfully worked upon her feelings. He
strove, by alternate defiance and ridicule, to show that the
danger was not so great when it was approached—that
the British did not dare do what was threatened; and that,
however willing and desirous they might be to shed the
blood of their enemies, a discreet consideration of their
own safety would keep them in future from any wanton
execution of their prisoners.
“And should they, in their madness, attempt my life,
the vengeance which would follow the deed would be
such as would make them repent of the error to the latest
moment. Life for life would be the atoning requisition
of Marion, and of every officer pledged to retaliation
along with myself.”
But that which, in the shape of revenge, had the
power to console in part the audacious soldier, failed utterly
to produce a like effect upon the maiden. Her
tears came forth afresh at these words, and mournfully
she sobbed out the reply which most effectually silenced
all farther assurances of this nature.
“Alas! Ernest—but this vengeance, which would be
taken by your brethren in arms, would be nothing to
me. To revenge your fate would not be to restore
you; and for all my vengeance I look only to Heaven.
Speak not to me of these things, dearest Ernest—they
only make the danger seem more real, and it looks more
closely at hand when you speak thus.”
“Then hear me on another topic, Janet.”
She looked up inquiringly, and the tears began to dry
upon her cheek as she beheld a bright light and a gathering
elasticity of expression in his eyes. Her head
was thrown back as she looked up into his face, while his
extended hands grasped her arms tenderly.
“I will not risk this trial, Janet—I will escape from
this double bondage—yours and the enemy's.”
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“How!” was the wondering exclamation of the
maiden.
“I have a thought, not yet fully matured in my mind,
by which I think my escape may be effected. But no
more of it now. That is the footstep of the surgeon.
Away, dearest, and have no fears. Despond not, I pray
you, but be ready with all your strength of mind to give
me your assistance, for I greatly depend on you in my
design.”
With a hurried embrace they separated as the surgeon
entered the chamber; and Janet hurried away,
with a full heart and troubled mind, to pray for her lover's
safety, and to dream of his coming danger.
CHAPTER XVII.
But it was not for the maiden to retire that night to
her slumbers without some better assurances for hope
than those contained in the parting intimation of her
lover. An auxiliary, but little looked for, was at hand;
and, as she left the little antechamber in which her interview
with Mellichampe had taken place, she felt her
sleeve plucked by some one from behind. She turned
in some trepidation, which was instantly relieved, however,
as her eye distinguished the intruder to be Blonay.
The distorted features of this man had never offended
Janet, as they were apt commonly to offend those of
others. She saw nothing in mere physical deformity,
at any time, to hate or to despise; and, as pity was always
the most ready and spontaneous sentiment of her
soul, she had regarded him from the first—as she knew
nothing of his moral deformities—with none but sentiments
of commiseration and indulgence. The effect of
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this treatment, and of these invariable shows of sympathy
on her part, was always made visible in his deportment
and look whenever he approached her. He
strove, on all such occasions, to subdue and keep down
those expressions of hate, cunning, and cupidity, which
a long practice in the various arts of human warfare had
rendered, if not the natural, the habitual features of his
face. A ludicrous combination of natural ugliness with
smiles, intended for those of complaisance and regard,
was the consequence of these efforts; and, however
unsuccessful the Half-Breed may have been in the assumption
of an expression so foreign to his own, the
attempt, as it conveyed a desire to please and make
himself agreeable, was sufficient to commend him to the
indulgence of one so gentle of mood as Janet Berkeley.
Approaching her now, the countenance of Blonay wore
its most seductive expression. The grin of good feeling
was of the most extravagant dimensions, expanding
the mouth from ear to ear; while the goggle eyes above,
from the vastness of the effort below, were contracted
to the smallest possible limits. But for this good-natured
expression, the mysterious caution of his approach
might have alarmed the maiden. A single start,
as she recognised him, only testified her surprise, and
she paused quietly the moment after, to learn his motive
for the interruption.
“Hist, miss—I ax your pardon, but please let me
come after you in the room; I want to tell you something.”
She did not scruple to bid him follow her, and they
entered the apartment in which she had conversed with
Barsfield. There she found Rose Duncan awaiting her.
Janet signed to Rose to leave them for a while, and the
moment they were alone the Half-Breed drew nigh, and
in a whisper, and with an air of great mystery, commenced
as follows:—
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“You've hearn from the cappin, miss, about the
young man what's a prisoner here?”
He spoke affirmatively, though with an inquiring expression
of countenance, and Janet nodded her head
assentingly.
“Adrat it, miss, if they ever gits the young man to
Charleston city, there's no chance for him; so the cappin
says.”
He paused. At a loss to determine what could be
the motive of the scout in thus addressing her upon this
topic, yet fondly believing that he had some plan of
service in reserve, by which he hoped to commend himself,
she strongly mastered her feelings, which every
reference to the painful topic brought into increased and
trying activity, and, bowing her head as she spoke, she
simply responded—
“True, sir—yes—I fear it; but what can be done?”
This question, though uttered unconsciously, and entirely
unintended, was, however, to the point, and the
answer of Blonay was immediate—
“Ah, that's it, miss—what's to be done? The cappin
says something's to be done, but he can't do it, you
see, 'cause they trusts him, and he can't break his trust.
It's much as his neck's worth, you see, to do it.”
With some surprise, she inquired of whom he spoke?
“Why, you don't know the cappin that's here—Cappin
Barsfield. He says as how the young man's to be
hung if he gits to Charleston, and how he must get
away before; and he tells me I'm to try and git him off,
without letting the sodgers see.”
“Barsfield—Barsfield say this—Barsfield do this,
Mr. Blonay? Impossible!—you do not know the
man!”
“It's a round truth, miss—he tell'd me so with his
own mouth, and tell'd me—ax pardon, miss, but I must
tell you all what he said—”
He paused hesitatingly.
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“Speak boldly,” she said, encouragingly.
“He said, miss, as how he loved you, though you
didn't fancy him no how, and hadn't no thought 'cept for
the young fellow that's a prisoner; and how he wanted
to help the young man, though he didn't like him no
how; and he would do so, if 'twas only to do you
pleasure.”
“And he told you this?” inquired the maiden, in unmixed
astonishment.
“Jist the words, miss.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes; and he said as how he couldn't help the
young man off, for he had to watch him, but that I must
do it; and he gave me this money to do it.”
“And did he counsel you to tell me of this?”
“No, miss, he only tell'd me to tell you that I could
git the young fellow out of prison, and git you to make
him know how he was to do, and all about it; but the
cappin told me I wasn't to say nothing about him in the
business, for he said you hated him so you would think
something wrong if you knew he had a hand in it.”
“And I do think there is something wrong in it.
Heaven help me! what new plot is he weaving now?
What new mischief would he contrive? Is Mellichampe
never to escape his toils? Would to Heaven
that I had a friend!”
“Adrat it, miss, but ain't I willing to be your friend?
and I won't ax you for no pay. I'm a poor sort of body
enough, and you're a sweet lady; but I'm willing to be
your friend, and to pull trigger for you, if needs be and
the time comes for it. Jist say now that I shall be your
friend, and there's no telling how much I can help you
in this here squabble.”
“You can help me nothing, I fear me, Mr. Blonay;
and as for this plan of Captain Barsfield, I will have
nothing to do with it or him. I doubt—I suspect all
his plans; and however much he may profess of regard
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for me, I look upon this employment of you, for the purpose
of which you speak, as only a new scheme for the
entrapment of Mr. Mellichampe.”
“That's jist what I was going to tell you, miss; for,
you see, it don't stand to reason, that when a man hates
another to kill, he's going to help him to git away; and
so, when the cappin first spoke to me, I was bewildered
like, and said I'd do it; but, soon as I got in the bush,
and begun to think about it, adrat it! the whole contrivance
stood clear before me, and so I went back to
him.”
“For what?'
“Well, you see, to tell him as how I couldn't think
to handle the thing, for I didn't see to the bottom of it.”
“Well—what then?”
“Why, then he up and tell'd me all the whole truth—
all what he kept before; and, sure enough, 'twas jist as
I thought, and jist what you think. The cappin only
wanted to have a drive himself at the young fellow, and
he thought, if he could git me to talk to you, and make
fine promises as how I could git him out of prison,
why, I should lead him into a trap that he'd set, so that
there would be no gitting off.”
“You refused?”
“No,—reckon not. I worn't a fool, you see. I
know'd if I said no, it wouldn't be so safe for me any
longer in these parts; and then agin I know'd if he
didn't git me he'd git somebody else, so I took the
money, and promised to do my best and to try you.”
“I thank you, Mr. Blonay,—from my heart I thank
you. You have done me good service indeed, and you
shall be rewarded. Had you not told me all of this
business—had you suppressed the connexion of Captain
Barsfield with the design, I might have accepted your
services for Mr. Mellichampe; nay, I must have been
driven, by the desperate situation in which he stands, to
consent to his flight under your direction. And then,
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—oh, horrible to think upon!—my hand would have
been instrumental in his murder. I should have prepared
the snare which was to give his victim to this
bloody man!”
She preserved her coolness, though trembling with
the new emotions which the communication of Blonay
had inspired, and drew from him, by a series of questions,
the whole dialogue which had taken place between
him and the tory. From these developments she was
persuaded—not that her lover was likely to escape at the
coming trial, and thus defeat the wishes of his enemy—
but that the anxious thirst of Barsfield for his revenge
in person made him unwilling to lose his prey, even
through the hands of the executioner. With this impression
her misery was doubly increased. She saw
nothing but dangers and difficulties on every hand.
Should Mellichampe be carried safely to the city, what
but a cruel and bitter death awaited him there! But
could he be carried there in safety? This seemed to
her impossible. Would he not go under the custody
of Barsfield's creatures? No longer guarded by her
watchful attendance—no longer safe from the presence
and the obtrusion of others, would not his enemy then
have those thousand opportunities for working out his
vengeance which now were denied him by the excellent
arrangements made by Tarleton? And, if he fled before
that period came, what but the knife or the pistol
of the waylaying ruffian could she expect for him in his
flight? As these fears and thoughts accumulated in
her mind, she found herself scarcely able to maintain a
proper firmness in the presence of the savage. She
accordingly prepared to dismiss him, and had already
put in his hands a small sum of gold, which he did not
demur to receive, when she remembered that it might
be of advantage, and was certainly only her duty, to
disclose these circumstances to Mellichampe before
finally rejecting the proposition.
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“Seek me to-morrow,” she said, hurriedly—“seek
me in private, when the troops are on parade. Keep
yourself unseen, Mr. Blonay, and we will then speak
more on this matter.”
At the earliest opportunity on the morning of the
next day she sought Mellichampe, and unfolded all the
particulars of the interview with Blonay. The speech
of her lover, as he listened to her communication, astounded
her not a little.
“Admirable!—Excellent!” were the words of exultation
with which he received the intelligence. “This
will do admirably, dear Janet, and corresponds finely
with a plan which I had conceived in part. A good
plan, attended with difficulties, however, which, without
the aid of Blonay, I could not so easily have overcome.
I now see my way through. The scheme of Barsfield
will help me somewhat to the execution of my
own project, and must greatly facilitate my chances of
escape.”
“Speak—how—say, dear Ernest,” cried the maiden,
breathlessly.
“Hear me. We will accept of the services of this
fellow Blonay,—I will take his guidance.”
“What! to be murdered!”
“No! to escape.”
She shook her head doubtfully.
“Listen!” he proceeded. “Blonay is trusted by
Barsfield, and evidently does not trust in return. It is
shown sufficiently in the development which he has
made to you of all the plans of the tory. We do not
see exactly why this should be so, but so it evidently is.
The probability is, indeed, that Blonay is conscious that
he has no claim upon Barsfield after he shall have
served him by my death, and he fears that he himself
will be as soon murdered by his employer when he shall
have discharged his agency, in order to the better concealment
of his own share in my escape. There are
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no ties among ruffians save those of a common interest,
and the policy of Barsfield will be the destruction of
one to whom he has been compelled to confide so
much. According to Blonay's own showing, the necessity
of the case extorted from the tory a confession
of his true design, which, before, he was disposed to
withhold. Unfaithful to Barsfield, the Half-Breed will
be faithful to me; and, from all that I can see, there
must be some secret reason for his desire to serve you,
which you will learn in time. Meanwhile we will accept
his services,—we will make the most of him, and
bride high in order to secure him at all points.”
“But may not all this be only another form of deception,
dear Ernest?” cried the less sanguine maiden.
“Think you we can rely upon one whom money can
buy? Alas! Ernest, it seems to me that these dangers
grow more terrible and numerous the more we survey
them.”
“To be sure they do, dear Janet,—the thing is a
proverb. But we should never look at the fear, but the
hope—never at the danger, always at the success.
Whether Blonay be honest or not, it matters no great
deal to me in the plan which I have formed. To a certain
extent we may still rely upon him, and be independent
of him in every other respect. We want but little
at his hands—little in his thought, and little in that of
Barsfield—if it be the design of the latter to entrap me
into flight the better to effect my murder. I only desire
to secure my escape beyond this dwelling,—to escape
these sentinels, and once more plant my footstep in
the green woods that grow around us. Let him help
me but to that degree of freedom, and I ask nothing
farther. Let the strife come then—let the ambuscade
close then its toils about me, and the danger appear.
I shall then be free: my arms to strike—my voice to
shout aloud—my soul to exult in the fresh air of these
old forests, though I perish the very next moment.”
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“Speak not so, Ernest,” she implored.
“I must: for I will then breathe again in freedom,
though I breathe in death. I shall complain nothing
of the fight.”
“This is madness, Ernest. This is only flying from
one form of death to another.”
“Granted—and that is much. Who would not fly to
the knife, or the sudden shot, to escape the cord—the
degradation—the high tree—and the howling hate that
surrounds it, and mingles in with the last agonies of
death. Such escape would be freedom, though it
brought death along with it. But I would not die, my
Janet; with proper management I should be secure.”
He spoke with an air of confidence that almost reassured
her.
“How?” she cried, anxiously; “tell me all—tell
me your hope, Ernest. How will you escape—by
what management?”
“By the simplest agency in the world. Hear me:
Even now that trusty fellow Witherspoon is lurking
around my prison. Only last night, just after you left
me, I heard his signals close upon, and evidently this
side of, the avenue. But for the fear of provoking suspicion
I should have answered them. He is about me
night and day—he will sooner desert the squad than
me. And thus he will remain;—if I can convey intelligence
to him, I can do any thing—I can effect my
escape. I can put it out of the power of Barsfield to
do me any harm, unless he does it in fair fight.”
“But how will you do this; and what can I do towards
it?”
“Much, dearest—very much. But hear me farther.
If I can say to Witherspoon, On such a night I fly from
my prison,—I meet you at such a place,—I pursue such
a course,—I apprehend an ambuscade, and will require
that a counter-ambuscade be set,—ha! do you see?”
“Yes—yes—go on.”
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“He will understand,—it will come to him like a
light—like a light from Heaven. He will not be able
to bring men enough to encounter Barsfield's whole
force, which has been growing largely, you tell me, but
he will bring enough to tell against the few whom the
tory will employ for my murder, and thus—ah! you understand
me now.”
“Yes, Ernest, but still I fear.”
“I hope!—what do you fear?”
“The fighting—”
“And, if I am free, dear Janet, I should still have to
fight until the war is over—until the invader has gone
from the land.”
“Yes, but—oh, Ernest, if there should not be men
enough?—if they should not come in time—?”
“These are risks which I must take hourly, my beloved,
and of which I may not complain now. Remember
the dreadful risk which I incur while remaining. Is
there no risk in going under a guard to Charleston, to
be tried as a spy,—and by such judges as Balfour, Rawdon,
and Tarleton?”
She shuddered, but said nothing. He continued—
“No, my love, I must not scruple to avail myself of
the help of Blonay, whether he be true or false. Let
him but help me beyond this prison—to those woods—I
ask from him no more. Let him lead me to the ambuscade.
If we can convey intelligence to Witherspoon,
we shall provide for it. I shall withhold every thing
from Blonay that might place us in his power. He
shall know nothing of our plans, but be suffered to pursue
his own. He shall guide me beyond the prison,—
that is all that I require; and as it is Barsfield's own
plan which we so far follow up, he will doubtless effect
all necessary arrangements for speeding me beyond the
regular guards in safety. Once let me reach the avenue,
and I leave his guidance and take the opposite
path, where I propose that Witherspoon shall place his
men.”
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“And you will, then, employ Blonay to convey this
matter to Witherspoon?”
“No, no. We must have a trustier friend than Blonay
for such a business, and this is another difficulty. Blonay
could never find Witherspoon unless provided with
certain passwords, which, as they furnish the key to the
very dwelling of the “swamp fox,' I may not confide
wantonly.”
“Trust me, then, dear Ernest; I will seek him,—I
will not betray the trust, though they make even death
the instrument for extorting it from my lips.”
“True heart—dear love—I thank you for this devotion,
but I must seek an humbler agent.”
“Who?”
“Scipio. I will trust him, and you shall counsel
him, as I am not permitted to see him here, or to go beyond
my prison. To you will I give these words—to
you will I confide all the requisitions which I make upon
Witherspoon for the object in view, and we must then
arrange with Blonay to pave the way for my flight from
the dwelling, holding him, and, through him, his base
employer, to the idea that I fly upon the first suggestion
of Blonay, having no hope of aid from without.”
And thus, strong in his hope of success, and buoyant
with the promise of an escape from the dangers of that
mock trial, but real judgment, which had been held up
before him, and which he regarded with no less earnestness,
though with nothing of the fear of his feminine
companion, he detailed to the maiden the entire plan
which he had formed of flight, and, whispering in her
ear the passwords which led her through every scout
and sentry watching around the camp of Marion, he
left it to her to pencil the message to Witherspoon, which
he calculated would bring sufficient aid for the service
upon which he was required. The spirits of Janet rose
with the task thus put upon her. To be employed for
him she loved, in peril no less than in trouble, was the
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supremest happiness to a heart so loving and so true as
hers. Her quick mind readily conceived the tasks before
her, and her devoted heart led her as quickly to their
performance.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Janet lost no time in the performance of her duties.
She immediately sought out the Half-Breed. He lingered
about the dwelling, and was soon called into her
presence. It was with no small surprise that he now
listened to the determination of the maiden to avail herself,
on behalf of her lover, of the services of the scout
in the very equivocal aid which he had been prompted to
offer by the tory. His astonishment could not be suppressed.
“It surprises you,” she said, “but so Mr. Mellichampe
has determined. He thinks it better to risk all other
dangers than that of a dishonest trial before bloody
judges in the city.”
The Half-Breed shook his head.
“Well, now, it's mighty foolish; for, as sure as a gun,
Miss Janet, the cappin's mighty serious about this matter,
and there'll be no chance for the young gentleman, no
how. He'd better not think of it now, I tell you.”
“I thank you, Mr. Blonay—I thank you, I'm sure, for
the interest you take in me and him; but, whatever be
the danger, Mr. Mellichampe is determined upon it, if
you'll only give him your assistance.”
“Adrat it! he shall have that, fur as I can go for him.
Say what I'm to do that's in reason, and I'll do it.”
“You must procure him some arms for his defence.
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If there is danger, you know, he should be provided
with some weapons to meet it.”
“Arms!—a sword p'rhaps—a knife—reckon he'd
like pistols too—”
“Whatever he can get.”
“I'll try—but there's no saying. I'll do what I
can.”
“He desires no more of you. Next, you must find
out exactly where Captain Barsfield puts his ambuscade.”
“Eh!—that's the trap, you mean?”
“Yes—find out that, get the weapons, and at midnight
to-morrow he will be ready to go with you.”
“To-morrow night—midnight!—well, now, Miss Janet,
that'll be a bad time, seeing that there'll be a bright
moon then.”
She paused—hesitated—but a moment after repeated
the order.
“It must be then. He wishes it to be so—he has
so determined.”
“Jist as you say, miss. I'm ready—though it's a
mighty tough sort of business, I tell you; and the cappin's
got a ground knife for the lad, I reckon. He hates
him pretty bad, and won't miss his chance if he can help
it.”
“Be you true to us, Mr. Blonay; be you true, and I
hope for the best. Be you true to us, as you would
hope for God's blessing on your life hereafter. Take
this purse, Mr. Blonay—the gift is small, I know, but
it will prove to you how grateful I am for what you have
done for me, and be an earnest of what I shall give you
for your continued fidelity.”
She put a richly wrought purse of silk into his hands,
through the interstices of which the Half-Breed beheld
distinctly the rich yellow of the goodly coin which filled
it. It was no part of his morality to refuse money on
any terms, and he did not affect any hesitation on the
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present occasion. It found its way readily into a general
reservoir, which was snugly concealed by his dress,
and there became kindred with the guineas which Barsfield
had bestowed upon him for a very different service.
