CHAPTER XIV. THE TRIAL FOR THE TRUTH.
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No change could have been suddenly greater than that
which was produced upon the countenance and conduct of
John Bannister when he found himself successful in bringing
the landlord to the desired issue. His seriousness was
all discarded,—his intense earnestness of air and tone,—
and a manner, even playful and sportive, succeeded to that
which had been so stern and sombre. He congratulated
Muggs and himself, equally, on the strong probability,
so near at hand, of arriving at the truth by a process so
direct, and proceeded to make his arrangements for the
conflict with all the buoyancy of a boy traversing the
playground with `leap-frog' and `hop o' my thumb.'
The landlord did not betray the same degree of eagerness,
but he was not backward. He might have had his doubts
of the issue, for Supple Jack had a fame in those days
which spread far and wide along the three contiguous
rivers. Wherever a pole-boat had made its way, there
had the name of Jack Bannister found repeated echoes.
But Muggs was a fearless man, and he had, besides, a
very tolerable degree of self-assurance, which led him to
form his own expectations and hopes of success. If he
had any scruples at all, they arose rather from his doubt
whether the proposed test of truth would be a fair one—
a doubt which seemed very fairly overcome in his mind,
as, indeed, it should be in that of the reader, if full justice
is done to the final argument which the scout addressed
to his adversary on this subject.
“There never was a quarrel and a fight yet that didn't
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come out of a wish to l'arn or to teach the truth. What's
King George a-fighting us for this very moment? Why, to
make us b'lieve in him. If he licks us, why we'll b'lieve
in him; and if we licks him, 'gad, I'm thinking he'll have
to b'lieve in us. Aint that cl'ar, Muggs? So, let's fall
to—if I licks you, I reckon you'll know where to look
for the truth for ever after; for I'll measure your back
on it, and your breast under it, and you'll feel it in all
your sides.”
The ground was chosen—a pleasant area beneath a
shadowing grove of oaks, covered with a soft greensward,
which seemed to lessen, in the minds of the
combatants, the dangers of discomfiture. But when the
parties began to strip for the conflict, a little difficulty
suggested itself which had not before disturbed the
thoughts of either. How was the superfluous arm of
Supple Jack to be tied up. Muggs could evidently perform
no such friendly office; but a brief pause given to
their operations enabled the scout to arrange it easily.
A running noose was made in the rope, into which he
thrust the unnecessary member, then gave the end of the
line to his opponent, who contrived to draw it around
his body, and bind the arm securely to his side—an
operation easily understood by all schoolboys who have
ever been compelled to exercise their wits in securing a
balance of power in a like way among ambitious rivals.
As they stood, front to front opposed, the broad chest,
square shoulders, voluminous muscle, and manly compass
of the two, naturally secured the admiration of both.
Supple Jack could not refrain from expressing his satisfaction.
“It's a pleasure, Isaac Muggs, to have a turn with
a man of your make. I ha'n't seen a finer bosom for a
fight this many a day. I think, if any thing, you're a
splinter or two fuller across the breast than me;—it may
be fat, and if so, it's the worse for you,—but if it's the
solid grain and gristle, then it's only the worse for me.
It makes me saddish enough when I look on sich a
bosom, to think that you're cut off one half in a fair
allowance of arm. But I don't think that'll work agin
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you in this 'bout, for, you see, you're used to doing
without it, and making up in a double use of t'other;
and I'm beginning a'ready to feel as if I warnt of no use
at all in the best part of my body. Let's feel o' your
heft, old fellow.”
A mutual lift being taken, they prepared to take hold
for the grand trial, and Supple Jack soon discovered, as
he had suspected, that the customary disuse of the arm
gave to his opponent an advantage in this sort of conflict,
which, taken in connexion with his naturally strong
build of frame, rendered the task before him equally
serious and doubtful. But, with a shake of the head as
he made this acknowledgment, he laid his chin on the
shoulder of the landlord, grasped him vigorously about
the body; and Muggs, having secured a similar grasp,
gave him the word, and they both swung round, under a
mutual impulse, which, had there been any curious spectator
at hand, would have left him very doubtful, for a
long time, as to the distinct proprietorship of the several
legs which so rapidly chased each other in the air. An
amateur in such matters—a professional lover of the
“fancy”—would make a ravishing picture of this conflict.