Though without doubt intending to be faithful to Janet,
and himself distrusting Barsfield on his own account,
the gift of the maiden stimulated his fidelity, and he seriously,
though in his own rude and broken manner, attempted
to dissuade her from the project. Janet heard
him patiently, thanked him for his counsel, but reiterated
the determination of Mellichampe to abide his chance.
“Well—if that's the how,” he exclaimed, conclusively,
the butt of his rifle sinking heavily upon the floor as
he spoke—“if that's the how, and he's bent to take his
chance, he must go through with it—though I warn you,
Miss Janet, there'll be main hard fighting—”
“Be sure you get the weapons,” she said, interrupting
him.
“I'll try; for he'll want 'em bad, I tell you. I'll do
my best, and if so be I can git him out of the scrape, it
won't be the guineas, Miss Janet, that'll make me do it.
You're a lady, every inch of you, and I'll work for you
jist the same as if you hadn't gi'n me any thing; and—”
in a half-whisper concluding the sentence—“if it comes
to the scratch, you see, adrat it! I won't stop very long
to put it to the cappin's own head,” and he touched significantly
the lock of his rifle. She shuddered slightly,
not so much at the action or the words as at the dreadful
look which accompanied them.
“To-morrow I shall see you, then?” she said, as he
was about to leave her. “You go now, I suppose, to
communicate to Captain Barsfield?”
“Yes—off hand. He tell'd me to come to him soon
as I'd got your answer.”
“Do so, Mr. Blonay—and, remember the hour—remember
the arms!”
The scout was gone—the die was cast—and the
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feelings of the woman grew uppermost with his departure.
She sank into a chair, and was relieved by a flood of
tears.
The intelligence brought by the Half-Breed rejoiced
the heart of the tory.
“And when does he propose to take advantage of
your offer? What time has he appointed for the flight?”
he demanded, eagerly. The scout, more cunning than
Janet, had his answer—
“That he leaves to me. I'm to git things ready, you
see, cappin, and when I tells him I'm ready to show the
track, he'll set out upon it with me.”
“'Tis well! You have done excellently, Blonay, and
shall fare the better for it. I feared that she might be
suspicious of you; but the case is desperate,—she thinks
so, at least, and that is enough. Tarleton and Balfour
are not known as merciful judges, and Mellichampe is
prudent to take any other risk.”
The tory spoke rather to himself than to his companion.
The latter, however, did not suffer him to waste
much time in unnecessary musing. He put his inquiries
with the freedom of one confident of his importance.
“And now, cappin, which track am I to take? You
wants to fix a sort of trap, and—”
“Ay—yes! But you must let me know the hour
upon which you start, in order that I may prepare before-hand.”
“Sartain,” was the unhesitating reply. Barsfield proceeded—
“The mere departure from the house will be easy
enough. He must go in safety out of the immediate
enclosure. Nothing must be done to harm him in close
neighbourhood of the dwelling. The sentinel guarding
the gallery will be missing from his watch at the hour on
which you tell me the prisoner is disposed to start. Determine
upon that as soon as possible, in order that I
may arrange it. The sentinel at the back door will also
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be withdrawn, and you will have no difficulty in getting
to the bay in the hollow between the house and the avenue.
Lead him by the bay towards the garden fence;
follow that close until you reach the avenue, and by that
time you will be relieved of your company, or never!”
The tone of Barsfield's voice rose into fierce emphasis
as he uttered the last words, and the triumphant and
bitter hope of his malignant heart spoke out no less in
the glare of his eye, and the movement of his uplifted
arm, than in the language from his lips. He thus continued—
“Go now and complete your arrangements with the
lady. Come to me then, and tell me what is determined
upon. Be prompt, Blonay, and stick to your words,
and you shall be properly rewarded.”
The Half-Breed promised him freely enough, and left
him instantly to do as he was directed. The soul of the
tory spoke out more freely when he was alone.
“Ay, you shall be rewarded, but with a fate like his.
I should be a poor fool, indeed, to leave such a secret in
custody like yours.”
He little knew that the keen thought of the stolidseeming
Blonay had seen through his design, and meditated
a treachery less foul, as it had its cause and provocation.
“He cannot escape me now!” said Barsfield to himself,
as he paced to and fro among the trees where he
had spoken with Blonay. “Not even Tarleton shall
now pluck him from my grasp. His doom is written—
and she—she, too, shall not live for another, who scorns
to live for me! I punish her when I put my foot on
him. This mockery of a trial, which Tarleton has devised
to effect his escape, deludes not me. I see through
him. He would clear him—he aims at my ruin—I see
through the drift of this order. His own testimony would
be brought to bear in behalf of my enemy, and I should
only be cited to prove that which he would find others
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to disprove. I shall disappoint his malice. Mellichampe,
by his own precipitation, shall disappoint him. His benevolent
plan to take my enemy from my grasp shall be
defeated, and I shall yet triumph in his heart's best
blood. Had he not been my enemy, he would not have
troubled himself with such unusual and unbecoming
charity. No! he must glut his own passion for revenge
and blood whenever his humour prompts him, and deny
to all others a like enjoyment. He shall not deny me—
not in this! The doom of Mellichampe is written—his
hours are numbered—and, unless hell itself conspires
against me, he can escape me no longer!”
CHAPTER XIX
Blonay soon made his communication to Janet, and
bore his intelligence back to Barsfield.
“To-morrow night, then, is resolved upon?”
“Midnight,” replied the scout, telling the truth, which
he could not otherwise avoid, as the sentinel was to be
withdrawn from the gallery only at the time when Mellichampe
was prepared to sally forth. Had it been
possible to conceal the fact, Blonay would not have exposed
it.
“He lives till then!” was the fierce but suppressed
exclamation of the tory.
“Where do you go now, Mr. Blonay?” he inquired,
seeing the Half-Breed about to move away.
“Well, cappin, I'm jist guine to give a look after my
own man, seeing that I've been working hard enough
after your'n.”
“You are for the swamp, then?”
“Well, yes!”
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“Remember not to delay—without your presence the
prisoner will hardly venture on a start.”
“I'll be mighty quick this time.”
“And let me know all that you can about the `fox.'
See to his force, for I shall soon be ready to take a drive
after him.”
The Half-Breed promised, and soon set out on his
journey, while Barsfield proceeded exultingly to arrange
his murderous projects. That night Janet Berkeley
conveyed to Mellichampe the particulars of her farther
progress.
“Well, dearest, does he give the route we are to
take? Have you got that?” was the first inquiry of the
youth.
She repeated the words of Blonay, which detailed the
route in the very language of the tory.
“This is most important. As we have that, we now
know what to do. We can countermine his projects, I
trust. We can prepare an offset for his ambush which
will astound him. The villain!—along the bay, by the
fence, and towards the mouth of the avenue—his ambush
is there—there, then, must the struggle come on. Well—
well—it must be so. There is no retreat now, Janet—
there is no help else!”
“Oh, Mellichampe—there is retreat—there must be
retreat, if you really think the ambush lies in that quarter.
You must take another path, or—”
“No, no, Janet—no. Think you, if he designs to
murder me, that he will not watch my flight? Every
step which I take from these apartments will be with the
eyes of his creatures upon me.”
“Then go not—since you will only go to death.”
“I will go, Janet—I must. It is my hope, and out
of his malice I hope to make my security. Hear me,
and understand his plan. He will assist me forth from
his encampment until I reach its utmost limit, and he
will then set upon me. To slay me within its boundary
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would be to incur the suspicion of foul play on the part
of his superiors. He only seeks to avoid that—that is
all; and once having me beyond his bounds, and, as it
were, beyond his responsibility, he will then have no
scruple to slay me, as he will then have his ready reply
to any charge of foul practice. What will it be then but
the shooting down a prisoner seeking to escape—that
prisoner under charges, too, of being a spy, and notoriously
hostile to his master and his cause?”
“And yet, dearest Ernest, you will adventure this
flight even with this apprehension, and so perfect a consciousness
of it in your mind?”
“Even so, Janet—even so. I think he may be foiled.
Next to knowing the game of your enemy is the facility
of beating him at the play. I think to overmatch him
now, if my friends serve me, as I think they will, and if
they are still in the neighbourhood. We must lay ambush
against ambush—we must oppose armed men to
armed men, and then, God forget us if we play it not out
bravely.”
“But suppose, dear Ernest, that Scipio finds not the
men, or any of them?”
“I can then defer the flight, Janet; but he will find
them—they are even now about us, and so bent to serve
me is Witherspoon, that I make no doubt they would attempt
to rescue me from the clutches of the tory if I
were even under strong guard on my way to Charleston.
They know my danger, and will look to it. Witherspoon
must be in the neighbourhood—I am sure of it, and—
ha! hear you not, my love—even as I speak, hear you
not that whistle?—far off, slight, but yet distinct enough.
Hear it now again, and again. You will always hear
it thrice distinctly, and, if you were nigh, you could distinguish
a slight quivering sound, with which it diminishes
and terminates. That's one of our signals of encouragement,
and to my mind it conveys, as distinctly as
any language, the words—`Friends are nigh—friends
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are nigh!' We have a song among us to that effect,
which I have hummed over to myself a hundred times
since I have been here—it promises so sweetly to one
in my condition—
“`Friends are nigh! despair not,
In the tyrant's chain—
They may fly, but fear not,
They'll return again.
“`Not more true the season
Brings the buds and flowers,
Than, through blight and treason,
Come these friends of ours.'
“I believe the assurance. That song has strengthened
me—that single whistle note—and hear, Janet—hear
how it comes again, closer and closer, stronger and
clearer. That Witherspoon is a daring fellow, and cannot
be far from the avenue. No doubt he is even now
gazing down from some tree upon the unconscious sentinels.
If so, I am safe. He has seen all their positions—
all their movements—and has an eye and a head
that will enable him to note and take advantage of even
the smallest circumstance. You will see!”
“Then hurry, dear Ernest, that Scipio may find him
even now in the neighbourhood. Write—write.”
She stood beside him while he pencilled a scrawl for
the courier negro, and gave it into her hand.
“One thing, Janet,” he exclaimed, as she was about
to leave him. She returned. He whispered in her ear—
“Let him bring me weapons—some weapon—any
weapon—which may take life, and which he may conceal
about him.”
She said nothing of her directions to Blonay on this
very subject. He mistook her silence, and his words
were intended to reassure her.
“I must not be unarmed, my Janet, if possible. I
must have something with which to defend myself, or
the veriest trumpeter in the troop may destroy me at
odds with his own instrument.”
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The youth wrote briefly his directions to Witherspoon—
described his situation—his prospect of escape—the
route which he was to take, and the dangers which attended
it. This done, Janet immediately sought out
Scipio, in whose skill, courage, and fidelity Mellichampe
placed the utmost confidence. Before giving him his
instructions, she strove, in the most earnest language, to
impress upon him the necessity of the utmost caution.
Of this there was little need. Scipio was a negro
among a thousand; one of those adroit agents who
quickly understand and readily meet emergencies; one
who never could be thrown from his guard by any surprise,
and who, in the practice of the utmost dissimulation,
yet wore upon his countenance all the expression
of candour and simplicity. Add to this, that he loved
his master and his master's daughter with a fondness
which would have maintained him faithful, through torture,
to his trust, and we have the character of the messenger
which the urgencies of his situation had determined
Mellichampe to employ.
The difficulties in the way of Scipio were neither few
nor inconsiderable. He was first to make his way,
without search or interruption, beyond the line of sentinels
which Barsfield had thrown around the family enclosure.
These sentinels were closely placed, almost
within speaking distance from each other, within sight
at frequent intervals while going their rounds, and
changed frequently. Succeeding in this, the negro was
to go forward to the adjoining woods, and make his way
on until he happened upon Witherspoon, who was supposed
by Mellichampe to be in the neighbourhood, or
some other of the men of Marion, who could be intrusted
to convey safely the paper which he carried, and
which, describing Mellichampe's situation and hopes,
suggested the plan and agency necessary for his deliverance.
The difficulty, and, indeed, danger of this latter
part of Scipio's performance, was even greater than that
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of passing the tory sentinels, since it was important that
his missives should fall into the right hands. To be so
far deceived as to place the passwords of Marion's men
and camp in other than the true, would be to sacrifice,
in all probability, the hardy but little troop of patriots
who found refuge in the swamps around.
Scipio well understood the importance of his trust,
and needed no long exhortation from his mistress on the
subject. After hearing her patiently for a while, he at
length, with some restiffness, interrupted her in the midst
of her exhortations—
“Da's enough, misses, I yerry you berry well; you
no 'casion say no more 'bout it. Enty I know dem
tory? Ef he git any ting out of Scip, he do more dan
he fadder and granfadder ebber 'speck for do. He's a
mean nigger, Miss Janet, can't trow duss in de eye of dem
poor buckrah, for it's only dem poor buckrah dat ebber
tun tory. Let um catch Scip bunning daylight. Enty
my eye open?—da's 'nough. I hab for pass de sentry—
I know dat—dat's one ting, enty, I hab to do fuss?”
“Yes, that is first to be done, Scipio, and you know
how close they are all around us. I know not how you
will succeed.”
“Nebber you mind, Miss Jannet; I know dem sentry;
whay he guine git gumption for double up Scip
in he tumb and forefinger, I wonder? Dat tory ain't
born yet for such ting, and I ain't fraid 'em. Well,
'speck I gone through dem sentry—I catch de clean
woods, and I can laugh out—wha' den?”
“Why, then you must look out for Mr. Witherspoon.”
“Misser Wedderspoon,—why you no call him Tumbscrew,
like udder people? Well, I hab look for him;
'spose I no find 'em—wha' den?”
“You must look out, then, for some other of Marion's
men; and this, Scipio, is the difficulty.”
“Wha' make him difficulty more nor tudder, I wonder?”
responded the confident negro.
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“Because, Scipio, if the passwords get into the possession
of any of the British or tories—if you happen to
mistake and—”
“Gor-a'mighty, Miss Janet, you only now for mak'
'quaintan' wid Scipio? You tink I fool,—blind like
ground-mole, and rooting 'long in de ploughed ground
widout looking wedder I guine straight or crooked?
You 'spose I don't know tory from gentleman? I hab
sign and mark for know 'em, jist de same as I know
Mass Ernest brand on he cattle from old mossa's.”
“Well, Scipio, I trust in your knowledge and your
love for me.”
“Da's a misses—da's a trute, misses, what I say—
I 'speck if ebberybody bin lub you like Scip and Mass
Mellichampe, you git more lub in dis life dan you can
ebber carry wid you to Heabben. He keep you down
from Heabben—da's a God's trute, misses—so much
lub as you git on dis airt'. But dis is all noting but
talk and cabbage. You mus' hab meat and sarbice—
I know dat. I guine—I ready whenebber you tell me;
but s'pose, when I gone, old mossa call for me. He
will call for me, I know dat; he can't do widout me;
and he bery bex if you no talk to um and tell um Scip
gone upon transactions and engagements, young misses.”
“Don't let that trouble you, Scip; I will speak to my
father when you are going; but it is not time for you to
go yet; something more is to be done, and we must
wait until night before you can set forth.”
“Berry well; whenebber you say de word, misses,
Scip is ready.”
The faithful negro took readily the instructions given
him in their fullest scope. He comprehended, so far as
it was thought advisable to trust him with the scheme,
the nature of the proposed adventure. He was fully
informed on all the part he himself was required to play,
and was prepared to communicate freely to the
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woodman. Advising and imploring to the last, the maiden
dismissed him from her presence to put himself in
readiness for his nocturnal journey, with a spirit full of
trembling, and many an inaudible but fervent prayer,
from the bottom of her heart, to Heaven.
CHAPTER XX.
Blonay, as we have seen, had proceeded, after leaving
the tory captain, upon his old mission as the avenger
of blood. Night after night, day after day, he had
gone upon the track of his enemy, and, as yet, without
success. But this did not lessen his activity and hope;
and we find him again, with undiminished industry,
treading the old thicket which led to the camp of Marion.
Let us also proceed in the same direction, and
penetrate the gloomy swamp and dense woodland recess
which sheltered the little army of the lurking partisan.
The pomp and circumstance of war—the martial music—
the gorgeous uniform—the bright armour of a systematic
array of military power, were there almost entirely
wanting. The movements of the partisan were
conducted without beat of drum or bray of trumpet.
In the silent goings on of the night his movements were
effected. Mysterious shadows paced the woods amid
kindred shadows; and, like so many ghosts trooping
forth from unhallowed graves, the men of Marion sallied
out in the hour of intensest gloom, for the terror of
that many-armed tyrant who was overshadowing the
land with his legions.
Never was a warfare so completely one of art and
stratagem as that which Marion carried on. Quick in
the perception of all natural advantages which his
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native country presented for such a warfare, he was not
less prompt in availing himself of their use and application.
Hardy and able to endure every privation and
all fatigue, he taught his men to dwell in regions where
the citizen must have perished, and to move with an
alacrity which the slower tactics of European warfare
could never have conceived of. In his camp the men
soon learned to convert their very necessities into
sources of knowledge and of independence. The bitter
of the acorn soon ceased to offend their appetites
and tastes. The difficulties of their progress through
bushes and briers soon taught them a hardiness and capacity
to endure, which led them, after no long period of
initiation, to delight in all the necessities of their situation,
and to rejoice at the sudden whisper which, at
midnight, aroused them from their slumbers under the
green-wood tree, to sally forth by moonlight to dart upon
the new-forming camp of the marauding tory or unsuspecting
Briton.
It was the morning of that day on which Blonay had
made his communication to Barsfield, announcing the
acceptance by Janet Berkeley of his offer to aid in the
escape of Mellichampe. The camp of the “swamp
fox” lay in the stillest repose. The spacious amphitheatre
was filled up with the forms of slumbering men.
The saddle of the trooper formed a pillow, convenient
for transfer to the back of the noble steed that stood
fastened in the shelter of another tree close behind
him, the bridle being above him in the branches.
The watchful sentinel paced his round slowly on the
edge of the swamp, looking silently and thoughtful in
the deep turbid waters of the river. No word, no
whisper, broke the general stillness,—and the moments
were speeding fast on their progress which should
usher in the dawn. At length the stillness was broken.
The tramp of a steed beat heavily upon the
miry ooze which girdled the island, and, soon following,
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the clear challenge of the sentry arrested the progress
of the approaching horseman.
“Who goes there?” was the prompt demand. The
answer was given.
“Dorchester!” The scout entered the lines and
proceeded on foot to the little clump of trees which had
been devoted to Marion. The new-comer made but
little noise; yet, accustomed to continual alarms, and
sleeping, as it was the boast of Marion's men, with an
ear ever open and one foot always in stirrup, the sound
was quite sufficient to raise many a head from its pillow,
and to persuade many an eye to strain through the gloom
and shadow of all objects around, to catch a glimpse of
the person, and, if possible, guess the object of his visit.
Here and there a whisper of inquiry assailed him as he
passed along; and, half asleep and half awake, but still
thoughtful of one leading topic of most interest with him,
one well-known voice grumbled forth an inquiry after
the provision-wagons, and growled himself to sleep
again as he received no reply. A full half hour, perhaps,
had elapsed before the visiter came forth from the
presence of Marion to the spot of general encampment.
Thence he proceeded to a tree that stood by itself
on the verge of the island, where he found a group of
three persons huddled up together, and still engaged in
a slumber which seemed silent enough with all, though
scarcely very deep or perfect with any. One of the
three started up as the person approached, and hastily
demanded the name of the intruder. The voice of
the inquirer was that of Thumbscrew, and his gigantic
frame was soon uplifted as the respondent announced
himself as Humphries.
“Come with me, Witherspoon—I want you,” said
the trooper.
“Wait a bit, till I pull up my suspenders, and find
my frog-sticker, which has somehow tumbled out of
the belt,” was the reply.
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A few moments sufficed to enable him to effect both
objects, and the two emerged from the shelter of the
tree together. Day was dawning as they gained the
skirts of the island where Humphries had fastened his
horse, and where they were, in great part, free from
the observation of their comrades, who were now starting
up from their slumbers on every side. When they
had reached this point, Humphries, without farther preliminary,
unfolded his business to his companion.
“Thumby—old fellow—I'm hunted, and need your
help.”
“Hunted—how—by whom?”
“By a scoundrel that seeks my life—a fellow from
Dorchester, named Blonay.”
“Blonay—Blonay:—I never heard that name before.”
“Goggle, then—that's the nickname that he goes by.
You've heard John Davis speak of him. I happened to
ride over his old mother the time of that brush at Dorchester,
when Major Singleton got Colonel Walton out
of the cart, and he's been hunting me ever since.”
“The d—l! But how could he find you out—how
could he track you so?”
“That's the wonder; but the fellow's got Indian
blood in him, and there's no telling where he can't go.
He's as keen upon trail as a blood-hound.”
“Have you seen him?—How do you know he's on
trail?”
“I haven't seen him; but I know he's been after me
for some time.” And Humphries then reminded the
inquirer of the pursuit of Blonay from the very skirts
of the camp, when, to save himself, the Half-Breed
slew his own dog, which had led to his detection, and
so nearly to his capture.
“And why do you think that he's still after you?
Don't you think the run that you give him then has
pretty nigh cured him of his hunt?”
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“No, no! The scoundrel will never give up the
hunt till he can see my blood or I draw his. There's
no help for it,—he will hunt me until I set seriously to
hunt him.”
“And you have heard of him lately, Bill?”
“Ay—heard of him—felt him! Look here.”
And, as he spoke, lifting the cap from his head, he
showed his comrade the spot through which the passage
of the bullet was visible enough. Then, putting aside
the hair from his forehead, he placed the finger of Witherspoon
upon the scull, along which the ball had made
its way. The skin was razed and irritated into a whelk,
such as a severe stroke of a whip might occasion upon
the skin. An eighth of an inch lower, and the lead
would have gone through the brain.
“By the eternal scratch!” exclaimed Witherspoon, as
he felt and saw the singular effect which the shot had
produced, “that, I may say, was a most ticklish sort of
a trouble. It was mighty close scraping, Bill; and the
fellow seems to have been in good arnest when he
pulled, though it's a God's marcy he took you to have
more head high up than o' one side. Had he put it here
now, to the right or to the left, I don't care which, and
not so immediately and ambitiously up in the centre, he
would have mollified your fixings in mighty short order,
and the way you'd have tumbled over would be a warning
to tall men like myself.”
Humphries winced as much from the remarks of
Witherspoon as under the heavy pressure of his finger,
which rambled over the wounded spot upon his head
with the proverbial callousness of a regular army surgeon's.
“'Tis just as you say, Thumby,” replied the other,
with much good-humour,—“a mighty close scrape, and
ticklishly nigh: but a miss is good as a mile; and
though this shot can't be considered a miss exactly, yet,
as no harm's done, it may very well be counted such.
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The matter now is, how to prevent another chance, and
this question leads to a difficulty. How did the fellow
come to take track upon me so keenly from the jump?
and how has he contrived to keep on it so truly until
now? These are questions that ain't so easy to
answer, and we must find out their answer before we
can fall on any way to circumvent the varmint. I
thought at first that he might have got information from
some of Barsfield's tories; but since we've been in the
swamp they can't take track upon us, and only he has
done it; for the general now knows that it was this
same skunk that showed the back track of the swamp
to Tarleton, and that he most certainly found out only
by following after me. I've been thinking over all these
matters for a spell now of more than ten days, and I
can make little or nothing out of it; and, to say truth,
Thumby, it's no little trouble to a man to know there's
a hound always hunting after him, go where he will—in
swamp or in thicket—on the high road and everywhere—
that never goes aside—thirsting after his blood, and
trying all sort of contrivances to git at it.”
“It's mighty ugly, that's clear,” said his companion,
musing.
“Yet, this trouble I've known ever since we chased
the fellow along the back track, when he cut the throat
of his dog, which only an Indian would do, to put us off
his own trail.”
“It's an ugly business, that's a truth, Humphries;
for, not to know where one's enemy is, is to look for a
bullet out of every bush. It can't be that some of our
men have been playing double, and have let this fellow
on track?”
“No, there's no reason to think it, for none of them
have been always able to find me when they wanted to,
and we know where to look for them always.”
“It's mighty strange and hard—and what are you to
do, Bill?”
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“You must tell me—I know not what to do,” was
the desponding answer: “I've no chance for my life at
this rate, for, soon or late, the fellow must git his shot.
He'll never give up hunting me till he does. It's the
nature of the beast, and there's no hope for me until I
can put upon his trail, and hunt him just as he hunts me.
The best scout will then win the game and clear the
stakes.”
“It's mighty sartin, Bill, that he's got some string on
you in partic'lar: you've kept too much on the same
track.”
“No—from the moment I found that the fellow was
after me in the swamp, I've been changing every day.”
“And still he keeps after you?”
“His bullet tells that.”
“It's mighty strange. Have you had your nag's
hoofs trimmed lately?”
“No, they don't need it,—they're shod.”
“Shod!”
“Yes, in the forefeet.”
“Well, now, it's mighty foolish to shoe a horse that's
got to travel only in swamp and sand; but I'd like to
look at them shoes.”
“Come, then.” As they walked, they conversed
farther on the same subject.
“Where was them shoes put on?” inquired Thumbscrew.
“In Dorchester, about three months ago.”
“And where was this Ingen fellow then?”
“I don't know; somewhere about, I reckon.”
“Show me the critter: I'm dubous all the mischief
lies in them shoes.”
And, following Humphries, Thumbscrew went forward
to the spot where the horse was tethered.
“Lead him off, Bill—there, over that soft track—jist
few paces. That'll do.”
The busy eye of Witherspoon soon caught the little
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ridges left by the crack in the shoe, which had so well
conducted the pursuit of Blonay.
“I guessed as much, Bill, and the murder's out,—
you've given the fellow a sign, and he's kept trail like a
trukey. Look here—and here—and here,—a better
mark would not be wanted by a blind man, since his
own finger could feel it, even if his eyes couldn't see.
There it is, and what more do you want?”
Humphries was satisfied, no less than his companion.
They had indeed discovered the true guide of Blonay
in his successful pursuit, so far, of his destined victim.
Nothing, indeed, could be more distinct than the impression
left upon the sand—an impression not only
remarkable as it was so unusual, but remarkable as it
occurred upon a small shoe, and seemed intentionally
made to divide it—the fissure forming the ridge making
a line as clearly distinct upon the shoe, as that made by
the shoe itself in its entire outline upon the pliable
sand.
“Well,” said Thumbscrew, after they had surveyed
it for several minutes, “and what are you going to do
now?”
“That's what I'm thinking of, Thumby, and it's no
easy matter yet to determine upon.”
“How!—why, what have you to do now but to pull
off the shoe, and throw the fellow from your haunches,
which you must do the moment you take him off his
track.”
“No, no,” coolly responded the other, “that will be
making bad worse, Thumby, since to throw him off one
track will be only to make him hunt out for another,
which we may not so readily discover. A fellow that
really hungers after your blood, as this fellow does after
mine, ain't so easily to be thrown off as you think. To
throw off this scent would be only to gain a little time,
and botch up the business that we had better mend.
The shoes must stay on, old fellow; and, as we've found
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out that they are the guides which he follows, why, what
hinders that we should make use of them to trap him?”
“How?” said Witherspoon, curiously.
“Easy enough, Thumby, if I've got a friend in the
world who's willing to risk a little trouble, and perhaps
a scuffle, to help me out of the hound's teeth.”
“Gimini! Bill Humphries, you don't mean to say
that you ain't been my friend, and that I ain't yours?
Say the word, old fellow, and show your hand, and if I
ain't your partner in the worst game of old-sledge you
ever played, with all trumps agin you, and a hard log
to set on, and a bad fire-light to play by, then don't
speak of me ever again when your talk happens to run
on Christian people. Say the word, old fellow, and
I'm ready to help you. How is it to be done?—what
am I to do?”
“Take my track also,—follow the shoe,—but take
care to give me a good start. I will ride on the very
route where I got the bullet.”
“What! to get another?”
“No. I will ride in company, and Blonay is quite
too cunning to risk a shot, with the chance of having his
own head hammered the next minute by my companion,
even if he tumbles me.”
“I see! I see! He will be on your track, and will
follow you, as he has done before, in hope to get another
chance. That's it, eh?”
“Yes—he will not be easily satisfied. Nothing but
his blood or mine will satisfy any such varmint as
this Half-Breed, who takes after the savages, from
whom he comes half way. He will be on the old
ground which he's travelled so long, and that I've travelled;
and he will keep close about me, day by day, and
month after month, and year after year, until he gets his
chance for a sure shot, and then the game's up,—and
he'll not rest quietly before. I know it's the nature of
the beast, and so I'm sure of my plan if you only
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follow it up as I show you, and as I know you're able to
do easy enough.”
“I'm ready, by gum, Bill. You sha'n't want a true
heart and a stiff hand in the play on your side, so long
as Thumbscrew can help a friend and hurt an enemy.
I'm ready—say the word—the when and the how—
and here's your man.”
“Thank'ee, Thumby—I knew I shouldn't have to ax
twice—and so now listen to me.”
“Crack away.”
“I set off in two hours for the skirts of Barsfield's
camp, where I'm to put a few owls who shall roost
above him. After that I take the back track into the
swamp, and John Davis and young Lance will keep
along with me. I pretty much guess that this fellow
Blonay will not let half an hour go by, after I've passed
him, before he gets upon trail somewhere or other, and
fastens himself up in some bush or hummock, waiting a
chance at me when he finds I'm going back. If my
calculation be the right one, then all you've got to do is
to take the trail after me, keeping a close look-out, right
and left, for the fresh track of an Indian pony. If you
see that little bullet-foot of a swamp-tacky freshly put
down in the swamp or sand after mine, be sure the
skunk's started.”
“I see—I see.”
“Well, when you've once got his track, we have
him. If he finds he's got some one on his skirts, he'll
go aside, and you'll lose his trail, to be sure: but you'll
know then he's either on one side or 'tother in the
woods about you; and all you've got to do is to ride
ahead a bit and go into the bush too.”
“Good, by Gimini!”
“What then? Soon as he finds all things quiet, he'll
come out of the bush and take up my trail as he did before;
and, if you git a good place to hide in, so as to
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be concealed and yet to watch the road, you can't help
seeing when he goes ahead.”
“That's true; but suppose he goes into the bush
again—what must I do then?”
“Just what you've done before—the very thing—until
he gets to the bayou that opens the door to the swamp.
If you can track him that far, you can track him farther;
for when he once gets there he'll be sure to go
into hiding in some corner or other where he knows I
must pass, waiting the chance to crack at me again.”
“Yes—yes! And I'm to try and find out his hollow?
I see, I see. It ain't so hard, after all, for I'm a very
bear in the swamp, and can go through a cane-brake with
the best of them. We shall have the skunk, Bill,—
there's no two ways about it. If he can keep the track
of a horseshoe through mud and mire for a month,
hunting an enemy, 'twont be very hard for me to keep
it too, helping a friend: and though, between us, Bill—
I'm mighty conflustered about Airnest, and that d—d
tory Barsfield, and what to do to help the lad out of
his hobbles, yet I'm not guine to let this matter stand
in the way of yours. I'll go neck and shoulders for you,
old fellow, and here's a rough fist on it.”
A hearty gripe testified the readiness of the one to
assist his friend, and the warm acknowledgments of the
other. The two then proceeded to make their arrangements
for the prosecution of a scheme so truly partisan.
In this affair it may be proper that we should attend them.
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CHAPTER XXI.
[figure description] Page 161.[end figure description]
The Half-Breed that morning had taken a stand
upon the roadside to which he had been long accustomed.
The route was one frequently trodden by his enemy.
This fact Blonay had ascertained at an early period
in his pursuit, and here, day after day, had he watched
with a degree of patient quietude only to be comprehended
by a reference to the peculiar blood which was
in him. The instincts of the Indian character were his
instincts. Hardily to endure, stubbornly to resist, perseveringly
to prosecute his purpose—that purpose being a
revenge of wrong and indignity,—all these seemed to
have been born within him at his birth, and to have acquired
a strength corresponding with that of his continued
growth and accumulating vigour. Such instincts
are scarcely to be controlled even by education,—the
education which he had received had only made them
more active and tenacious.
The Half-Breed had little hope, on the present occasion,
to meet again with his enemy. The attempt which
he had recently made on the life of Humphries, and
which he thought to have entirely failed, would, he believed,
have so alarmed the trooper as to have impelled
him to seek another route, or, at least, have prompted
him to the precaution of taking companions with him
when he again rode forth. It was with a faint hope,
therefore, that he now resumed his place. On the ensuing
night he was to effect the escape of Mellichampe,
the successful prosecution of which attempt would, he
doubted not, result in raising for him a new enemy in
the person of the tory captain. About the issue of this
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adventure he had various misgivings. He questioned
the practicability of success, as he knew nothing of the
design of Mellichampe, and of the despatch which had
been sent by Scipio. He was certain that Mellichampe
would be slain, but he concurred in the supposed preference
which the youth gave to the mode of dying, in
the stroke or shot of sudden combat, rather than by the
degrading cord. He was pledged to serve the maiden,
and to comply with her wishes was the best mode in his
estimation.
He had concealed his pony, and covered himself by
the thick umbrage around him, in his old retreat, when
the sound of approaching horses called for his attention.
With a feeling of gratified surprise he saw his enemy.
But he was accompanied: John Davis rode on one side
of Humphries, and Lance Frampton on the other,—all
well mounted, and carrying their rifles. “How easy to
shoot him now,” thought the Half-Breed,—“I couldn't
miss him now—but it's no use:” and his rifle lay unlifted
across his arm, and he suffered the three to pass
by him in safety. To forbear was mortifying enough.
They rode by within twenty yards, seemingly in the
greatest glee, laughing and talking. A less cool and
wary enemy than Blonay, having a similar pursuit, could
not have forborne. The temptation was a trying one to
him; but, when he looked about in the woods around
him, and saw how easily they might be penetrated by
the survivers, even if he shot Humphries, he felt convinced
that the death of his enemy would be the immediate
signal for his own. His revenge was too much a
matter of calculation—too systematic in all its impulses—
to permit him to do an act so manifestly disparaging
his Indian blood, and his own desire for life, and his
habitual caution. The cover in which he stood, though
complete enough for his concealment while it remained
unsuspected, was otherwise no shelter; and, subduing
his desire, he quietly and breathlessly kept his position,
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until his ears no longer distinguished the tramp of their
departing horses.
It was then that the Half-Breed rose from his place
of shelter. Gliding back to the deeper recess where
his pony had been hidden, he was soon mounted, and
prepared to take the track after his enemy.
“He's gone to place the sentries and send out the
scouts. He won't have 'em with him by the time he
gits to the swamp, and I'll take the short track at the
bend and git there before him. Adrat it, that I should
have missed him as I did!”
Thus muttering, he left the woods, and was soon
pacing, with the utmost caution, upon the road which
had been taken by his enemy.
Marking his time duly, and heedful of every object
upon the road, our friend Witherspoon might have been
seen, a little while after, going over the same ground
with no little solemnity. He had carefully noted the
several tracks made by the horse of Humphries, along
with those of his companions, and, step by step, had
kept on their trail until he reached the spot at which,
emerging from the place of his concealment, the waylaying
Blonay had set off also in pursuit. The observant
eye of Witherspoon, accustomed to note every sign
of this description, soon detected the track made by the
hoof of the animal which Blonay bestrode. He alighted
from his horse, and carefully examined it; then, entering
the woods on that side from which the pony had
evidently emerged, he traced out the course of the Half-Breed
by the crushed grass and disordered foliage, until
he found, not only where the pony had been kept,
but the very branch to which he had been tethered.
The branch was broken at the end, and the bridle, having
been passed over it, by its friction, had chafed a
little ring around the bark. From this spot he passed
to that in which Blonay himself had been hidden on the
roadside when Humphries had ridden by. His
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exclamation, as he made this discovery, was natural and involuntary—
“Gimini, if Bill had only know'd it, how he could
have wound up the animal! Only to think—here he
squatted, not twenty steps off, and a single leap of a
good nag would ha' put a hoof on each of his shoulders!
But it ain't all a clear track for him yet. Push
is the word; and, if he don't keep wide awake, he'll
larn more in the next two hours than he'll ever understand
in a week after. Come, Button, we'll know this
place next time in case we have to look after the
Indian agen.”
He resumed his course, and with something more of
rapidity, as he now discovered that the game was fairly
afoot. The track was distinctly defined for him; and,
wherever the foot of Humphries' horse had been set
down, there, with unerring certainty, immediately behind,
was that of the pony. Excited by the prospect
of the encounter which he now promised himself, he
began unconsciously to accelerate the movements of his
horse, until he gained rapidly, without knowing it himself,
upon the footsteps of the rider he pursued.
Blonay had not, however, laid aside his habitual
wariness, and the precipitancy of Witherspoon betrayed
his approach to the watchful senses of the Half-Breed.
He had himself gained so much upon Humphries as to
hear the sounds of his horse's tread, and his quick ear
soon detected the corresponding sound from the feet of
Witherspoon's horse in the rear. He paused instantly,
until assured that his senses had not deceived him, and
silently then he slid into the bushes on one side of the
road, availing himself of a deep thicket which spread
along to the right. Nor, having done this, did he pause
in a single spot and simply seek concealment. He
took a backward course for a hundred yards or more,
and awaited there in shelter, watching a single opening
upon the road, which he knew must be darkened by the
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figure of the approaching person. Witherspoon rode
on, passed the designated spot, and was recognised by
the outlier. But, as it was not the policy of Blonay to
be discovered now by any, he did not come forth and
remind our friend of their former meeting on the highway.
The partisan kept on his way until he missed the
track of the pony. There was that of Humphries
plainly enough; but that of the pony was no longer perceptible.
He checked his own steed, and rebuked
himself for his want of caution. He saw that he must
now change his game; and, without stopping to make
an examination which might startle Blonay into suspicion,—
for he knew not but that the Half-Breed was
even then looking down upon him from some place of
safe concealment,—he rode on a short distance farther,
and then sank, like Blonay, into the cover of the very
same woods, though on the side opposite to that which
had given shelter to the latter. Here he dismounted,
hid his horse in a recess sufficiently far in the rear to
prevent any sounds which he might utter from reaching
any ear upon the road, and, advancing to a point sufficiently
nigh to command a view of passing objects,
sought a place of concealment and watch for himself.
This he soon found, and, like a practised scout, he patiently
concentrated all his faculties upon the task he
had undertaken, and, with all the energies of his mind,
not less than of his body, prepared for the leap which
he might be required to take, he lay crouching in momentary
expectation of his prey.
Here he waited patiently, for the space of half an
hour, in the hope of seeing the pursuer go by. But he
waited in vain: the road remained undarkened by a
solitary shadow—his ears were unassailed by a solitary
sound. The Half-Breed well knew what he was about.
Familiar with the course usually taken by Humphries,
he did not now care to tread directly upon his footsteps,
particularly as such a progress must have placed him
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upon the same road with that taken by the stranger,
whose unlooked-for coming had driven him into shelter.
It was enough that he could reach, a mile above, the
narrow track which, darting aside from the main road,
led obliquely into the swamp. There he knew he
should again come upon the track of Humphries, and
with that hope he was satisfied. Keeping the woods,
therefore, on the side which he had entered, he stole
along among the shadows of the silent pines sufficiently
far to be both unseen and unheard by those upon the
road; and while the scout lay snugly watching for him
in the bush, the subtle Half-Breed had gone ahead of
him, and was now somewhat in advance, though still
moving slowly between him and Humphries. Witherspoon
was soon convinced that this must be the case,
and, throwing aside his sluggishness, he prepared to
resume his progress.
“The skunk will double round us, after all,” he muttered
to himself, “if I don't keep a better look-out.
But he sha'n't. There's only one way. It won't do to
go on sich a trail on the back of a nag that puts down
his foot like an elephant. Shank's mare is the only nag
for this hunt, and you must keep quiet where you are,
Button, till I get back. I can do well enough for
a while without you, and you must be reasonable, and
be quiet, too.”
Thus addressing his horse, he tightened the rope
which fastened him to the tree, and prepared to continue
the pursuit on foot.
“I can walk jist as fast as that 'ere pony can trot, at
any time, and the skunk that straddles him is too cunning
to go fast now. I can outwalk him, I know; and,
if he could hear Button's big foot, it's more than his
ears can do to hear mine.”
Thus reasoning, the scout left his steed, pressed forward
upon the highway, and with rapid strides pushed
for the recovery of lost ground.
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Blonay, meanwhile, had gained a sight of the person
he pursued. Humphries had lingered behind with this
very object. As soon as the Half-Breed heard the
sounds of feet above him, and so near the swamp, he
sank into the deepest cover and began to prepare himself.