The alternations of seeming success; the hopes,
the fears, the occasional elevations of the one party, and
the depressions of the other—the horizontal tendency of
this or that head and shoulder—the yielding of this frame
and the staggering of that leg—might, under the pencil
of a master, be made to awaken as many sensibilities in
the spectator as ever did the adroit deviltries of the modern
Jack Sheppard. But these details must be left to
artists of their own—to the Cruikshanks!—or that more
popular, if less worthy, fraternity, the “Quiz,” “Phiz,”
“Biz,” “Tiz,” &c., whose sober industry keeps the
jaws of modern wonder for ever on the stretch. We
shall content ourselves with simply assuring our readers
that in the struggle both of our champions behaved manfully.
The conflict was protracted; the turf, forming a
ring of twenty feet round, or more, was beaten smooth,
and still the affair was undecided. Neither had yet
received a fall. But Supple Jack, for reasons of his own,
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began to feel that the argument was about to be settled
in favour of right principles.
“Your breath's coming rether quick now, Isaac Muggs!—
I'm thinking you'll soon be convarted! But it's a
mighty strong devil you had in you, and I'm afeard he'll
make my ribs ache for a week. I'll sprawl him, though,
I warrant you.”
“Don't be too sartin, Jack,” gasped the other.
“Don't!—Why, love you, Muggs, you couldn't say
that short speech over again for the life of you.”
“Couldn't, eh!”
“No, not for King George's axing.”
“Think so, eh?”
“Know so, man. Now, look to it. I'll only ax three
tugs more. There—there's one.”
“Nothing done, Jack.”
“Two,—three! and where are you now!” cried the
exulting scout, as he deprived his opponent of grasp and
footing at the same moment, and whirled him, dizzy and
staggering, heels up and head to the earth. But he was
not suffered to reach it by that operation only. His
course was accelerated by other hands; and three men,
rushing with whoop and halloo from the copse, near
which the struggle had been carried on, grappled with
the fallen landlord, and plied him with a succession of
blows, the least of which was unnecessary for his overthrow.
It seemed that Supple Jack recognised these
intruders almost in the moment of their appearance; but
so sudden was their onset and so great their clamour, that
his fierce cry to arrest them was unheard, and he could
only make his wishes known by adopting the summary
process of knocking two of them down by successive
blows from the only fist which was left free for exercise.
“How now! Who ax'd you to put your dirty fingers
into my dish, Olin Massey—or you, Bob Jones—or you,
Peyton Burns? This is your bravery, is it, to beat a
man after I've down'd him, eh?”
“But we didn't know that 'twas over, Sergeant. We
thought you was a-wanting help;” replied the fellow
who was called Massey—it would seem in mockery
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only. He was a little, dried up, withered atomy,—a
jaundiced “sand-lapper,” or “clay-eater,” from the Wassamasaw
country, whose insignificant size and mean
appearance did very inadequate justice to his resolute,
fierce, and implacable character.
“And if I was a-wanting help, was you the man to
give it? Go 'long, Olin Massey—you're a very young
chap to be here. What makes you here, I want to
know?”
“Why, didn't you send us on the scout, jist here, in
this very place?” said the puny, but pugnacious person
addressed, with a fierceness of tone and gesture, and a
fire in his eye, which the feebleness of his form did not
in the least qualify.
“Yes, to be sure; but why didn't you come? I've
been here a matter of two hours by the sun; and as you
didn't come, I reckoned you had taken track after some
tory varmints, and had gone deeper into the swamp.
You've dodged some tories, eh?”
“No, ha'n't seed a soul.”
“Then, by the Hokey, Olin Massey, you've been
squat on a log, playing old sledge for pennies!”
The scouting party looked down in silence. The little
man from Wassamasaw felt his anger subside within him.
“Corporal Massey, give me them painted bits, before
they're the death of you. By old natur, betwixt cards
and rum, I've lost more of my men than by Cunningham's
bullets or Tarleton's broadswords. Give me them
cards, Olin Massey, and make your respects to my good
natur, that I don't blow you to the colonel.”
The offender obeyed. He drew from his pocket in
silence a pack of the dirtiest cards that ever were thumbed
over a pine log, and delivered them to his superior with
the air of a schoolboy from whom the master has cruelly
taken, “at one fell swoop,” top, marbles, and ball.
“There,” said Supple Jack, as he thrust them into
his pocket—“I'll put them up safely, boys, and you
shall have 'em again, for a whole night, after our next
brush with the tories. Go you now and get your nags
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in readiness, while I see to Muggs. I'll j'in you directly
at the red clay.”
When they had disappeared, he turned to the landlord,
who had meanwhile risen, though rather slowly, from
the earth, and now stood a silent spectator of the interview.
“Now, Muggs, I reckon we'll have to try the tug over
agin. These blind boys of mine put in jest a moment
too soon. They helped to flatten you, I'm thinking;
and so, if you aint quite satisfied which way the truth is,
it's easy to go it over again.”