He first alighted from his pony, which he led as
far into the shelter of the woods as seemed advisable.
His own concealment was more easily effected while on
foot than when mounted, and the proximity of his enemy
rendered every precaution necessary. The sudden
rush of a fleet steed, like that bestrode by Humphries,
would have brought the latter upon him long before
he could conceal himself, if he happened to be mounted
at the time. On foot he pressed forward until he
beheld the three and distinguished their movements.
Humphries was in the rear, Davis and Frampton were
about to enter the swamp, and, indeed, had already
done so. It was then that Blonay urged the pursuit
most rapidly; and, with rifle ready to be lifted to his
shoulder the moment the opportunity should offer
for its use, he leaped cautiously, in a circuitous route,
from cover to cover, and in the greatest silence, in
order to secure a position which might command the
pond, through which he well knew the partisans must go
before entering the swamp. He was the more stimulated
in this object as he thought it not improbable that, as
the companions of Humphries were ahead of him, they
might go so far forward as to throw the entire length of
the pond, and the intervening thicket (which, thrusting
itself up from one side of it, and running far out into its
centre, almost entirely concealed its opposite termination),
between themselves and the enemy he pursued.
If this had been the case, his opportunity to shoot
down Humphries, and make his escape before the other
two could possibly return, would be complete. All
these conjectures and calculations were instantaneous,
and the result of his natural instinct. The image of
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his success rose vividly before him as he pressed forward
to secure a fair shot at the figure of which he momently
caught glimpses through the foliage; and, but
for the heedful thought of Humphries,—with whom the
present was the life and thought-absorbing affair,—the
opportunity might have been won by the vindictive pursuer
who desired it. The partisan was sufficiently observant,
however, of all these chances. He knew not
that his enemy was at hand, and, indeed, did not think
it; but he omitted no precaution, and clung close to
his companions. They moved forward together into
the pond; and, when Blonay reached the edge of it,
they had emerged through its waters, and, gaining the
opposite side, were out of his reach and sight, and in
safety for the present.
Blonay was a patient enemy—no less patient than
persevering. He sank back into cover, and prepared to
wait, as he had often done before, for the return of his
victim.
“He goes to place his scouts—he will come back
alone,” were the muttered words of the Half-Breed;
and, unconscious that he himself was an object of as
close a watch as that which he maintained on Humphries,
he coolly sought his place of rest behind a little
clump of cane and a thicket of close brier, which formed
much of the undergrowth among the gigantic cypresses
spreading around him, and formed no unfitting
fringe for the edge of the swamp.
Meanwhile Witherspoon had not been idle or unobservant.
He had pushed forward after Blonay with
precautions similar to those which the latter had practised;
and, with a speed accelerated in accordance with
the due increase of confidence arising from the absence
of his horse, he had contrived to gain a point of observation
which commanded the entrance to the swamp
quite as soon as Blonay, and just when Humphries and
his companions were about to pass into the pond. At
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first he saw none but the three companions; but, even
while he gazed upon them from a place of shelter by the
wayside, and at the distance of a few hundred yards,
he became conscious, though yet without seeing the object,
of the approach of some one on the opposite hand.
The three disappeared from his sight, and, as the last
sounds reached his ears of the tread of their horses as
they plashed through the turbid waters of the creek, he
distinctly beheld the person of a man moving hurriedly
along its margin. In the next glance he saw that it
was the Half-Breed.
“I have him—here's at you!” he cried to himself, as
he raised his rifle. But, before he could pull trigger,
his victim had disappeared. Vexed and mortified, he
was compelled to squat down in quiet in order to avoid
being seen; and, hiding himself closely behind a bush,
he waited and watched for a second opportunity. But
this he was not destined to get so readily. While
he looked he saw the whole line of cane-brake, on the
edge of the lagune, slightly agitated and waving at the
tops as if under a sudden gust, but he saw no more of
the person he pursued. In a little while he heard
the feet of the returning horses once more plunging
through the pond; and again did he see the cane-tops
waving suddenly in front of a grove of huge cypresses,
and as suddenly again subsiding into repose. Witherspoon
could see no more of the enemy, and, half bewildered,
he awaited the return of Humphries, to unfold to
him what he knew and how he had been disappointed.
Blonay, meanwhile, though maintaining a solicitous
regard to his own concealment, kept a no less heedful
watch upon the progress of his enemy. He looked out
from his cover upon the return of Humphries; but, as
he continued to be still accompanied by Davis and
Frampton, there was evidently no opportunity for prosecuting
his purpose. He sank back in silence to his
place of shelter among the canes and cypresses.
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Witherspoon had again noted the disturbance among
the cane-tops, but he failed to see the intruder. It was
with no small mortification that he unfolded to Humphries,
as he came, the unsuccessful results of his watch.
“He is there, somewhere among the canes; but,
d—n the nigger, you might as well look for a needle in
a haystack as after him in such a place as that.”
“But we will look for him there!” cried Humphries,
dashing forward to the designated region. The rest
followed him in several directions, completely encircling
in their hunt the supposed place of Blonay's concealment.
He looked upon their search in composure and
with scornful indifference; but he remained quiet all the
while. They hunted him with all the passion of hatred,
disappointment, and anxiety. They penetrated through
brake and through brier,—they tore aside the thickly-wedged
masses of cane-twigs and saplings,—traversed
bog and water,—pressed through bushes, and encircled
trees,—searching narrowly every spot and object in the
locality designated by Witherspoon which might conceal
a man; but they laboured in vain. They did not find
the fugitive. Yet his traces everywhere met their eyes.
His footsteps were plainly perceptible on one or two
miry banks; but the whole neighbourhood was half
covered with water, and the traces which he made were
accordingly soon lost. For more than an hour did they
continue the search, until they wandered from the spot
entirely. The quest was hopeless; and, vexed at his
disappointment, Humphries was compelled to give up the
pursuit in the performance of other duties. They had
scarcely left the ground, however, before Blonay came
forth from his place of concealment—the body of a hollow
cypress, divided from the cane-brake by a narrow
creek, in a portion of which it grew.
“Adrat it! they thought to catch a weasel asleep,
did they? I reckon it won't do this time. And now,
I s'pose—”
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The words were interrupted, and the soliloquy discontinued.
The fugitive stooped to the earth as if to
listen, then immediately hurried back through the shallow
water, and into the tree where he had previously
hidden himself.
CHAPTER XXII.
He had barely attained his place of shelter when
Humphries returned. He returned alone. He had dismissed
his comrades as no longer essential to his search,
and had determined upon stealing back to the neighbourhood
where the Half-Breed had been last seen, placing
himself in a position to watch him, and lingering till the
latest possible moment, in the hope to see him emerge.
The thoughts of Humphries were of the most annoying
description. He reflected bitterly on the chances now
before him, not only of his enemy's escape, but of his
own continued danger. The whole labour of pursuit
and stratagem was again to be taken over; and with this
disadvantage, that, as they had now alarmed the Half-Breed,
who must have been conscious of their recent
pursuit and search, it would be necessary to adopt some
new plan of action, and contrive some new scheme, before
they could possibly hope to entrap him. In the
meantime, to what danger was his threatened victim not
exposed, since, while effecting nothing towards his own
security, the recent adventure must only contribute to
the increased wariness of his enemy.
Full of these bitter and distracting thoughts, he took
post upon a little hillock, which rose slightly above the
miry surface which spread all around him. A huge cypress,
rising up from a shallow creek, stood like a forest
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monarch directly before his eyes. The cane, in which
he had pursued so hopeless a search, spread away in a
winding line beyond the creek, and upon its slightly
waving surface his eyes were fixed in intense survey.
“It was there—there he must be still,” he said to
himself, as he looked upon its dense enclosure. “He
will come out directly, when he thinks me quite gone,
and when he can hear nothing. I will wait for him,
though I wait till sunset.”
He had taken a place of watch which gave him a full
view of the cane-brake and the scattered cypresses before
it, while his position was concealed, at the same
time, by a cluster of bushes, from any one emerging
from the region he surveyed. Here, squatting low, he
prepared his rifle, having carefully prepared an opening
for it through the bushes, whence its muzzle might be
projected at a moment's warning; and, with eyes sharpened
by a feeling of anxiety little short of desperation,
he lay quietly, the agent of a deadly hate and a shuddering
fear, watchful for that opportunity which should gratify
the one passion and silence all the apprehensions of
the other.
While he watched in quiet he heard a slight noise immediately
at hand. Something reached his ears like the
friction of bark. His breathings became suppressed in
the intenseness of his anxiety. He felt that his enemy
was near him, and his hope grew into a gnawing appetite,
which made his whole frame tremble in the nervous desire
which it occasioned. The noise was repeated a little
more distinctly—distinctly enough, indeed, to indicate
the direction from which it came. His glance rested
upon the aged cypress which stood immediately before
him.
“Could he be there?” was his self-made inquiry.
The tree stood in the water. The hollow did not seem
large enough above the creek to admit the passage of a
human body. “Yet it might be so.” He regretted,
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while he gazed, that they had not examined it; and he
regretted this the more as he now saw that the upper
edges of the hollow above the creek were still wet, as
if they had been splashed by the hurried passage of some
large body into the tree. He kept quiet, however, while
these thoughts were going through his mind, and determined
patiently to wait events.
“He must come out at last,” was his muttered
thought, “if he is there, and I can wait, I reckon, jist as
long as he.”
Was it an instinct that prompted him to raise his eyes
at this moment, from the hollow at the foot of the cypress
to the shaft of the tree, as it stretched away above?
He did so; and, in the sudden glance which he gave, the
glare of a wide and well-known eye met his own, staring
around, from a narrow and natural fissure in the stupendous
column some ten feet from its base. With a howl
of positive delight he sprang to his feet, and the drop
of the deadly instrument fell upon the aperture. But,
before he could spring the lock or draw the trigger, the
object had disappeared.
The Half-Breed—for it was he—had sunk down the
moment Humphries met his eye, and was no more to be
seen. But he was there! That was the consolation
of his enemy.
“He is there—I have him!” he cried aloud. No
answer reached him from within. Humphries bounded
into the water to the hollow at the bottom of the tree,
through which the slender form of Blonay had resolutely
compressed itself. He thrust his hand into the opening,
and endeavoured, by grasping the legs of the Half-Breed,
to drag him down to the aperture; but he failed entirely
to do so. A bulging excrescence on the tree—a knob, or
knee, as it is called—within, served the beleaguered man
as a place of rest; and upon this, firmly planting his feet,
no effort of his enemy could possibly dislodge him. To
thrust his rifle up the hollow, and shoot as he stood, was
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the next thought of Humphries; but the first attempt to
do this convinced him of the utter impracticability of the
design. The opening, though sufficiently large for the
entrance of a body so flexible as that of a man, was yet
too short to admit of the passage of a straight, unyielding
shaft of the rifle's length, unless by burying the instrument
in the water to a depth so great as would bring
the lock much below it. The difficulty was a novel one,
and for a moment the practised woodman was at fault.
What was he to do? His enemy was within his reach,
yet beyond his control, and might as well be a thousand
miles off. To leave the tree, to go in search of his companions,
or to procure an axe to fell it, would only be to
afford an opportunity for the egress and escape of his
victim. This was not to be thought upon. He seized
his knife, and though assured that by its use he could do
no more than annoy the Half-Breed, situated where he
was, and could by no possibility inflict a vital injury, he
yet proceeded to employ it.
“It may bring him out,” he muttered to himself, “it'll
vex and bring him out.”
He thrust the weapon up the hollow, and struck right
and left at the feet and ankles of the inmate. But with
the first graze of the weapon upon his legs Blonay drew
them up by contracting his knees—an effort which the
immense size of the tree—the hollow of which might
have contained three men with ease—readily enabled
him to make. Humphries soon saw the fruitlessness of
his effort with the knife, and, seemingly, the fruitlessness
of any effort which he could then make. In his rage,
exasperated at the vicinity of his foe, yet of his seeming
safety, he shouted aloud, in the hope to bring back
his departed companions. A fiendish chuckle sounded
scornfully from within the tree, and seemed to taunt him
with his feebleness and fury. He renewed his efforts,—
he struck idly with his knife within the hollow, until,
burying the blade in one of the projecting knobs, it
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snapped off short at the handle, and was of no more service.
Furious at these repeated failures, and almost
exhausted by his efforts, he poured forth curses and denunciations
in the utmost profusion upon the unheeding
and seemingly indifferent Half-Breed.
“Come out like a man,” he cried to him, in an idle
challenge; “come out and meet your enemy, and not, like
a snake, crawl into your hollow, and lie in waiting for his
heel. Come out, you skunk, and you shall have a fair
fight, and nobody shall come between us. You shall have
your distance jist as you want it, and it shall be the
quickest fire that shall make the difference of chances between
us. Come out, you spawn of a nigger, and face
me, if you're a man.”
Thus did he run on in his ineffectual fury, and impotently
challenge an enemy who was quite too wary to
give up the vantage-ground which he possessed. The
same fiendish chuckle which had enraged the trooper so
much before, again responded to his challenge from the
tree,—again stimulated him to newer efforts, which, like
the past, were unavailing. The Half-Breed condescended
no other reply. He gave no response whatsoever to
the denunciations of his enemy; but, coolly turning himself
occasionally in his spacious sheath, he now and
then raised himself slightly upon his perch, and placing
his mouth abreast of the upper aperture in the tree, gratified
himself by an occasional inhalation of the fresh air—
a commodity not so readily afforded by his limited accommodations.
Humphries, meanwhile, almost exhausted by his own
fury not less than by its hopeless labours, had thrown
himself upon the bank in front of the opening, watching
it with the avidity of an eagle. But Blonay gave him
no second chance for a shot while he lay in this position.
He watched in vain. Even as he lay, however, a new
plan suggested itself to his mind, and one so certain of
its effect, that he cursed himself for his stupidity that did
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not suffer him to think of it before. With the thought,
he started to his feet. Detached masses of old and decaying
trees, the remains of many a forest of preceding
ages, lay freely scattered around him. Here and there
a lightwood knot, and here and there the yet undecayed
branch, the tribute of some still living pine, to the passing
hurricane, lay contiguously at hand. He gathered them
up with impetuous rapidity. He collected a pile at the
foot of the cypress, and prepared himself for the new
experiment. Selecting from this pile one of the largest
logs, he thrust it through the water, and into the hollow
of the tree, seeking to wedge it between the inner knobs
on which the feet of Blonay were evidently resting. But
the Half-Breed soon became aware of the new design,
which he opposed, as well as he could, with a desperate
effort. He saw, and was instantly conscious of, his danger.
With his feet he baffled for a long time the efforts
of his enemy, until, enraged at length, Humphries seized
upon a jagged knot of lightwood, which he thrust against
one of the striving legs of the Half-Breed, and employing
another heavy knot as a mallet, he drove the wedge
forward unrelentingly against the yielding flesh, which
was torn and lacerated dreadfully by the sharp edges of
the wood. Under the sudden pain of the wound, the
feet were drawn up, and the woodman was suffered to
proceed in his design. The miserable wretch in the tree,
thus doomed to be buried alive, was now willing to come
to terms with his enemy. His voice hollowly reached
the ears of his exulting captor, as he agreed to accept
his terms of fight, if he would suffer him to come down.
But the reply of Humphries partook somewhat of the
savage nature of his victim.
“No, no! you d—d skunk, you shall die in your
hole, like a varmint as you are; and the cypress shall
be your coffin, as it has been your house.”
The voice within muttered something of fight.
“It's too late for that,” was the reply. “I gave you
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the chance once, and you wouldn't-take it. It's the
worse for you, since you don't get another. Here you
shall stay, if hard chunks and solid lightwood can keep
you, until your yellow flesh rots away from your cursed
bones! Here you stay till the lightning rips open your
coffin, or the hurricane in September tumbles you into
the swamp.”
The voice of Blonay was still heard, though more and
more feebly, as the hard wood was driven into the hollow—
mass wedging mass—until all sounds from within,
whether of pleading or defiance, seemed to die away into
a plaintive murmur, that came faintly through the thickening
barrier, and was almost unheard by Humphries, as,
with the knotty lever which he employed, he sent the
heavy wedges, already firm enough, more thoroughly into
the bosom of the tree.
His labour was at length completed. The victim was
fastened up securely, beyond his own efforts of escape.
He was effectually sealed up, and the seal could only be
taken off by a strong hand from without. Where, in
that deep forest recess, wild and tangled, could succour
find him out? What hope that his feeble voice could
reach the ears of any passing mortal? There was no
hope but in the mercy of his enemy, and of that the captive
and doomed man could have no hope, even if he
pleaded for his life—an idea that never once entered into
his mind.
His doom was written, and the partisan paused before
the tree, and his eye rested on the aperture above. The
body of the imprisoned man was heard to writhe about in
his cell. Humphries stepped back, the better to survey
the aperture. In another moment he beheld the blear
eyes of his victim peering forth upon him, and, firm and
fearless as he was, he shuddered at their expression.
Their natural ugliness was enlarged and exaggerated by
the intensity of his despair. Before, they had been but
disgusting—they were now frightful to the beholder. As
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he looked upon him, the first feeling of Humphries was
to lift his rifle and shoot him; but, as the weapon was
elevated, he saw that the Half-Breed no longer shrank
from the meditated shot. On the contrary, he seemed
now rather to invoke his death, as even a mercy in that
preferable form, at the hands of his enemy. But his desire
was not complied with.
“No, no. Why should I waste the bullet upon you?
You took to the hollow like a beast. You shall die like
one. It's a fit death for one like you. You've been
hunting after my blood quite too long. I won't spill
yours, but I'll leave it to dry up in your heart, and you
shall feel it freezing and drying up all the time.”
He surveyed his victim as he spoke with a malicious
joy, which at length grew into a painful sort of delight,—
it was so intense—so maddening—so strange,—since it
followed a transition from the extremest sense of apprehension
to one of unlooked-for security. His ecstasies
at length broke forth into tumultuous and unmitigated
laughter.
The deportment of the Half-Breed was changed. His
features seemed to undergo elevation, and the utter hopelessness
of his fate, as he now beheld it, even gave dignity
to their expression. He spoke to his enemy in
language of the most biting asperity. His sarcasm was
coarse, but effective, as it accorded with his own nature
and the education of his foe. He taunted him with cowardice,
with every meanness, and strove to irritate him
by reproaches of himself and his connexions—aspersions
upon his mother and his sister, in language and assertion,
which, among the vulgar, is almost always effectual
in irritating to the last degree of human violence.
The object of Blonay was to provoke Humphries to the
use of the more ready weapon, which would have given
him death without the prolonged torture consequent upon
such a doom as that to which he was now destined.
But the partisan readily divined his object, and denied
him the desired boon.
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“No, no—catch old birds with chaff,” he replied,
coolly. “You shall die as you are. I'll just take the liberty
of putting a plug into that hollow, which will give you
less chance to talk out, as you now seem pleased to do.
I'll stop out a little more of the sweet air, so that you
may enjoy better what I leave you.”
Thus saying, he threw together a few chunks at the
foot of the tree, and, rising upon them, well provided with
a wedge estimated to fit the aperture, he prepared to drive
it in, and placed it at the opening for that purpose. The
desperate Blonay thrust one hand through the crevice, in
the vain hope to exclude the wedge. But a blow from
the lightwood knot with which Humphries had provided
himself as a sort of mallet, crushed the extended fingers
almost into a mass, and the Half-Breed must have fainted
from the pain, as the hand was instantly withdrawn;
and, when the partisan drove in the wedge, the face of
the victim had sunk below the opening, and was no
longer to be seen. His task completed, he descended
from his perch, threw aside the chunks which had supported
him, and set off to find his horse. He was at
last secure from the hunter of blood—he had triumphed—
and yet he could not keep down the fancy, which continually,
as he went, imbodied the supposed cries of the
Half-Breed in little gusts of wind, that seemed to pursue
nim; and, when he emerged from the wood, a strange
chill went through his bones, and he looked back momently,
even when the gigantic cypress, which was the
sepulchre of his enemy, no longer reared up its solemn
spire in his sight. It was no longer behind him. It
seemed to move before him faster than his horse; and
he spurred the animal furiously forward, seeking to pass
the fast-travelling tree, and to escape the moaning sound
which ever came after him upon the breeze.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
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The deed was done; and Humphries, fatigued by a
long and arduous duty on the previous night, and doubly
so from the exciting circumstances just narrated, hurried
to his place of retreat and repose in the swamp covert
of the partisans. He could sleep now. For a long
period his sleep had been troubled and unsatisfactory.
His apprehensions were now quieted, and sweet must
be that first sleep which we feel to be secure from the
efforts of a long-sleepless enemy.
His companions, meanwhile, had the duties of the
scout to execute, and each had gone upon his several
tasks. Witherspoon, with whom our course now lies,
true to his friend, proceeded at once to the woods that
surrounded the camp of Barsfield. He maintained a
close watch upon the premises in which Mellichampe
lay a prisoner. How he knew of the youth's predicament
may not be said, but certain it is he was informed
both as to the nature of his injuries and his condition.
He had, probably, lurked in the hollow, or listened from
a tree, while an incautious sentinel prattled to his comrade;
or, which is not less probable, he had gathered
his intelligence from some outlying negro of the plantation,
whose address enabled him to steal forth at intervals,
in spite of the surrounding sentinels.
Solicitous, to the last degree, for the safety of the
youth, of whose safety, while in the custody of Barsfield,
he half despaired, he availed himself of his duties as a
scout to lurk about the neighbourhood, in the faint hope
to communicate with, or in some other way to serve, the
prisoner. Night after night, for a week before the
period to which we have now come, had he cheered the
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heart and strengthened the hope of Mellichampe with
his well-known whistle. It may be scarce necessary to
say, that the faithful inferior found no less gratification
in this sad office than did the youth to whom it taught
the unrelaxing, though as yet ineffectual, watchfulness
of a friend.
The dexterity of Witherspoon admirably sorted with
his fidelity and courage. Fearlessly did he penetrate
the nearest points to which he might approach, without
certainty of being seen, of the camp of his enemy.
The frequent exercise of his faculties as a woodman—
a native ease and self-confidence, and a heart too much
interested in a single object to feel any scruples, or fear
any danger, prompted him to a degree of hardihood
which, in a less admirable scout, would have been childish
audacity: but it was in him the result of a calm
conviction of his own readiness of resource, and of his
general ability to meet emergencies. He knew himself
as well as his enemy, and relied upon his own sense
of superiority. This confidence, however, seduced him
into no incautiousness. He timed his movements with
a just reference to all the circumstances of his situation,—
chose his route and designed his purpose well before
entering upon it; and, this done, dashed forward with the
boldness of the tiger, and the light, scarce perceptible
footstep of the wild turkey in April.
It was night when, after making a circuit around
Barsfield's position, and scanning it carefully on every
side, he reached a copse at the head of the avenue,
where, on a previous occasion, we found himself and
Mellichampe concealed. It was an old haunt, and he
threw himself on the grass and mused listlessly, like
one who, after long strifes and a heating exercise abroad,
comes home to the repose and permitted freedoms of
his own fireside and family. The camp-fires were
sprinkled about the woods before him, looking dimly
enough in contrast with the pale but brighter gleams of
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the now ascending moon. The house in which Mellichampe
was confined stood a little beyond, but as yet
undistinguishable. The scout lay and mused upon the
fate and probable fortunes of his friend, and his thoughts,
breaking through the bounds of his own restraining consciousness,
were framed into words upon his lips without
his own volition.
“I could swear he answered me last night. There's
no mistake. Three times it come upon the wind; first,
quick and shrill, to catch the ear—then slow and sad—
and then quick and shrill agin. 'Twas a great distance
to hear a whistle, but the wind come up jist then,
and I'm sure I heard it, and it was sich a blessed sort
of music, coming from Airnest, that, by Gracious!—I
can't help it—I'll go closer agin, and see if I can't get
some more of it. It's a sign he's doing better if he's
able to whistle, and it's a clear sign he hears me when
he's able to answer. I'll try it agin soon as I see that
big fire kindled that burns upon the left, for then I know
they'll be busy at the supper. He shall hear me agin,
by Gimini!—he shall know I ain't forgotten him, though,
to be sure, there's but little can be done for him yet.
Them d—d blasted tories are too thick about Barsfield,
and the `fox' must wait and watch a little longer before
he can make a break. Gimini! it's hard enough, but
there's no way to help it.”
He soliloquized thus upon a variety of matters, all
bearing upon this subject; and, had a scout of the enemy
been crouching among the branches of the tree
above him, he might have picked up for Barsfield many
a vauable little secret touching the condition and the
force of Marion. The faithful Witherspoon was one
of those ingenuous persons who do not hesitate to speak
their thoughts out freely, and who, thinking to himself, is
yet quite as likely to be confiding and communicative,
as if he was really engaged in delivering a message to
his superior. You could have heard from his lips on
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this occasion, without much striving to hear, what were
the general objects of the partisan—how he was busy
gathering his men in the swamp for the co-operation, in
future strife, with the newly-forming army of Greene,—
of designs upon the rapidly-rushing, and, perhaps, too
self-confident career of Bannister Tarleton,—and, to
come more immediately to the interest before us, he
might have learned now, for the first time, as we do, of
the organization of an especial corps, to be commanded
by Major Singleton, having for its object the rescue of
the youthful Mellichampe, whenever it should be ascertained
that he was to be removed to Charleston. This
was a primary consideration with the partisan. The
tender mercies of a Charleston commandant, and of a
board of British officers for inquiry, were well known;
and the sacrifice of the youth was a fear with all his
friends, should he not be rescued from the clutches of
his foe before his transfer to the scene of trial. Too
hazardous an enterprise to aim at this rescue while the
youth lay in Barsfield's well-defended encampment, the
partisan simply prepared himself to be in readiness at
the moment when a signal from his scouts should apprize
him of the movement of any guard of the enemy
in the direction of the city. An ambush on the wayside
was the frequent resort of warriors who were only too
few, too poorly armed and provided, to risk a more
daring sort of warfare.
The camp of Barsfield was soon illuminated by the
additional fire of which Witherspoon had spoken. As
soon as he beheld it he proceeded, cautiously but fearlessly,
to pass the intervening road; then, keeping close
alongside of the left or upward bank of the avenue leading
to the settlement, he stole along from tree to tree,
until he heard the measured tread of the more advanced
sentinels. A necessity for greater precaution induced
a pause. He stole, a moment after, to the edge of the
ditch, into which he descended; then, crawling upon
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hands and knees up the bank, he looked over into the
avenue, and distinguished the glittering raiment of the
first sentinel. In the distance he beheld a second,
with corresponding pace, moving his “lonely round.”
Resting his chin upon his palm, Witherspoon took a
cool survey of the prospect, and did not even withdraw
himself into the hollow when the nearest soldier, having
gained his limit, wheeled to retrace his steps.
“I could nail that fellow's best button now with a sly
bullet, if 'twas any use, and he wouldn't know what
hurt him,” was the half-muttered thought of the scout as
the sentinel approached. The man came forward until
he stood abreast of our scout, who buried himself in the
long grass as he approached; then, again wheeling, he
commenced his monotonous return. It was now the
moment for Witherspoon: he gathered himself up instantly,
waited in readiness until the sentinel had gone
half of his distance, then, with a single bound, leaped
down into the avenue, and sought his way across. His
tread was light—wonderfully light—for a man so heavy;
but it did not escape the quick ear of the watchful
Briton. He turned instantly, presented his piece, and
challenged. But the coast was clear; there was nothing
to be seen; the scout had already crossed the road,
and was sheltered in the thick copse on the other bank
of the avenue. The leaves and brush were shaken, and
the only response made to the challenge of the sentry
was the hooting of a melancholy owl, and a noise like
the shaking of wings among the branches.
“What's the matter?” cried the companion sentinel,
approaching the challenger, who had remained stationary
in the brief interval occupied by this event. “What
have you seen?”
“Nothing—it's only an owl. These woods are full
of them; the d—d things keep one starting on all sides
as if the `swamp fox' himself was scrambling over the
ditch.”
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The scout lay close, and heard the question and response.
He chuckled to himself with no little self-complaisance
as he listened.
“By Gimini!” he half muttered, aloud, “what a
poor skunk of a fellow I'd be, now, if my edication
was no better than that sentry's. Not to know a man's
hollow from a blind bird's!”
Waiting a few moments until the guardians of the
night had resumed their walk, he at length boldly left
the copse, and proceeded without hesitation, though cautiously,
still nearer to the house which held the prisoner.
Meanwhile, full of anxiety, the lovers lingered together.
This was the night on which Scipio was despatched
in search of Witherspoon, and all their thoughts
were necessarily given to his successful management
of the enterprise. Well might they be anxious; and
how natural was the deep and breathless silence which,
for protracted hours, overspread the apartment as if with
a dense and heavier mantle than that of night. The arm
of Mellichampe infolded the waist of the maiden. She
lay sadly, as was her wont, upon its supporting strength;
and her cheek, with all the confidence of true and unsophisticated
affection, rested upon his bosom. She
feared nothing—she doubted nothing—at that moment;
for she knew how noble was the heart that beat beneath
it. Her fears were elsewhere. The fate of her lover
hung suspended, as it were, upon a thread. He was
about to seek a perilous chance for life, to escape from
a more perilous, and, as it appeared to them, an unavoidable
necessity. Upon the cunning of the slave—upon
his successful search after the partisans,—and upon
their readiness and ability for the adventure, the life of
Mellichampe depended! How many contingencies to
be met and overcome! How many difficulties to
be avoided or surmounted—how many dangers to be
hazarded and sought! The accumulating thoughts of
these took from her all hope. She was no longer
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sanguine, though her more buoyant lover, in all the eloquent
warmth of a young heart, strove to persuade her
into confidence. She lay upon his bosom, and wept
bitter tears.
Suddenly there came again to the apartment the
faint, distant, but distinct sound—the whistle of the
woodman. Mellichampe lifted her head from its place
of rest, and his heart increased its beatings. His eye
brightened: and, as she beheld its glance, her own kindled
amid its tears. Again, and again, did the well-known
notes glide into the apartment, and well did the
youth know then that his friends were at hand.
“Hear—hear it, my Janet. He is there,—it is
Witherspoon,—it is his signal,—the same that has come
to me, and cheered me, night after night, when you could
no longer be with me. Do you not hear it?”
The sense of the maiden did not seem so quick as
that of her lover. She paused, and, though her eye had
caught a glow from the kindled expression of his, it still
seemed that she doubted the reality of the sounds, when
an appeal was made to her own distinct consciousness.
She was a sweet dependant—one who could receive
consolation from the assurances of another: but, save
in love, who could give little in return.
“Is it a whistle, Ernest?—it seems to me little more
than a murmur of the wind. Ah, I do—I do hear it
now,—it is—it is a whistle.” And her head sank, in
her joy, again upon the manly and aroused bosom of
her lover.
“It is he, and all's well if Scipio does not miss him.
Janet, dear love, we must see to this. Scipio may not
yet be gone; and, if not, methinks I can direct him to
the very spot whence these sounds come. I know I
can. See, dear,—hark!—to the north,—directly to the
north—is it not? You hear it now,—there,—in that direction,
and that is towards the little bay that lies between
this house and the avenue. That's just the spot
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in which a good scout would lurk at such a moment, and
from that spot he knows that I can hear his signal. He
must be there now; and, if Scipio passes in that direction,
he must find him. If not gone, the fellow must
go at once, for Witherspoon can't remain long in one
spot while in this neighbourhood. The scouts may
trouble him. See to it, then, dear Janet,—see if
Scipio be not gone, and send him on that course: and
hold me not burdensome, dearest, that I give you,
in these dangerous hours, more employment that affection.”
“Speak not thus, Ernest,” replied the maiden, fondly,
as she proceeded to execute the mission; “speak not
thus—not thus to me. Are not love's labours his pleasures
always?—does he not rejoice to serve? I do, I am
sure. I feel that my best pleasures are my labours always—
always when they are taken for you.”
“Heaven bless you, my Janet,” he murmured, fondly,
in reply, as his lips were pressed upon her forehead;
“Heaven bless you, and make me worthy of all this
devotion.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
But Scipio was already gone upon his mission, and
the maiden looked for him in vain. The next fear of
Mellichampe was that he should miss the person he
sought. Scipio, however, though he had left the house,
had not yet passed the enclosure. The line of sentinels
had yet to be gone through; and a task, like that we
have just seen overcome by Witherspoon, had yet to be
performed by the negro, in crossing the avenue. He
had his arts also, and his plan was one after his own
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heart and fashion. Creeping along by the fence, which
ran circuitously from the house of the overseer to the
avenue, and which we have seen employed as a screen
to Singleton's riflemen, he reached the entrance of the
avenue, though without being able to cross it at the
point he made. The sentinels in this quarter were too
numerous and close to permit him to attempt it there,
and, keeping along the skirts of the copse, and under its
shade, he moved upwards. The soldiers of Barsfield
were more watchful without than within; and, though but
a few yards separated the negro, in his stealthy progress,
from the pacing sentinel, such was the address of Scipio,
that he occasioned not the slightest apprehension. But
to cross the avenue, and reach the dense wood that lay
on the opposite side, was the work of most difficult
achievement. To accomplish this, it was the aim of
Scipio to pass through a drain which crossed the avenue,
and conducted the waters from the two ditches, when
overflowed, into a third, by means of which they were
carried off into a hollow bay lying some fifty yards distant
in the woods. To penetrate the umbrageous copse
on one side of the avenue,—to watch the moment when
the sentinel's back should be turned,—then, dropping
down silently into the ditch, to crawl into the drain, the
mouth of which was immediately alongside of it, was
the scheme of Scipio. In pursuance of this scheme, he
passed on with all the stealthy adroitness of the wildcat—
now hurrying, as he found himself too much without
the cover of the trees,—now crawling forwards, on
hands and knees, as the clambering vines around him
set a firm barrier against undue uprightness,—and now
lying or standing, motionless, as any warning or occasional
sounds reached his ears, either from the camp
which he had left, or the woods to which he was speeding.
The exceeding brightness of the moonlight rendered
increased precautions necessary, and gave bitter
occasion of complaint to the negro, to whom, like all of
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his colour, the darkness of the night was a familiar
thing, and opposed no sort of obstruction to his nocturnal
wanderings when the plantations otherwise were all
fast asleep. He penetrated the copse, and, thrusting
his sable visage through the shrubbery, looked from side
to side upon the two sentinels who paced that portion
of the avenue in sight. He duly noted their distances
and position, and, receding a pace, threw himself flat
upon the bank and crawled downward into the ditch.
The mouth of the drain lay a little above him, conveniently
open and large; and there could have been no
sort of difficulty, when he once reached that point, of
making his way through it into the opposite cover. But
it so happened that Scipio, in his progress, gave more
of his regards to the sentinel, and less to the path immediately
before him, than was either prudent or proper.
He did not perceive a slender and decayed pine-limb
which lay partially over the route he was pursuing.
His hand rested heavily upon it in his progress, and it
gave way beneath the pressure, with a crack which
might have reached the ears of a sentinel at a much
greater distance. With the sound, he turned suddenly
in the direction of the negro. The poor fellow had
his work to begin anew. He had plunged, with the
yielding branch, incontinently into the mire, and in the
first moment of the accident his entire face had been
immersed in its slime. However, there was no time
for regrets, and but little for reflection. The proceeding
of Scipio was that of an instinct rather than a thought.
He heard the fierce challenge of the sentinel, who yet
did not see him. He saw that, in any endeavour at
flight, he must be shot; and to seek to prosecute his
scheme would be idle, as the drain lay between him and
the advancing soldier: he could not reach it in time to
escape his eyes. In boldness alone could he hope to
escape; and, in the moment of sudden peril, audacity is
frequently the truest wisdom. He rose upon his feet
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with the utmost composure; and, without seeking to retreat
or advance, exclaimed as he rose, in all the gusto
of a well-fed negro's phraseology, with a degree of impudence
which might have imposed upon a more sagacious
head than that of the sentinel before him—
“Look 'ere, misser sodger,—take care how you
shoot at mossa nigger. Good sarbant berry scarce in
dis country; and, when gempleman hab sarbant like
Scip, he ain't foolish 'nough for sell 'em. No gold—
no silber money guine buy Scip; so take care, I tell you,
how you spile you' pocket.”
“Why, what the hell, Scip, are you doing there?”
demanded the gruff soldier, who knew him well.
“Ki, Mass Booram, wha' for you ax sich foolish
question? Enty you see I tumble in de ditch? Suppose
you tink I guine dare of my own head, and spile
my best breeches? You's wrong. I hold on de branch,
and de branch breck, and so I tumble. Wha' more?
Da's all.”
“And suppose, Scip, that instead of coming up to
you civilly, as I have done, I should have sent a bullet
into you ribs, or poked you a little with this bagnet?”
“You bin do sich ting, Mass Booram, I say you no
gempleman. Nebber gempleman hit nigger if he kin
help it; 'cause a nigger's a 'spectable character wha'
can't help heself. Da's a good reason for udder people
for no hurt 'em. 'Tis only poor buckrah dat does
trouble nigger. Scip has ambition for gempleman; but
a poor buckrah, Mass Booram, he no wuss he tree
copper.”
“All very well, Scipio; but what brought you here,
old fellow? Don't you know you have no business in
this quarter?”
“Who tell you dat, Mass Booram? He's a d—n
fool of a nigger heself if he tell you so. Wha's de reason
I say so?—'cause, you see, I hab business in dis
quarter. Let me ax you few question, Mass Booram,
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and talk like a gempleman, 'cause I can't 'spect white
man when he lib 'pon gar-broff.”
“Go on, Scip,” replied the soldier, complacently.
“Fuss, den—you know I hab mossa, enty?”
“Yes, to be sure; if you hadn't, Scip, I'd take you
for myself: I like a good negro mightily.”
“'Speck you does, but da's noting; you hab for ax if
good nigger like you. Mossa want to sell Scip, he gib
um ticket look he owner: da's de business. But da's
not what we hab for talk 'bout. If I b'long to mossa,
wha' he name?”
“Why, Mr. Berkeley, to be sure!”
“Da's a gospel. I b'long to Dick Berkeley,—dis
plantation b'long to Dick Berkeley,—Dick Berkeley
hab he cow, enty, Mass Booram?”
“Yes, cow and calf in plenty, and enough of every
thing besides. I only wish I had half as much, I would
not carry this d—d heavy musket.”
“Ha! you leff off sodger? You right, Mass
Booram; sodger is bad business,—nebber sodger is
good gempleman. He hab for cuss—he hab for drunk:
he hab for hurt udder people wha's jist as good and
much better dan heself. I terra you what, Mass Booram,
Scip wouldn't be sodger for de world and all da's
in it; he radder be poor buckrah—any ting sooner dan
sodger. A sodger is a poor debbil, dat hab no ambition
for 'spectability: I radder be nigger-driber any day, dan
cappin, like Mass Barsfield.”
“You would, would you? you d—d conceited crow
in a corn-field! Why, Scipio, you're the most vainest
flycatcher in the country,” said the other, good-naturedly.
Scipio received the speech as a compliment.
“Tank you, Mass Booram. You's a gempleman,
and can comperhend. But wha' I was telling you?—
ah! Mossa hab cow. Wha' den? Now I guine
show you wha' bring me here. Da's some of you sodger
bin guine tief he milk, and breck down de gate of de
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cow-yard. Wha' den?—Brindle gone—Becky gone—
Polly gone. Tree of mossa best cow gone, cause
you sodger lub milk. Wha' Scip for do? Wha' mossa
tell um. It's dat is bring me here. I guine look for
de cow. I no bring um home by daylight, mossa say
driber shall gib me hell.”
“And so you want to pass here, Scipio, in order to
look after the cattle? Suppose now I should not suffer
you to pass—suppose I should send you back to get
your flogging?”
“Suppose you does?” said the other, boldly; “Suppose
you does, you's no gempleman. Da's a mean
buckrah, Mass Booram, wha' kin do so to poor nigga.
Wha' for you guine let mossa gib me hell? I ebber
hurt you, Mass Booram? 'Tis you own sodger guine
for tief de milk, dat's let out Brindle and Becky. Scip
nebber let 'em out. Wha' for you no say—whip de
sodger—wha' for you say whip de nigga?”
“It is a hard case, Scip, and you shall pass, though
it's agin orders. But remember, old boy, when you
bring home the cows, I must have the first milking.
You shall provide me with milk so long as we stay
here for saving you from this flogging.”
“Da's a bargin,” said the negro, preparing to depart:
“da's fair. Mass Booram, I bin always tink you
was a gempleman, dat hab a lub for poor nigga. I kin
speak for you after dis.”
“Thank you, Scipio,” said the other, good-naturedly.
“Take piece of gunja—he berry good, Mass Booram—
my wife make 'em.”
The negro broke his molasses-cake evenly between
himself and the soldier, who did not scruple readily to
receive it. A few more words were exchanged between
them, when, passing the avenue, Scipio hurried forward,
and found himself, his chief difficulties surmounted, in
the deep bosom of the adjoining woods.