The offer was more liberal than Muggs expected or
desired. He was already sufficiently convinced.
“No, no, Supple, you're too much for me!”
“It's the truth that's too much for you, Muggs—not
me! I reckon you're satisfied now which way the truth
is. You've got a right onderstanding in this business.”
The landlord made some admissions, the amount of
which, taken without circumlocution, was, that he had
been whipped in a fair fight; and, according to all the
laws of war, as well as common sense, that he was now
at the disposal of the victor. His acknowledgments
were sufficiently satisfactory.
“We've prayed for it, Muggs, and jest as we prayed
we got it. You're rubbing your legs and your sides, but
what's a bruise and a pain in the side, or even a broken
rib, when we've got the truth. After that, a hurt of the
body is a small matter; and then a man don't much fear
any sort of danger. Let me know that I'm in the right
way, and that justice is on my side, and I don't see the
danger, though it stands in the shape of the biggest gunmuzzle
that ever bellowed from the walls of Charlestown
in the great siege. Now, Muggs, since you say now
that you onderstand the argyment I set you, and that you
agree to have your liberties the same as the rest of us,
I'll jist open your eyes to a little of the risk you've been
a-running for the last few days. Look—read this here
letter, and see if you can recollect the writing.”
The blood left the cheeks of the landlord the instant
that the scout handed him the letter.
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“Where did you fine it, Supple?” he gasped apprehensively.
“Find it! I first found the sculp of the chap that
carried it,” was the cool reply. “But you answer to
the writing, don't you—it's your'n.”
“Well, I reckon you know it, Supple, without my
saying so.”
“Reckon I do, Muggs,—it's pretty well known in
these parts; and s'pose any of our boys but me had got
hold of it? Where would you be, I wonder? Swinging
on one of the oak limbs before your own door, dangling
a good pair of legs of no sort of use to yourself or any
body else. But I'm your friend, Muggs; a better friend
to you than you've been to yourself. I come and argy
the matter with you, and reason with you to your onderstanding,
and make a convarsion of you without
trying to frighten you into it. Now that you see the
error of your ways, I show you their danger also. This
letter is tory all over, but there's one thing in it that
made me have marcy upon you—it's here, jist in the
middle, where you beg that bloody tory, Ned Conway,
to have marcy on his brother. Any body that speaks
friendly, or kind, of Clarence Conway, I'll help him if I
can. Now, Muggs, I'll go with you to your house, and
there I'll burn this letter in your own sight, so that it'll
never rise up in judgment agen you. But you must
make a clean breast of it. You must tell me all you
know, that I may be sure you feel the truth according
to the lesson, which, with the helping of God, I've been
able to give you.”
The landlord felt himself at the mercy of the scout;
but the generous treatment which he had received from
the worthy fellow—treatment so unwonted at that period
of wanton bloodshed and fierce cruelty—inclined
him favourably to the cause, the arguments for which
had been produced by so liberal a disputant. His own
policy, to which we have already adverted more than
once, suggested far better; and, if the landlord relented
at all in his revelations, it was with the feeling—natural,
perhaps, to every mind, however lowly—which makes
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it revolt at the idea of becoming treacherous, even to
the party which it has joined for purposes of treachery.
The information which the scout obtained, and which
was valuable to the partisans, he drew from the relator
by piecemeal. Every item of knowledge was drawn
from him by its own leading question, and yielded with
broken utterance, and the half vacant look of one who
is only in part conscious, as he is only in part willing.
“Pretty well, Muggs, though you don't come out like
a man who felt the argyment at the bottom of his onderstanding.
There's something more now. In this bit
of writing there's a line or two about one Peter Flagg,
who, it seems, carried forty-one niggers to town last
January, and was to ship 'em to the West Indies. Now,
can you tell if he did ship them niggers?”
“I can't exactly now, Supple—it's onbeknown to
me.”
“But how come you to write about this man and
them niggers?”
“Why, you see, Peter Flagg was here looking after
the captain?”
“Ah! he was here, was he?”
“Yes—he j'ined the captain jest before Butler's men
gin him that chase.”
“He's with Ned Conway then, is he?”
“No, I reckon not. He didn't stay with the captain
but half a day.”
“Ah! ha!—and where did he go then?”
“Somewhere across the river.”
“Below, I'm thinking.”
“Yes, he took the lower route—I reckon he went towards
the Santee.”
“Isaac Muggs, don't you know that the business of
Pete Flagg is to ship stolen niggers to the West India
Islands?”
“Well, Supple, I believe it is, though I don't know.”
“That's enough about Pete. Now, Muggs, when
did you see Watson Gray last? You know the man
I mean. He comes from the Congaree near Granby.