Free of all present restraint, the tongue of Scipio,
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after a very common fashion among negroes, discoursed
freely to its proprietor, aloud, upon the difficulties
yet before him.
“Well, 'spose I pass one, da's noting. Plenty more,
I speck, scatter 'bout here in dese woods; and, if he
ain't tory—wha' den? Some of dese Marion men jist
as bad. He make noting of shoot poor nigga, if it's
only to git he jacket. Cracky! wha' dat now? I
hear someting. Cha! 'tis de wind only. He hab all
kind of noise in dis wood for frighten people—sometime
he go like a man groan wid a bullet-hole work in
he back. Nodder time he go like a person was laughing;
but I don't see noting here to make person laugh.
Da's a noise now I don't comperhend—like de nocking
ob old dry sticks together; 'spose it's some bird da's
flapping off de moschetus wid his wings. It's a bad
place in dis woods, and I wonder wha' make dat Dick
Wedderspoon lub 'em so. Whay him now,—'tis like a
blind nigga that don't come when you want um. I no
bin look arter um now, I plump jist 'pon um. I no
hab noting to ax um, he sure for answer. I no hab
noting to gib um, he sure for put out he hand for someting.
He's a—”
At that moment a heavy slap upon the cheek from a
ponderous hand saluted the soliloquizing Scipio, and arrested
his complainings. The light flashed from the
negro's eyes as he turned at this rough saluation.
“Cracky! Who da dat—Mass Wedderspoon?”
“Ah, you rascal—you know'd well enough. You
only talked out your impudent stuff for me to hear,
Scipio, 'cause you know'd I was close at hand.”
“I sway to G—d, Mass Wedderspoon, I nebber
b'lieb you been so close. I bin look for you.”
“Why, you numscull, you came a great deal out of
your way, for I was behind you all the time. You managed
that sentinel mighty well, Scip,—I heard the whole
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of your palaver, and really did believe at first that the
cows were off, and you were going after them.”
“And how come you no b'lieb now, Mass Wedderspoon?”
“Because, you were no sooner out of his sight fairly,
but you began to go faster than before—much faster
than you ever did go when you went out into the swamp
after cattle.”
“Da's a trute. But you know, Mass Wedderspoon,
wha' I come out for—you know who I looking arter?”
“No—I do not; but I want to know a good deal
that you can tell me, so the sooner you begin the better.
How is Airnest, for the first?”
“He mos' well: but here's de paper—read 'em—he
tell you ebbry ting.”
The scout seized the scrawl, and strove to trace out
its contents by moonlight, but, failing to do so, he drew a
pistol from his belt, and, extracting the load, flashed the
priming in a handful of dry straw which Scipio heaped
together. With some little difficulty he deciphered the
scrawl, while the negro kept plying the fuel to the blaze.
Its contents were soon read and quickly understood.
Witherspoon was overjoyed. The prospect of Mellichampe's
release, even though at the risk of a desperate
fight, was productive to him of the most complete satisfaction.
“Go back,” he said, after a while, to the negro;
“go back and tell Airnest that you've seen me, and that
all's well. Tell him I'll go my death for him, and
do my best to git others, though the time is monstrous
short.”
“You guine git 'em clear, Mass Wedderspoon, from
de d—d hook-nose tory?” asked the negro.
“I'll try, Scip, by the etarnal!”
“Da's a gempleman. But dem little guns—da's jist
what Mass Airnest want. He must hab someting,
Mass Wedderspoon, for hole he own wid dem tory.
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Put de marble in de mout' of de pistol,—I'll carry
um.”
“'Spose they find 'em on you, Scip?”
“Enty I fin' um. I pick um up in de path. You
tink dem tory guine catch weasel asleep, when he 'tan'
by Scip. No notion ob such ting, I tell you.”
The scout gave him both pistols, which the negro immediately
lashed about his middle, carefully concealing
them from exposure by the thick waistband of his pantaloons.
“Now go, Scip,—go back to Airnest, and tell him
I've set my teeth to help him, and do what he axes.
I'm guine back now to the boys in camp, and I reckon
it won't be too much to say that Major Singleton will
bring a smart chance of us to do the d—dest, by a
leetle, that ever yet was done to help a friend out of a
hobble.”
They separated—one seeking the camp of Barsfield,
the other that of Marion, which, at this time, a
few miles only divided.
CHAPTER XXV.
The absence of Blonay occasioned no small annoyance
to all the leading parties at “Piney Grove.” Suspicious
of all things and persons, the tory captain, who
depended for the prosecution of his scheme upon Blonay's
ministry, began to fear that the Half-Breed was
playing him false. Not confiding to him at first, under a
doubt of his integrity, the suspicions of Janet and Mellichampe
were duly increased by his absence. Neither
of these parties seemed to think of the possibility of evil
having befallen him. It was more natural, he was so
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low and destitute, to think of his evil nature rather than
of his human liability to mishap.
But Barsfield made his preparations, notwithstanding
the absence of his ally. He had already chosen a certain
number of his more resolute and ready men, to whom
certain stations were to be assigned, along where the
course of Mellichampe lay, under the guidance of the
Half-Breed. The tory, however, had not communicated
any thing calculated to arouse the suspicions of those
whom he employed. That communication was left over
for the last moment. He simply prescribed their places
of watch, and commanded the utmost vigilance.
There was another order given about this time by
Captain Barsfield, which had its annoyances for other
parties in our narrative. To Lieutenant Clayton was
assigned the duty, with a small escort, of conveying Mellichampe
for trial to Charleston, in the beginning of the
ensuing week. This order produced some little sensation.
“And you really leave `Piney Grove' so soon, Lieutenant
Clayton?” was the inquiry of Rose Duncan that
evening, shortly after tea was over, of the hitherto gay
gallant who sat beside her. The old gentleman, Mr.
Berkeley—as had been usual with him for some time
past—had retired early. His daughter, as a matter now
of course, was with her lover; and the two, Rose and
Clayton, as was much the case since the capture of Mellichampe,
were tête-à-tête. There was nothing in the
words themselves indicative of more than a common feeling
of curiosity—nothing, perhaps, in the manner of their
expression; and yet the lieutenant could not help the
fancy that persuaded him to think that there was a hesitating
thickness of voice in the utterance of the speaker,
that spoke of a present emotion. His eyes were at once
turned searchingly upon her face, as he listened to the
flattering inquiry, and her own sank to the ground beneath
his gaze. He replied after the pause of a single instant.
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“If I could persuade myself, Miss Duncan, that you
shared in any degree the regret which I feel at leaving
`Piney Grove,' though it would greatly increase my reluctance
to do so, it would afford me no small consolation
during my absence.”
The lieutenant began to look serious and sentimental,
and the maiden recovered her caprice. Her answer
was full of girlish simplicity, while her manner was most
annoying, arch, and satirical.
“Well, I do, Mr. Clayton—I do regret your going—
that I do, from the bottom of my heart. Bless me, what
should I have done all this time but for you?—how monstrous
dull must have been these hours. I really shall
miss you very much.”
The lieutenant was disappointed. He had not looked
for a transition so sudden, in the voice, words, and manner
of his fair but capricious companion; and, for a moment,
he was something daunted. But, recovering himself
with an effort, as from frequent intercourse he had
discovered that the only way to contend with one of her
character was to assume some of its features, he proceeded
to reply in a manner which had the effect of compelling
her somewhat to resume that momentary gravity
of demeanour which had accompanied her first speech;
and which, as it was unfrequent, he had found, in her,
rather interesting.
“But I have a consolation in my exile, Miss Duncan,
since it is to a city full of the fair; and dances and flirtations
every night in Charleston, with the young, the
rich, and the beautiful, should compensate one amply for
the loss—ay, even for the loss—temporary though I hope
it may be—of the fair Miss Duncan herself.”
“Treason—treason—a most flagrant rebellion, and
worthy of condign punishment,” was the prompt reply of
the maiden; though it evidently called for no inconsiderable
effort on her part to respond so readily, and to dissipate
the cloudy expression just then coming over her
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face again. She was about to continue her reply, and,
moved by some uncertain feeling, Lieutenant Clayton
had transferred himself from a neighbouring chair to a
seat on the sofa beside her, when Janet Berkeley entered
the room. Her appearance produced a visible constraint
upon both the parties, and she saw at a glance
that she was unnecessary to their conference. She did
not seem to remark them, however; and, though she perceived
that a new interest was awakened in their mutual
minds for each other, she had no time to give to reflection
on this subject: nor, indeed, have we. She left
the room after getting what she sought, and returned to
the apartment of Mellichampe. She had scarcely done
so, when Barsfield joined the two, and offered another
obstacle to a conversation which, to both parties, had
promised to become so interesting.
So much for the condition of things in the camp of the
tory. In that of the partisan, affairs were even more
promising. Witherspoon reached it in no long time after
his interview had taken place with Scipio. He immediately
sought out his superior. Major Singleton
was the individual to whom he made his communication;
and, through him, the paper sent by Mellichampe, and
the facts furnished by the scout, were duly put in Marion's
possession. The words of the chief were few—his
plans soon laid—his decision readily adopted.
“It will do, Singleton,” he said, with a lively air of
satisfaction. “The game is a good one, and only requires
to be played with spirit. The plan promises better
than that of Horry, since we shall now not only rescue
Mellichampe, I think, but strike a fatal blow at
Barsfield's position. What number of loyalists does
Thumbscrew report as in `Piney Grove' since the
27th?”
“Eighty-six have gone in to him since the 27th—
thirty-two before—and the troop which he brought, after
all its losses, could scarcely be less than twenty-five.”
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“Making in all—”
“One hundred and forty-three, rank and file.”
“Not too many—not too many, major, if we employ
the scheme. What say you?”
“I think not, general. Barsfield will concentrate his
men, most probably, on the line over which Mellichampe
is to be conducted. That direction we know from this
paper. The advantage is important which it gives us,
since we have only to plan our enterprise so as to avoid
this—fall upon other points of his camp, and break in
upon his ambush, flank and rear, while avoiding his
front.”
“True, Singleton,—it will be to our advantage in beating
Barsfield, I grant you,—but not in serving Mellichampe.
If he keeps this line, it will be necessary that
we strike a moment before he approaches, and just when
he has left the house, or he must fall before our help
would avail him, coming in from flank and rear. We
must confound the ambush in part—we must keep the
whole camp of the tory alive by a concerted attack at
all points, in front not less than in rear, or we lose Mellichampe,
though we gain the fight.”
Singleton acknowledged the difficulty.
“If,” resumed Marion, “if Mellichampe would only
think to avoid the track prescribed by his confederate,
and force him to go aside upon another route—however
slight the variation—it would yet serve us, and we might
save him.”
“I doubt not, general, that he will think of this—he
is wonderfully shrewd in such matters, though rash and
thoughtless enough in others. I think we may rely upon
him that he will.”
“We must hope for it, at least,” said Marion. “The
affair looks promising enough in all other respects, and
we must drive our whole force to the adventure. We
have been cooped up long enough. Go, Singleton, order
in vour remote scouts. Get all your men in
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readiness, and send your lieutenant, Humphries, to me. I
have some instructions for him. I will lead in this business
myself.”
Singleton proceeded to the spot where Humphries
usually slept, but he was not to be found. Let us account
for his absence.
Humphries, secure of his enemy, excited by the trying
scene through which he had passed, and scarcely
less so by the novel form of death to which circumstances
had prompted him to devote his victim, returned to the
camp in a state of the utmost mental agitation. It was
yet daylight, and sundry little duties in the camp called
for his attention. These he performed almost unconsciously.
His thoughts were elsewhere. An excitation
of feeling, which sometimes moved him like insanity, disturbed
his judgment, and affected the coherence and the
regularity of his movements. In this state of mind, with
just enough of consciousness to feel that he was wandering,
and that he needed repose, he made his way
about dusk from the observation of the camp, and seeking
out a little bank in the swamp, with which he was
familiar, where he might sleep in secrecy, he threw himself
under a tree, and strove to forget the past. Shutting
his eyes, he hoped in this way to shut out all the images
of strife and terror which yet continued to annoy him.
He succeeded in his desire, and at length slept. But
his sleep was more full of terrors than his waking
thoughts. He dreamed, and the horror of his dreams
aroused him. He heard the cries of the victim whom
he had buried while yet alive. His dreadful shrieks rang
in his ears; and, bursting from their sockets in blood, he
saw the goggle eyes looking down upon him, through
the crevice in the cypress where he had last seen them.
This was not long to be endured. He started from his
sleep—from his place of repose, and stood upon his
feet. Had he slept?—this was doubtful to him—so
vivid, so imposing and real had been the forms and
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fancies of his vision. But the night had fairly set in, and
this convinced him that he had slept. A faint light from
the stars came scattered and tremblingly through the
leaves, that complained in the cool wind of evening that
fitfully stole among them. The moon was just rising,
and gave but feeble light. The heavy trees seemed to
dance before his eyes—huge shadows stalked gloomily
between them, and, shuddering with bitter thoughts and
terrifying fancies, the stout woodman for a few moments
was unmanned.
“I can bear it no longer,” he cried aloud, in his disquiet.
“I can bear it no longer.”
With the words he picked up his rifle, which lay upon
the spot where he had lain himself. He felt for the
knife in his belt, and, finding that his equipment was complete,
he moved away with the haste of one who has
fully resolved—saddled his horse, which he mounted
with all speed—and, barely replying to the several challenges
of the sentinels, he darted forth upon the well-known
road. The relentless spur left the steed no
breathing moment. The thoughts of the trooper flew
faster than he could drive his horse; and, though going
at the utmost extent of his powers, the impatient trooper
chafed that the animal went so slowly.
The well-known swamp entrance was in sight—the
cane-brake was passed—and there, rising up in dreadful
silence, white and ghostlike in its aspect under the increasing
brightness of the moonlight, stood the tall cypress
in which his victim was buried. The steed of the
trooper was stopped suddenly—so suddenly that he almost
fell back upon his haunches. His rider alighted—
but, for some moments, frozen to the spot, he dared not
approach the object before him. The awful stillness of
the scene appalled him. He strove to listen—he would
have given worlds to have heard a groan—a moan—a
sigh—however slight, from the cavernous body of that
tree! A curse—ay, though the wretch within had again
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cursed his mother—would have been grateful to the
senses and the heart of him who now stood gazing upon
it in horror and in silence, but with the motionlessness
of a statue.
He recovered strength at last sufficient to advance.
He reached the tree. The wedges which secured his
prisoner had been undisturbed. He put his ear to the
rough bark of its sides, but he heard no sounds from
within. He drew with desperate hand the pegs from the
upper crevice, and fancied that a slight breathing followed
it; or it might be the soughing of the wind, suddenly
penetrating the aperture. He called aloud to the inmate—
he shouted with his mouth pressed to the opening—he
implored—he cursed his victim—but he got no answer.
What were his emotions as he pulled, with a giant's
muscle, the hard wedges from the hollow of the tree below?
He had slain his foe in battle—he had killed,
without remorse, the man who, personally, had never
done him wrong:—why should he suffer thus from the
just punishment of a vindictive and a sleepless enemy?
He felt, but did not stop to analyze, this subtlety. He
tore away the chunks which had fastened the opening,
and thrust his hands into the hollow. The legs of the
Half-Breed had sunk down from the knobs upon which
they had rested, while he was capable of exertion, and
they were now a foot deep in the water which filled the
hollow. With both hands, and the exercise of all his
strength, Humphries succeeded in pulling him out by
them. The body was limber, and made no effort and
opposed no resistance. Dragging him through the water,
which he could not avoid, the partisan bore him to
the bank, upon which he laid him. As yet he showed
no signs of life; and the labour which his enemy had
taken seemed to have been taken in vain; but the fresh
air, and the immersion which he had unavoidably undergone
in passing through the water, seemed to revive him—
so Humphries thought, as, bending over him, he
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watched his ghastly features in the moonlight. He tore
open the jacket and shirt from his bosom, and felt a
slight pulsation at his heart. Never was joy more perfect
than, at this moment, in the bosom of the partisan.
He laughed with the first conviction that his enemy still
lived. He laughed first, loudly and wildly, and then
the tears, an unrestrainable current, flowed freely from
his eyes. The Half-Breed continued to revive; and
Humphries prayed by his side, as fervently as if praying,
in the last moment of his existence, for the mercy of an
offended God.
He strove in every known way to assist the workings
of nature in the resuscitation of his enemy. He fanned
him with his cap—he sprinkled him freely with water,
and spared no means, supposed in his mind to be beneficial,
to bring about the perfect restoration of his victim.
At length he succeeded. The legs of the Half-Breed
were, one after the other, suddenly drawn up, then relaxed—
he sighed deeply—and, finally, the light stole into his
glazed orbs, as if it had been some blessed charity from
the moon, that now glistened over them.
As he continued to improve, and with the first show
of consciousness, Humphries lifted him higher up the
bank, and laid him at the foot of a shrub tree which grew
at hand. He then receded from him to a little distance—
placed himself directly before his eyes—resumed
his rifle, which he prepared and presented, and
thus, squat upon one knee in front of him, he awaited
the moment of perfect recovery, which should again, in
the consciousness of new life, inform him, at the same
time, of the presence of an ancient enemy.
Thus stationed, he watched the slowly recovering
Blonay, for the space of half an hour, in silence and in
doubt. The scene was a strange one; and to his mind,
not yet relieved from the previously active terrors of his
imagination, an awful and imposing one. In the deep
habitual gloom of that swamp region, among its
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flickering shadows—girdled by its thick and oppressive silence,
and watching its skeleton trees until they seemed imbued
with life, and, in the ghostly and increasing moonlight,
appeared to advance upon, and then to recede away from
him—he felt, at every moment of his watch, an increasing
and superstitious dread of all things and thoughts—
all sounds and objects, that assailed his senses, however
remotely, and roused his emotions, however slight. And
as the slow consciousness grew, like a shadow itself, in
the cheek and eye of the man whom he had so lately beheld
as lifeless, he half doubted whether it was human,
and not spectral life, that he now beheld. He half believed
that an evil spirit had possessed the mangled and deformed
frame of the man before him, and was now beginning,
with an aspect of anxious malignity, once more
to glare forth upon him from the starting eyes of the
Half-Breed.
He shuddered with the thought, and he felt that his
grasp upon his rifle grew more and more unsteady, until
at length he almost doubted his own capacity to
secure a certain aim upon his enemy, in the event of
strife. With this fear, determined, as he was, to have a
perfect control over the life of Blonay, whatever might
be the movement of the latter, he rose from the spot
where he watched, and approached so nigh to the slowly
recovering man, that the extended rifle nearly touched his
breast. At that moment Blonay started, raised his head,
and, half sitting up, gazed wildly upon the scene around
him. His eye caught that of Humphries in the next instant,
and he acknowledged the presence of his enemy
by an involuntary start, rising, at the same moment, to
a full sitting posture, and answering the watchful glance
of the partisan by one of inquiry and astonishment, not
less intense in its character than that which he encountered.
His eye next rested upon his own rifle, which
Humphries had thrown upon the bank, in the full glare of
the moonlight, and his body involuntarily inclined towards
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it. With the movement came the corresponding one of
the partisan. The muzzle of his weapon almost reached
Blonay's breast, and the lock clicked with singular
emphasis, in the general silence of the scene, as Humphries
cocked it.
“Stir not, Goggle—move a foot, and I'll put the lead
through you. It's a mercy I don't do it now.”
Without a word, Blonay kept his position, and his eye
met that of his foe without fear, though with the utmost
passiveness of expression. Humphries continued—
“You've hunted me like a varmint—you've pulled
trigger upon me—I have your mark, and will carry it, I
reckon, to my grave. There's no reason why I should
let you run.”
He paused, as if awaiting an answer; but the stare of
his enemy alone responded to his speech.
“What do you say now, Blonay, why I shouldn't put
the bullet into you? Speak now—it's only civility.”
“Adrat it, nothing,” said the other, drawing up his
legs.
“You're from my own parish, and that's one reason,”
said Humphries, “that's one reason why I want to
give you fair play, and it's reason enough why I don't
want to spill your blood. Answer me now, Goggle,
like a man—do you want mine?”
He paused, but received no answer. He thus proceeded—
“I had you safe enough, but I couldn't find it in my
heart to take your life after that fashion, so I let you out.
Tell me, now, if you can go without taking tracks after
me again? Suppose I let you run—suppose I leave you,
without troubling you now with this lead, that only waits
till I lift this finger to go through your scull—will you
follow me again?—will you come hunting for my blood?
Speak! for your life depends on it.”