He's the one that watches Briar Park for Ned Conway,
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and brings him in every report about the fine bird that
keeps there. You know what bird I mean, don't you?”
“Miss Flora, I reckon.”
“A very good reckon. Well! you know Gray?”
“Yes—he's a great scout—the best, after you, I'm
thinking, on the Congaree.”
“Before me, Muggs,” said the scout, with a sober
shake of the head. “He's before me, or I'd ha' trapped
him many's the long day ago. He's the only outlyer
I acknowledge on the river: but he's a skunk—a bad
chap about the heart. His bosom's full of black places.
He loves to do ugly things, and to make a brag of 'em
afterward, and that's a bad character for a good scout.
But that's neither here nor there. I only want you now
to think up, and tell me when he was here last.”
“Well!—”
“Ah, don't stop to `well' about it,” cried the other
impatiently—“speak out like a bold man that's jest got
the truth. Wan't Watson Gray here some three days
ago—before the troop came down—and didn't he leave a
message by word of mouth with you? Answer me that,
Muggs, like a good whig as you ought to be.”
“It's true as turpentine, Supple; but, Lord love you,
how did you come to guess it?”
“No matter that!—up now, and tell me what that
same message was.”
“That's a puzzler, I reckon, for I didn't onderstand it
all myself. There was five sticks and two bits of paper—
on one was a long string of multiplication and 'rithmetic—
figures and all that;—on the other was a sort of
drawing that looked most like a gal on horseback.”
“Eh!—The gal on horseback was nateral enough.
Perhaps I can make out that; but the bits of stick and
'rithmetic is all gibberish. Wan't there nothing that
you had to say by word of mouth to Ned Conway?”
“Yes, to be sure. He left word as how the whigs
was getting thicker and thicker—how Sumter and Lee
marked all the road from Granby down to Orangeburg
with their horse-tracks, and never afeard; and how
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Greene was a-pushing across toward Ninety-Six, where
he was guine to 'siege Cruger.”
“Old news, Muggs, and I reckon you've kept back
the best for the last. What did he have to say 'bout
Miss Flora? Speak up to that!”
“Not a word. I don't think he said any thing more,
onless it was something about boats being a-plenty, and
no danger of horse-tracks on the river.”
“There's a meaning in that; and I must spell it out,”
said the scout; “but now, Muggs, another question or
two. Who was the man that Ned Conway sent away
prisoner jest before day?”
“Lord, Supple, you sees every thing!” ejaculated the
landlord. Pressed by the wily scout, he related, with
tolerable correctness, all the particulars of the affray the
night before between the captain of the Black Riders and
his subordinate; and threw such an additional light upon
the causes of quarrel between them as suggested to the
scout a few new measures of policy.
“Well, Muggs,” said he, at the close, “I'll tell you
something in return for all you've told me. My boys
caught that same Stockton and trapped his guard in one
hour after they took the road; and I'm glad to find, by
putting side by side what they confessed and what you
tell me, that you've stuck to the truth like a gentleman
and a whig. They didn't tell me about the lieutenant's
wanting to be captain, but that's detarmined me to parole
the fellow that he may carry on his mischief in the
troop. I'm going to leave you now, Muggs, but you'll
see an old man coming here to look after a horse about
midday. Give him a drink, and say to him, that you
don't know nothing about the horse, but there's a hound
on track after something, that went barking above, three
hours before. That'll sarve his purpose and mine too:
and now, God bless you, old boy, and, remember, I'm
your friend, and I can do you better sarvice now than
any two Black Riders of the gang. As I've convarted
you, I'll stand by you, and I'll never be so far off in the
swamp that I can't hear your grunting, and come out to
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your help. So, good bye, and no more forgitting of that
argyment.”
“And where are you going now, Supple?”
“Psha, boy, that's telling. Was I to let you know
that, Watson Gray might worm it out from under your
tongue, without taking a wrastle for it. I'll tell you
when I come back.” And with a good-humoured chuckle
the scout disappeared, leaving the landlord to meditate,
at his leisure, upon the value of those arguments which
had made him in one day resign a faith which had been
cherished as long—as it had proved profitable. Muggs
had no hope that the new faith would prove equally so;
but if it secured to him the goodly gains of the past, he
was satisfied. Like many of the tories at this period, he
received a sudden illumination, which showed him in
one moment the errors for which he had been fighting
five years. Let not this surprise our readers. In the
closing battles of the Revolution in South Carolina,
many were the tories converted to the patriot cause, who,
at the eleventh hour, displayed the most conspicuous
bravery fighting on the popular side.
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Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1841], The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree, volume 1 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf366v1].