“Adrat it, Bill Humphries, you've got the gun, and
you say there's a bullet in it. I'm here afore you, and
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I don't dodge. I ain't afeard,” was the reckless and
seemingly impatient response.
“That's as much as to say that you won't promise,
and it's enough to satisfy me to my own conscience for
pulling trigger upon you at once. But I won't. I'll
give you a chance for your life. There shall be fair play
between us. Take your rifle—there it lies—get yourself
ready, and take your stand on the edge of the bank,
and then be as quick as you think proper, for the first
one to cut away will have the best chance for life.”
A visible change came over the features of the Half-Breed
as he listened to this address. His head dropped—
his chin rested upon his breast—and, without any
other answer, he simply raised the hand which Humphries
had mashed so remorselessly with the pine-knot,
when its owner had thrust it through the crevice of the
tree. He raised it, and in the action showed to his enemy
how utterly impracticable it was for him to hold the
rifle with any hope of its successful use. Humphries was
silenced, and his own feelings were strongly affected
when he actually beheld a tear in the blear eye of the
Half-Breed, as he looked upon the maimed and utterly
helpless member. The privation must have been terrible
indeed, to extort such an acknowledgment from one
so inflexible. It certainly was the greatest evil that
could have befallen him, to lose the use of the weapon
on which so much depended; and then, what was his
mortification to submit to a challenge from a hated enemy—
his weapon and his foe alike at hand—unable to
employ the one or to punish the other?
The rifle of Humphries was lowered as he felt the
full force of Blonay's answer. He turned away to conceal
his own emotion.
“Go!” he cried, “go, Blonay—you are free this
time. I must take my chance, and run my risk of your
taking tracks after me again. Go now,—but better not
let me meet you. My blood is hotter at other times
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than now. I'm sad and sorry now—and there's something
to-night in the woods that softens me, and I can't
be angry—I can't spill your blood. But 'twon't always
be so—and, if you're wise, you'll take the back tracks
and go down quietly to Dorchester.”
Without waiting for any answer, the partisan hurried
through the cane-brake; and, with a motion less rapid
than that which brought him, took his way back to the
camp of Marion, where he arrived not a moment too
soon for the most active preparation and employment.
Bruised, enfeebled, almost helpless, the Half-Breed
slowly returned to the tory encampment at “Piney
Grove.” He appeared before Barsfield at early morning
on the day following that, the circumstances of which
we have recorded. His presence quieted the anxieties,
as it met the desires, of all parties.
“Your hand—what is the matter with it?—why is it
bound up?” demanded Barsfield.
“Mashed it with a piece of timber in the swamp,”
was the unscrupulous answer of the Half-Breed, who
suppressed all the particulars of his affair with Humphries.
“Any luck?—met with your man?” was the farther
question.
“No,” was the ready answer.
“You are ready for mine, however?”
“To-night—yes.”
“At midnight. But you must see Miss Berkeley,—
have every thing well understood, so that there will be
no confusion—no delay. She does not suspect—she
seems satisfied?”
“Mighty well pleased.”
“'Tis well. Thus, then, you will proceed. The
sentinel will be withdrawn from the gallery, and you
shall have, at the hour, another key to the padlock.
Guide him forth as soon as possible after the withdrawal
of the sentinel,—you know the course?”
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“Yes—by the railing, and so on to the avenue.”
“Be particular, and do not leave the track for an instant.
Go now—I shall be out of the way—seek Miss
Berkeley, and conclude your arrangements with her for
to-night.”
The Half-Breed left him.
“To-night!” were the only words uttered by the tory
as he went towards the outposts, but they were full of
import, and his face looked every thing which his lips
forbore to utter.
CHAPTER XXVI.
That day was spent in arrangements. Barsfield
chose his men for the purposes of assassination—but he
did not surrender his secret to their keeping. He was
too wary for that. They had their places assigned,
and all that he condescended to unfold to them, by
way of accounting for the special appointment and the
earnest commands which he gave, may be comprised
in few words.
“I suspect,” said he, “that there is some treason
among us. I suspect the scout—Blonay. I have reason
to think he purposes, either this night or the next, to
betray the camp to Marion, and to escape with the spy
Mellichampe. You will therefore preserve the utmost
watchfulness upon the posts which I assign you; and,
if you see any thing to alarm you, any thing worthy of
suspicion, act upon it decisively and without pause. If
you see the prisoner with the scout, spare neither—put
them both to death. To seek to recapture the spy
might lose him, and such an event would be ruinous and
disgraceful. I trust to you, men—you will do your
duty.”
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In the chamber of Mellichampe, whose fate thus
hung upon a thread, the interest, it may be supposed, was
not less important and exciting. Concealed in a shawl
assumed for the purpose, the maiden carried to her lover
the much desired weapons which Scipio had received
from Witherspoon. The message of the trusty woodman
was also delivered correctly, and the intelligence
strengthened the youth accordingly, and half reconciled
Janet to the experiment which she so much dreaded.
“This is well—this is excellent!” cried Mellichampe,
grasping the pistols, trying the charge, and examining
their condition,—“this is well,—both loaded—
good flints,—I fear nothing now, Janet. At least, I am
able to fight,—I am not less able to destroy than my
enemies.”
She turned away with a shudder; but she felt happier
and more hopeful as she beheld his exultation.
Not less busy in the camp of Marion, the entire
force of the partisans was preparing for the assault.
Every available arm was required for the service, as the
little squad of the “swamp fox” at this period barely
numbered one hundred and fifty men—many of these
only partially armed, and some of them who had never
been in fight before.
“Have you had reports from the scouts, Major Singleton?”
demanded the general.
“Not yet, sir. I have sent out Humphries and
Witherspoon, who will bring us special accounts by
noon. We shall have time enough then for our movement.”
“Quite—quite. This plan of Thumbscrew's is admirable.
If the scouts do handsomely, we can put a
dead shot for every sentinel on one side of the avenue.
It can scarcely fail, I think.”
“Impossible, sir—if the action is concerted, and I
think we have time enough to make it so. The firing
of the tents must follow the first knowledge we have
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of Mellichampe's movement; and that knowledge, if I
mistake him not, we shall have as soon as he leaves the
house, for Witherspoon has sent him his pistols. When
the alarm is given by the blaze, I will charge from the
lower bay—to which I can get, with all my men, by
nine o'clock—moving slowly and without detection.
With proper firmness we cannot help but succeed.”
“I doubt not we shall do so, major—I doubt not that
we shall defeat the tory, and I hope annihilate his force;
but, in that first moment, I dread every thing for Mellichampe.
The tory, doubtless, will watch every step
which he takes, and he may be murdered the moment
after he leaves the house.”
“But it is on one route only that he puts his guard.
Relying on his scout as faithful, he will calculate upon
his bringing Mellichampe into his very jaws—”
“And how know we that he is not faithful to his employer?
What reason is there to believe him friendly
to Mellichampe? This is my doubt. So long as
Barsfield can pay this fellow in solid gold, he has his
fidelity.”
“Yes, sir,—very probably; but I scarcely think that
Mellichampe will keep the one track. I rely greatly
on his sagacity in all matters of this sort, and think
that the moment he leaves the dwelling, he will not feel
himself bound to follow the lead of his companion.”
“I hope not,” was the response of Marion to the
sanguine calculations of Major Singleton; “I hope not,
but I apprehend for him. We must do our best, however,
and look to Good Fortune to help us through
where we stumble. But no more. See now to your
farther preparations, for we move by dusk.”
The affair on hand impressed no one more seriously
with its importance than Thumbscrew. He addressed
Major Singleton the moment after his return, bringing
the desired intelligence, which he did at noon. He addressed
him to solicit what he styled a favour.
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“But why incur a danger so great, and, seemingly,
so unnecessary? I see no use for it, Thumbscrew.”
“No use!—there's use for it, major, and satisfaction;
as for danger, I'm a born danger myself, and I shouldn't
be afraid to stand in the way of my own shadow. But
I don't think there's any danger, major,—to cross the
avenue ain't so mighty hard to a man like me, that's
played, in my time, a part of every beast, and bird, and
crawling critter that's known to a Santee woodman. I
can pass them sentries like a gust from a big winged
bird, and so they'll think me. I can git into that bay
without waking a blind moscheto; and, once I gits
there, I can do a mighty deal now, I tell you, by a sartin
whistle which I has, to tell Airnest Mellichampe
where to find me.”
The arguments of Witherspoon soon persuaded his
superior, and he went alone, long in advance of the partisans,
on his individual and daring adventure. He
gained the bay with the same ease and good fortune
which marked his progress in a similar effort, which we
have previously described. There he waited anxiously,
but in patience, the events which were at hand.
At nightfall the partisans, the entire force of Marion,
approached “Piney Grove”—not so near as to be subjected
to any danger of discovery, yet sufficiently so to
be in readiness for any circumstance which might suddenly
call them forward. In a deep wood, the very
one in which Scipio's interview had taken place with
Witherspoon, they alighted, and Marion proceeded to
divide his men into three bodies. To one, under command
of Colonel Horry, he assigned the task of firing
the tents and striking at the main post of the encampment.
To another troop, acting simply as cavalry, under
Major Singleton, he gave it in charge to attack the
rear by a sudden and fierce onset, the moment that
Horry should commence the affair—the firing of the
tents being a common signal. To himself he reserved
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the more difficult, if not more dangerous task, of distributing
his men as riflemen, in front, along the whole
line of the avenue, prepared to commence the attack in
that quarter; and, pressing through the avenue—having
first slain the sentinels, each man of whom was to
be marked out by a corresponding rifleman—to unite
with the other two bodies near the bay so frequently
spoken of, where it was their hope to be in time to save
Mellichampe from the knife or pistol of the prepared
assassins.
This arrangement made, Singleton's troop remounted
their horses, and, under the direction of their leader,
made a wide circuit around the camp, so as to throw
themselves into the thicket lying in its rear. This they
gained before the moon rose. The men commanded
by Marion and Horry fastened their horses securely out
of the reach of danger, and pressed forward on foot to
their several stations. The riflemen stole individually
from cover to cover, until they ranged themselves along
the whole line of the avenue, and looked down upon
the pacing sentinels, who walked their rounds all unconscious
of the lurking death which lay hovering in dreadful
silence, and unseen, around them. Each partisan
in this way had selected his victim; and the “swamp
fox” himself, lying along a little ditch overgrown with
weeds and half full of water, lay as secretly and still
as ever did the adroit animal whose name had been assigned
him.
The hour was approaching. Barsfield had set his
snare, and was impatient.
“Go now—and bring him forth,” he said to Blonay.
“The time is close at hand.”
The Half-Breed, obedient to his will, left him on the
instant.
“He is mine at last!” was the triumphant thought
which the tory muttered at that moment to himself.
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“The toil will soon be over, and I shall triumph now—
I will bathe my feet in his blood.”
He went the rounds of the men whom he had stationed
on the watch for his victim. Some were immediately
around the house, though not known to Blonay.
Barsfield anticipated the possibility of the fugitive's taking
another direction than that which he had prescribed.
For this possibility he had prepared. He was
resolved that his plan should not fail through want of
due precautions. He saw that all were in readiness;
and, not remote, he took a station for himself which
would enable him, as soon as the deed was done, to
gratify himself with the sight of his murdered victim.
“Hist! hem!” were the sounds that saluted Mellichampe
at the door of his chamber. The hour had
come. In the next instant the door was unlocked, and,
with a fearless heart, having his pistols ready in his
grasp, he met his guide at the entrance.
“Are you Mr. Blonay?” was his question, as the
darkness of the passage-way did not permit him to distinguish
features. The reply was affirmative.
“I am ready,” said the youth. “Lead on.”
“Go not—go not, dear Ernest!” cried Janet Berkeley,
who was also watchful; “Go not, I pray you,—it is
not too late,—return to your chamber, for I dread me of
this trial. It will be fatal,—you cannot escape these
assassins, and the night is so bright and clear—”
“Hush!” he whispered,—“see you not?” and he
pointed to Blonay.
“I know—I know; but trust not—risk not, I implore
you, Ernest. Mr. Blonay knows—he says that
there is danger. He told me so but this moment.”
“Nay, Janet,—but you are too apprehensive. I
know the skill of Mr. Blonay,—he can help me through
the danger, and I fear it not.”
“But, dear Ernest—”
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He interrupted her, as, passing his arm about her
waist, he bent down and whispered in her ears,
“Would you prefer to see me hanging from a tree?
Remember, Janet, this is my only hope.”
“God help me! God be with you, and save you!”
she exclaimed.
He folded her to his bosom, and oh! the agony of
doubt that assailed both hearts at that instant. It might
be the last embrace that they should take in life. A
mutual thought of this nature produced a mutual shudder
at the same moment in their forms.
“One—one more, my beloved!” he cried, as they
parted—and, in another instant, he was gone from sight.
She sank down where he left her. Her hands were
clasped, and, too feeble for effort, yet too alive to her
anxieties to faint into forgetfulness, she strove, but how
vainly, even where she lay, to pray for his safety.
CHAPTER XXVII.
It was with conflicting emotions and an excited
pulse that Mellichampe hurried away from the embrace
of the maiden, possibly the very last that he should ever
be permitted to enjoy. In another moment, and the
woods were before his eyes; and he now felt assured
that every step which he took from the dwelling must
be taken in sight of his enemies. Yet he did not the
less boldly descend from the threshold, though he believed
that with every movement he came nigher to his
murderer. He did not deceive himself with idle hopes
of the forbearance and tender mercy of his foe, yet he
was resolute to struggle to the last—he was prepared
for any thing but martyrdom.
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Scarcely had he stepped from the door of the dwelling
into the shadow of a little clump of trees that lay
before it, when he heard the well-known whistle of
Witherspoon. He could not mistake the sounds, and
they came with a most cheering and refreshing influence
upon his senses.
“Trusty and brave Jack!” he muttered to himself, as
he listened,—“at least I shall have one true and strong
arm to help me in the struggle. I am not alone.”
The repeated sounds guided him in his progress.
He could not be mistaken now in their direction: he
felt certain that they came from the little bay, which he
well knew could easily conceal the scout so long as it
continued unsuspected. He turned quickly in the
direction of the sounds: Blonay touched his arm—
“This way, sir,” said the Half-Breed, in a whisper.
“No, sir, this way!” sternly, but in a similar whisper,
responded Mellichampe. “This way, sir, as I bid
you: you go with me in this direction, or you die.”
“But, cappin—” said the other, hesitatingly.
“No words—I trust you not—on!”
The muttered and decisive language was amply
seconded by the action of the speaker. One hand
grasped the maimed wrist of the Half-Breed, the other
held in the same moment the cocked pistol to his eyes.
Wincing under the pain which the sudden seizure of his
injured hand by that of Mellichampe had necessarily occasioned,
the fierce savage, with the other, grasped his
knife, and half drew it from the sheath. But the momentary
anger seemed to pass away before he had fully
bared it. He thrust it back again, and calmly replied
to his irritable companion—
“You can trust me, cappin; I'll go jist as you tells
me, for I promised the gal—she's a good gal—I promised
her to do the best, and I'll do jist as you says.
Lead on where you wants to go.”
“No, no—do you lead on, sir: I will not trust you.
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To the bay—but keep the trees, and do not show your
person unnecessarily. On, sir—the moment you go
aside, I shoot you down like a dog.”
The words were of fierce character, and uttered with
singular emphasis, but still in a whisper. The Half-Breed
by no means relished the manner of Mellichampe,
but he muttered to himself—
“I promised her—she's a good gal—”
And thus, reminding himself of his pledges, he prepared
to go forward.
“Keep close to those water-oaks,” said Mellichampe
to his companion, and he himself sank into their shadow
as he spoke. At that moment another whistle—not
that of Marion's men—came from the path which they
had left. It was answered by another, a few paces distant,
on the opposite hand. Mellichampe thrust Blonay
forward, and they both moved with increased rapidity
along the range of water-oaks, which at intervals afforded
them a tolerable shelter. Again the whistle was repeated,
and, to the disquiet of the fugitives, it was instantly
answered by some one immediately in front of
them, and on the very path they were pursuing.
“I reckon they've found us out—” Blonay began to
speak, but Mellichampe interrupted him.
“Silence, sir—no word—but follow me,” and the
youth moved hurriedly along, still upon the path he had
been pursuing, but looking out for his enemy, and cocking
his pistol in readiness. A bush parted and waved
a little before him, and with its evident motion Mellichampe
darted aside. In the next moment came the
shot, and immediately succeeding the report the youth
heard a gasping exclamation from his companion, by
which he knew him to be wounded—
“Ah!—it's me—it's hit me—”
Looking round, he saw the Half-Breed fall forward
upon his face, but immediately rise upon his hands and
knees, and crawl towards a little cluster of bushes which
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rose close at hand; where, with all the instinct of an
Indian, even after receiving his death-wound, he laboured
to conceal himself. The case was evidently a
desperate one. The youth was surrounded by his enemies;
and, unless the diversion of the partisans was
made promptly, he felt that he must be, in a few moments,
in the power of his murderers. The shot had
scarce been fired, and the exclamation of the wounded
man uttered, when he heard a rush as of several pursuers
from behind. He did not wait, but bounded forward,
for he knew that his friends were in front, and to
perish in the general combat would be infinitely better
than any other hazard. But he was not allowed so
readily to go forward. With his first movement from the
tree which had covered him at the moment when Blonay
fell, the assassin rushed out upon his path, with a recklessness
which showed that he believed Mellichampe to
be unarmed. He paid for his temerity with his life: at
five paces, and before he could recover from his error,
the youth shot him through the breast. The man staggered
out of his path, and fell without farther effort, crying
aloud—
“The spy,—the spy!—he's gone!—to the bay!—
Oh! I'm a dead man!”
While he was yet falling, Mellichampe hurled the
empty pistol into his face, and drawing the second and
last from his bosom, cocked it instantly for immediate
use, and hurried on towards the bay, which yet lay at
some little distance beyond him. The rushing and the
shouting of the tories, on every hand, informed him of
the close watch which had been kept upon his movements.
The voice of Barsfield was also heard above
the clamour, in furious exhortation—
“The spy has escaped with the Half-Breed: shoot
them both down—let neither escape—but fail not to
kill the spy;—no quarter to him!—five guineas to the
man who kills him!”
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“He is here!” cried one, dragging the still living
but mortally wounded Blonay from the bush where he
had concealed himself.
“Ha! where?” was the demand of Barsfield, rushing
to the spot where he lay. Without looking he
plunged his sword into the body, and felt the last convulsion
as the victim writhed around the blade. But he
spurned the carcass with his foot the next moment, when
he discovered that the scout, and not Mellichampe, lay
before him. With a fierce shout he led and hurried the
pursuit, impetuously dashing forward with all the fury of
one who, having been certain of his victim, now begins
to apprehend disappointment.
“Death to the spy!—pursue!—Five guineas to him
who kills him! No quarter to the spy!”
Such were his cries to his men as he himself pursued.
They reached the ears of Mellichampe—they
aroused him to a like fury. Desperate and enraged,
his temper became unrestrainable, and, though imprudent
in the last degree, he shouted back, even as he
fled, his defiance to his foes. The whistle of Witherspoon
fortunately reached his ear in that moment, and
guided him on his flight. His voice, meanwhile, had
disclosed the direction which he had taken to those who
were now clamorously pursuing him. But the pursuit
was arrested at the luckiest moment for the fugitive.
The tents were now blazing, and wild cries came from
the centre of the encampment. Clayton rushed across
the path of Barsfield.
“Stand aside—away! The spy—slay him! No
quarter to the spy!” cried the fierce tory, as he thrust
Clayton out of his path—his eyes glaring like balls of
fire, and the foam gathering thick around his mouth and
almost choking his utterance.
“What is all this, Captain Barsfield?” cried the second
officer, confusedly, to his superior.
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“Get from my path! Stand aside, or I hew thee
down!” was the desperate answer.
“But the camp's on fire!” said the lieutenant.
“The camp's on fire!” was the general cry around
him.
Barsfield only answered by pressing forward—selfishly
pursuing the one enemy, who, in his sight, took
the place and preference of all others. Indeed, at that
moment, he did not seem to be conscious of any other
object or duty than that of arresting Mellichampe.
“The spy—Mellichampe—he has seduced the sentinel—
he is fled—there—Lieutenant Clayton,—there—
in the bay! Pursue all, and kill him!—No quarter
to the spy!”
“But the camp—” said Clayton.
“Let it burn! Let it burn!” His words were silenced—
drowned in the sharp and repeated shot which
rang along the whole line of the avenue. He became
conscious on the instant, for the first time,—and now,
at once, conceived the nature of that concerted combination
which was likely to defraud him of his prey.
Still he did not conceive the assault to be made by any
large force. He did not think it possible.
“A surprise,” he said; “a mere diversion to help
the spy. To the front, Lieutenant Clayton,—send your
loyalists to the avenue! Line the front,—it will soon
be over,—it is but a straggling squad. Away—and
leave me for the spy. I will manage him with these
three men.”
The coolness of Barsfield seemed to have come
back to him as he gave these orders. But his rage
was the greater from having been suppressed so long.
He pressed forward to the bay with the three men who
were with him. He believed that Clayton would soon
manage the foe in front; and he was resolved upon the
death of Mellichampe, even if he did not. In another
moment, however, he was convinced that it was no
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random attack, simply for diversion, from a small squad.
The clamour was that of a large force, and the repeated
and well-known cry of the partisans followed the
first volley of the sharp-shooters.
“Marion's men—true blues—true blues! Hurra!
no quarter—Tarleton's quarters! One and all, Marion's
men!”
“One and all, men!” were the stern, shrill notes that
followed the cry.
It was the sharp voice of Marion himself, and it was
heard distinctly over the field: the sounds were fitly
concluded by a second volley and an increasing uproar.
“He is there with all his force!” exclaimed Barsfield;
“but no matter. I cannot turn now, and, at
least, Mellichampe is mine. He is here in this bay.
They cannot help him in season, and he must perish.
That done, I care not if Marion conquers—we can but
become his prisoners.”
These were the calculations of Barsfield, half uttered
as he pursued. Mellichampe was immediately before
him. He had heard his shout. The pursuers
were now on the edge of the bay which the youth had
entered.
“To the gum-trees, Dexter, and watch that point—
see that he does not gain the avenue. Keep him from
crossing. Put in on the right, Beacham; and you, Mason,
go in on the left. Spare him not! Slay him like
a dog! No quarter to the spy!”
These were his rapid orders to his men as they rushed
into the close but narrow thicket which was called
the bay.
“But five minutes! give me that,” muttered Mellichampe
to himself, “and I ask for no more. But
where can Witherspoon be?”
The next moment he heard the whistle of his friend
in a denser part of the bay, and he hurried with a new
joy towards him.
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“There are but three or four—and, if we can but join
first, we may give them work,” cried the youth, pressing
forward. But Witherspoon was now already engaged.
His voice kept pace in company with his sabre,
the clashing of which Mellichampe heard while
approaching him. The woodman had encountered one
of the pursuers. The affair, however, was soon over.
The man had met a sabre where he had looked only for
a victim.
“It's one less of the niggers,” cried Witherspoon,
aloud, as he struck his enemy down with a fatal blow.
“Hello! Airnest, boy, where is you?”
But the youth could not answer. He himself was
about to become busily engaged. Barsfield was before
him, and between him and Witherspoon. Mellichampe
had but his pistol, and he determined, as he saw the
copse disturbed in front, to conceal his weapon, as he
hoped that Barsfield would precipitate himself forward
as if upon an unarmed enemy, when he might employ
it suddenly and fatally. Indeed, he had no other
chance for life. In part, his plan was successful. The
tory leaped forward with a mad fury as he beheld the
youth. His sabre was waving above Mellichampe's
head, when the latter sank upon his knee and fired,—unerringly,
but not fatally. The ball penetrated the thigh
of the tory, who sank down upon him. They grappled
with each other upon the ground, struggling in a little
area where the trees seemed to have been scooped out,
as it were, expressly to afford them room for a struggle
of this sort. The physical power of Barsfield was
naturally greater than that of Mellichampe, and the recent
illness of the youth still farther increased the inequalities
between them; but Mellichampe had succeeded
in grasping the neckcloth of his enemy, while the
latter had a hold only upon one wrist and part of the
dress of the former. They were yet struggling upon
the ground without advantage to either, when one of
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Barsfield's men came to his assistance. The moment
was full of peril to the youth; but his friend Witherspoon
was no less prompt to succour and save than the
tory to destroy. He bounded through the intervening
bushes in time to neutralize the efforts of the new-comer.
A sabre-stroke from the woodman brought
him to the ground, and disabled him from any movement
towards the combatants; but, raising a pistol,
even after he had fallen, before Witherspoon could help
Mellichampe or get out of his way, he shot him in the
side. Before he could draw a second the woodman
cut him down. He had hardly done so, when a faintness
came over the faithful fellow: he leaned against a
tree, then sank nervelessly to the ground.
“It's a tough shot, Airnest, and I can't help you.
Who'd ha' thought it? Ah! it bites! But hold on,
Airnest—hold on, boy; the major will soon come to
pull you out of the bear's claws.”
“You are hurt, Jack?”
“Reckon I am—a bad hurt too, Airnest, if one may
tell by the sort of feeling it has.”
Without a word, Barsfield continued the struggle the
more earnestly, as he now found himself becoming
faint from the wound which Mellichampe had inflicted.
The youth himself grew momently less and less able to
resist his foe, and Witherspoon, who lay but a few feet
apart, and saw the mutual efforts of the two, could lend
no manner of assistance. The object of the tory was to
keep Mellichampe quiet with one hand while he shortened
his sabre with the other. This, as yet, he had striven
fruitlessly to do. The youth, who saw his aim, had
addressed all his energies to the task of defeating it;
and, when pushed away by Barsfield, had contrived, by
the grasp which he still maintained upon the neckcloth
of the latter, still to cling so closely to him as to prevent
his attainment of the desired object. While the
struggle thus remained doubtful, a new party was added
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to the scene in the person of Scipio, who came stealing
through the bushes. He had heard the clamour in that
direction which had taken place at first, and the subsequent
silence frightened him still more than all the noise
of the previous struggle. He came to gain intelligence
for his young mistress, whose apprehensions,
though unuttered in language, or even in tears, were
only silent because they were unutterable.
Witherspoon saw the negro first.
“Ha, Scip—nigger—is that you? Come quick,
nigger, and help your mossa.”
“Dah him—wha's de matter, Mass Wedderspoon—
you hurt?”
“Ask no questions, you black rascal, but run and
help Airnest: don't you see him there, fighting with the
tory?”
“Who—Mass Airnest—fighting wid de tory,—hey?”
The negro turned his eyes, and stood in amaze, to
behold the sort of contest which Mellichampe and Barsfield
carried on. The tory first addressed him—
“Scipio, run to Lieutenant Clayton—”
“Run to the devil!” cried Witherspoon; “knock
him on the head, Scipio, and save your master,—don't
let him talk.”
“Only say de wud, Mass Wedderspoon,—say de
wud, Mass Arnest,—you say I must knock dis tory?”
“Yes, to be sure,” cried Witherspoon, in a rage.
“If you dare,” said Barsfield, “you'll hang, scoundrel.
Beware what you do—fly—go to Lieutenant
Clayton—”
The negro interrupted him—
“You 'tan' for me, Mass Wedderspoon—you tell me
fur do 'em, I do 'em fur true.”
“Do it—do it, d—n you!—don't stand about it. He
will kill Airnest if you don't,—he'll kill us all!”
The negro seized a billet—a ragged knot of the
richest pine wood that lay at hand,—and approached the
two where they lay struggling—
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“I 'mos' 'fraid—he dah buckrah—I dah nigger.”
“Strike him!” cried Witherspoon, writhing forward
in an agony of excitement,—“strike him, Scip—I'll
answer for you, boy.”
“Hole you head fudder, Mass Arnest,” cried the
negro,—“I 'feard for hit you.”
“Will you dare, Scipio,—will you? Strike not,
Scipio—you shall have your freedom—gold—guineas,”
was the supplicating cry of Barsfield.
“I no yerry you, Mass Barsfield—you's a d—n
tory, I know. Dis dah my mossa,—I hab for mind um.”
While he spoke, he approached and planted one of
his feet between the bodies of the two combatants.
“Turn you' eyes, Mass Arnest.”
The heavy pine-wood knot was lifted above the head
of the tory. The eyes of Mellichampe were averted,
while Barsfield vainly strove to press forward as closely
to the youth as possible, and once or twice writhed
about in such a manner, though the grasp of Mellichampe
was still upon his collar, as entirely to defeat
the aim of the negro.
“'Tan' 'till—I mus' knock you, Mass Barsfield.”
“Scip—Scipio,” were the pleading tones of the tory,
as he threw up his arms vainly. The blow descended
and silenced him for ever. The billet was buried in his
brains. The scull lay crushed and flattened, and but a
single contraction of the limbs and convulsion of the
frame attested the quick transition of life to death—so
dreadful had been the stroke. Mellichampe had fainted.
“Hurra!—hurra! Well done, Scip—well done,—
you've saved the boy,—you're a nigger among a thousand!”
The tones of exultation and encouragement came
faintly from the lips of the woodman, who bled inwardly.
They fell upon unheeding senses, for the stupified
Scipio at that moment heard them not.
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
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The negro dropped the heavy pine-knot with the blow,
and, for a moment, stood gazing in stupor upon the horrid
spectacle—his own deed—before him. At length,
starting away, he dashed out of the bushes, in the direction
of the dwelling, crying aloud as he fled, in tones like
those of a maniac, and in words which indicated the intoxicating
effect of his new-born experience upon him—
“Ho! ho! I kill um—I hit um on he head. He's
a dirt—he's a dirt—I hab foot on um—I mash he brains.
Ho! ho! I kill buckrah. I's a nigger, I kill buckrah!
You tink for hang me—you mistake. Mass Wedderspoon
say de wud—Mass Arnest no say `no.' I kill
'em. He dead!”
He rushed into the apartment where the family were
all assembled in the highest degree of agitation. The
storm of battle, which still raged around them with unmitigated
fury, had terrified Mr. Berkeley and Rose
Duncan to the last degree. They appealed to Scipio
for information, but he gave them no heed.
“Whay's young missis?—young missis I want. I
hab for tell um someting.”
He refused all other answer, and made his way into
the adjoining apartment. Janet was at the window—
that nearest to the clamour—at which, through another
dreadful fight, she had watched unhesitatingly before.
She started to her feet as she beheld him.
“Ernest—speak to me, Scipio. What of Ernest?
Where is he?—tell me he is safe.”
“He dead!—I kill um!”
She shrieked and fell. The event restored the negro
to his senses. He picked her up, howling over her all
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the while, and bore her to the adjoining apartment, where
the care of Rose Duncan in a short time recovered her.
“Speak to me, Scipio,” she cried, rising, and addressing
him with an energy which despair seemed to have
given her, and which terrified all around—“Tell me all—
what of Ernest? He is not hurt—he has escaped?
You have told me falsely—he lives!”
“I 'speck so, missis—'tis I's a d—n fool for tell you
he been hurt. He no hurt. 'Tis Mass Barsfield I been
knock on de head—”
“Barsfield!—you!” was the exclamation of all.
“Yes—de d—n nigger—enty he been hab Arnest
'pon de ground?—he want to 'tick him wid he sword. I
take lightwood-knot, I hammer um on he head tell you
sees noting but de blood and de brain, and de white ob
he eye. He dead—'tis Scip mash um.”
“You struck him, Scipio?” said Mr. Berkeley.
“Mass Wedderspoon tell me, mossa. Enty he been
guine 'tick Mass Arnest? When I see dat, I 'tan look.
Jack Wedderspoon cuss me, and say—`why de hell you
no knock um?' Well, wha' I for do? Enty he tell
me? I knock um fur true! I hit um on he head wid
de pine-knot. De head mash flat like pancake. I no
see um 'gen.”
The maidens shuddered at the narration, but Janet
spoke instantly.
“But Ernest—what of him, Scipio? Was he hurt?
You have not said—is he safe?”
“I sway, misses, I can't tell. I 'speck he been hurt
someting. I left um on de ground. He ain't git up.”
“I will go,” she exclaimed.
“Think not of it, Janet, my child, till the noise is
over.”
But she had gone—while he yet spake, she had left
the room and the house—Scipio closely attending her.
The feebleness of age seemed no longer to oppress the
aged man. He rushed after the daughter of his heart
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with much of the vigour of youth, and with all the fearlessness
of a proper manhood. In that moment her worth
was conspicuous, in his forgetfulness of all fear and feebleness.
He heeded not the cries and the clamour—
the dreadful imprecations and the sharp ringing shot,
which momently assailed his ears in his progress. The
fight was still going on along the avenue and in the park,
but its fury was abating fast. Mr. Berkeley hurried forward,
but soon became confused. His daughter was not
to be seen, nor Scipio, and he knew not in what direction
to turn his footsteps. While he paused and doubted,
he heard the rush of cavalry, like the sweeping force of
a torrent coming down the hills at midnight. He could
see, in the bright moonlight, the dark figures and their
shining white blades. The clashing of steel superseded
the shot of the marksmen, and the horsemen now evidently
swept the field in irresistible wrath. The tories
were flying in all directions—the partisans riding over
them with unsparing hoofs, and smiting down with impetuous
steel. A group fled towards the house, and came
directly upon the spot where the old man's feet seemed
to be frozen. Timidly he shrank behind a tree, and,
as the cavalry pursued, the tories broke, and dispersed
in individual flight. One of them, an officer, sank back
slowly, and with an air of resolution and defiance in his
manner which soon provoked the attention of a partisan
trooper. He pressed forward upon the Briton, who
turned gallantly and made fight. The huge-limbed steed
of the partisan was wheeled from side to side under the
curb of his rider, with an ease that almost seemed the result
of an instinct of his own. Neither the steed nor his
rider could be mistaken.
“Yield—surrender, sir—you prolong the fight uselessly.
Your men are dispersed,” were the words of
Singleton.
`Never—to a rebel!” was the response of Clayton—
`Never!” and he struck at the partisan with an
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earnestness and skill as he replied, which showed him that
he was not an enemy to be trifled with. The fierce mood
of Singleton grew uppermost as he witnessed the obduracy
of the Briton. His own blows were repeated with
furious energy, and the retreat of Clayton was, perforce,
more rapid than before. Backing, and fighting all
the while, his feet became entangled in some obstruction
behind him, and he stumbled over it without being able
to recover himself. He now lay at the mercy of his
enemy. The courtesy of Singleton effected what his
valour had not done. His horse was curbed in the instant
which saw Clayton fall. The point of his sabre,
which had been directed towards, was now turned from
his bosom, and he bade him rise. The Briton bowed,
and presented his sword.
“Oblige me by keeping it, sir,” was the reply of the
partisan. “Let me see you to the house in safety.”
The only inmate of the house who received Lieutenant
Clayton was Rose Duncan.
“I am a prisoner, Miss Duncan,” said the lieutenant,
and it did not pain him greatly to tell her so.
“Indeed—I'm so glad of it,” was the almost unconscious
reply.
Clayton looked grave as she said so, and Major Singleton
withdrew, leaving him, however, not so dissatisfied
with the general tenour of events as might have been
expected. It was surprising how soon he forgot that he
was a prisoner, and how readily Rose became his custodier.
But this concerns us not.
In the neighbouring court the bugle of Marion called
his men together. The battle was over. The victory
was complete, and the only concern before the partisans
was to ascertain the price which it had cost them. This
could not be so readily determined.
“But what tidings of Mellichampe?” demanded Marion.
“Have you heard nothing, Major Singleton?
This was your charge.”
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“Nothing, as yet, sir—I have dispersed my men in
search. It is unaccountable, too, that we have heard
nothing of Witherspoon, nor has Captain Barsfield been
reported. The command does not seem to have been
with him. Lieutenant Clayton is my prisoner.”
While they yet spoke, the whistle of Witherspoon—a
faintly uttered note, but well known as that of the woodman—
came to them from the bay. To this point they
instantly proceeded. But Janet Berkeley was there long
before them. She had outstripped even the speed of
Scipio; she had heard and been guided by the accents
of her lover's voice, as she entered the copse.
“Jack, dear Jack—Witherspoon, my friend—my
more than friend—my father—speak to me!”
It was thus that the youth, bending over his prostrate
companion, expressed his agony and apprehension at the
condition in which he found him. Witherspoon bled inwardly,
and could scarcely speak, as he was in momentary
danger of suffocation. The next moment the arms
of Janet were thrown about her lover, whom she found
in safety, and she burst into an agony of tears, which at
length relieved her. With her appearance, the strength
and consciousness of the wounded woodman seemed to
come back to him. He looked up with a smile, and
said, feebly, as he beheld her—
“God bless you, Miss Janet—and make you happy.
You see he's safe—and there's no danger now, for I
rether reckon, from what I hear and from what I don't
hear, that the tories are done for.”
“Oh, Mr. Witherspoon—what can I do for you? I
hope you are not much hurt.”
“Pretty bad, I tell you. I feel all over I can't tell
how,—and when it comes to that, you see, it looks
squally. I'm afeard I've no more business in the
swamp.”
“Speak not thus, Jack—but let us help you to the
house. Here, Scipio, lend a hand.”
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But the woodman resisted them.
“No! no!” he exclaimed, “this is my house—the
woods. I've lived in them—and I feel that it will be
sweeter to die in them, than in a dark little room. I like
the green of the trees and the cool feel of the air. I
can't breathe in a little room as I can in the woods.”
“But, dear Jack, you can be better attended there—
we—”
“Don't talk, Airnest. I won't ax for much 'tendance
now. I feel I'm going—my teeth stick when I
set them down, and when I try to open them it's hard
work. I'm in a bad way, I tell you, when I can't talk—
talking was so nateral.”
“What can I bring you?—”
“Water!” he replied, gaspingly.
But, with the effort to swallow, there came a rush of
blood into his mouth which almost suffocated him.
“It's all over with me now—Airnest, boy. I've done
the best for you—”
The youth squeezed his hand, but was too much
moved to speak.
“I've worked mighty hard to git you out of the hobble,
and I'm awful glad that the bullet didn't come till
you were safe out of the claws of that varmint. You've
got a clear track now—and, oh! Miss Janet, I'm so
glad to see you together, lock and lock, as I may say,
afore I die. It's a God's blessing that I'm let to see
it.”
He linked their hands as he spoke, and the tears flowed
from his eyes as if he had been a child. Nor were
the two bending above him less moved.
“When you're man and wife, you mustn't forget Jack
Witherspoon. Ah, Airnest, you can't reckon how much
he loved you.”
“I know it—I feel it, Jack. Your present situation—
this wound—”
“I don't mind the pain of it, Airnest, when I think
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that I saved you. You're safe—and 'tain't no hard matter
to die when one's done all his business. Indeed, to
say truth, it's high time—Ah! it's like a wild-cat gnawing
into the bones!”
The dialogue, broken and interrupted frequently by
the sorrow of the spectators and the agonizing pain of
Witherspoon, was at length interrupted by the entrance
into the area of the partisan general, with several of the
officers. Marion spoke in a low tone to Scipio, who
stood at the head of the dying man. The voice was recognised
by him.
“That's the gineral—the old `fox,”' he muttered to
himself, and he strove to throw back his eyes sufficiently
to see him.
“Stand out of the moonlight, nigger—I wants to see
the gineral.”
“I am here, Thumbscrew,” said Marion, kneeling
down beside him. “How is it with you, my friend?”
“Bad enough, gineral. You'll have to put me in the
odd leaf of the orderly's book. I've got my certificate.”
“I hope not, Thumby. We must see what can be
done for you. We can't spare any of our men,” said
Marion, encouragingly. The dying man smiled feebly
as he spoke again,
“I know you can't, and that makes me more sorry
But you know me, gineral—wasn't I a whig from the
first?”
“I believe it—I know it. You have done your duty
always.”
“Put that down in the orderly book—I was a whig
from the first.”
“I will,” said Marion.
“And after it, put down agen—he was a whig to the
last.”
“I will.”
“Put down—he never believed in the tories, and—”
here he paused chokingly from a fit of coughing—“and
he always made them believe in him.”
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“You have done nobly in the good cause, John Witherspoon,”
said the general, while his eyes were filled
with tears, “and you may well believe that Francis Marion,
who honours you, will protect your memory. Here
is my hand.”
The woodman pressed it to his lips.
“Airnest—”
The youth bent over him. The arms of the dying
man were lifted—they clasped him round with a fervent
grasp, and brought his forehead down to his lips—
“Airnest!” he exclaimed once more, and then his
grasp was relaxed. He lay cold and lifeless—the rude
but noble spirit had gone from the humble but honourable
dwelling, which it had informed and elevated. The
grief of Ernest Mellichampe was speechless; and if the
happiness of the pair, united in the sweetest bonds by the
hands of the dying man, in that hour of pain, was ever
darkened with a sorrow, it was when they thought that he
who had served them so faithfully had not been permitted
to behold it.
THE END
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