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The dialogue between the two friends, which has just
been given, will convey to the mind of the reader some
idea of the situation of the parties. We have not aimed to
describe the manner of this dialogue, preferring infinitely
that the interlocutors should speak entirely for themselves.
It may be stated in this place, however, that, throughout
the interview, the sturdy counsellor, whose honest character
and warm friendship constituted his perfect claim to
speak unreservedly to his superior, betrayed a dogged determination
not to be satisfied with the disposition which
the latter had resolved to make of one whom he was
pleased to consider in some sort a prisoner. On the other
hand, the younger of the two, whom we have known by
the name of Clarence Conway, and who held a colonel's
command over one of those roving bodies of whig militia,
which were to be found at this period in every district of
the state,—though resolute to release his brother from the
honourable custody in which circumstances had placed
him, still seemed to regret the necessity by which he was
prompted to this proceeding. There were various feelings
conflicting for mastery in his bosom. While he did not
believe in the charges of political treachery by which his
half-brother was stigmatized, he was yet any thing but
satisfied that his purposes were politically honest or honourable.
Equally dubious with his companion on the
subject of Edward Conway's principles, he was yet not
prepared to believe in the imputation which had been cast
upon his performances. He suspected him, not of fighting
for the enemy, but of the meaner and less daring employment,
of speculating in the necessities of the country;
and, in some way or other, of craftily availing himself of

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its miseries and wants, to realize that wealth, the passion
for which constituted, he well knew, a leading and greedy
appetite in the character of his kinsman.

Clarence Conway was the younger son of a gentleman
who came from the West Indies, bringing with him an
only child—then an infant—the fruit of a first marriage
with a lady of Barbadoes, who died in bringing it into the
world. The graceful form, pleasing manners, and varied
intelligence of this gentleman, gained him the favour of a
young lady of the Congaree, who became his wife. One
son, our hero, was born to this union; and his eyes had
scarcely opened upon the light, when his father fell a victim
to fever, which he caught in consequence of some rash
exposure among the swamps of the low country. The infant,
Clarence, became the favourite of his grandparents, by
whom he was finally adopted. He thus became the heir of
possessions of a vastness and value infinitely beyond those
which by the laws of primogeniture, necessarily accrued
to his half-brother. The anxiety of Edward Conway to
be the actual possessor of his rights, became so obvious to
all eyes, that Mrs. Conway yielded him early possession,
soon after her husband's death, and retired to one of the
plantations which had descended from her father to her
son. Edward Conway did not long retain the estate left
him by his father. He was sagacious or fortunate enough
to sell it, and realize its value in money, before the strifes
of the Revolution became inevitable. With the conquest
of Carolina by the British, he almost disappeared from
sight; but not until himself and half-brother had already
come into conflict on grounds which did not involve any
reference to the politics of the country. This collision
between them was of such a nature—already hinted at in
the previous chapter—as to bring into active exercise
the anger of the one, and the dissimulation of the other.
To Clarence Conway, therefore, the unfrequent appearance
of Edward afforded but little discontent. The late
return of the latter, under circumstances of suspicion—
under imputations of political treachery, and accusations
of crime,—now bewildered the more frank and passionate
youth, who lamented nothing half so much as to be compelled
to call him kinsman. He knew the wilfulness of
heart which characterized him, and dreaded lest he should

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abuse, in a respect purely personal, the freedom which he
was about to confer upon him. His own ability to follow,
and to watch the object of his suspicions, was very limited
at this period. His movements were governed by his
military position, by prudence, and certain other relations
of a more private nature, which shall be considered as we
proceed. With no such restraints as these, and once more
safe from the dangers which had compelled him to seek
shelter at the hands of his brother in the swamp, the future
conduct of Edward Conway filled the mind of Clarence
with many apprehensions; the more strongly felt, since
his falsehood in a particular respect, had been revealed by
his companion. There was, as the latter had phrased it,
a weak or tender spot in the bosom of Clarence Conway,
which led him to apprehend every thing of evil should
Edward prove false to certain pledges which he had voluntarily
made, and proceed to a dishonourable use of his
liberty. But it was a point of honour with him not to recede
from his own pledges, nor to forbear, because of a
revival of old suspicions, the performances to which they
had bound him. Yet, in the brief hour that followed the
departure of Jack Bannister, how much would his young
commander have given, could he have taken his counsel—
could he have kept, as a prisoner, that person whose passions
he well knew, and whose dissimulation he feared.
He thus nearly argued himself into the conviction—not a
difficult one at that period—that it was his public duty to
arrest and arraign, as a criminal to his country, the person
against whom the proofs were so strikingly presumptive.

As he reflected upon this subject, it seemed to astonish
even himself at the degree of criminality which he was
now willing to attach to his kinsman's conduct. How was
it that he had become so generally suspected? How easy,
if he were able, to prove his fidelity! Why was he absent
from the field? Where had he been? Though proof was
wanting to show that he had been active in the British
cause, yet none was necessary to show that he had been
wholly inactive for the American. More than once, in the
interval which followed from the first futile, to the final
and successful invasion of the enemy, had Clarence sought
him, to stimulate his patriotism, and urge him to the field.
All their conferences were devoted to this object; the

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younger brother sometimes assuming a language in the
controversy, which nothing but the purity of his patriotism
and his own obvious disinterestedness, could have justified
from the lips of a younger brother. But his exhortations
fell upon unheeding ears—his arguments in barren places.
There were no fruits. Edward Conway contrived with
no small degree of art to conceal his real sentiments, at a
time when the great body of the people were only too
glad to declare themselves, either on one side or the other.
Subsequently, when the metropolis had fallen, the same
adroitness was exercised to enable him to escape from the
consequences of committal to either. How this was done—
by what evasions, or in what manner—Clarence Conway
was at a loss to understand. As the war proceeded,
and the invasion of the colony became general, the active
events of the conflict, the disorders of the country, the necessity
of rapid flight, from point to point, of all persons
needing concealment, served to prevent the frequent meeting
of the kinsmen;—and circumstances, to which we have
already adverted, not to speak of the equivocal political
position of the elder brother, contributed to take from such
meetings what little gratification they might have possessed
for either party. Whenever they did meet, the efforts of
Clarence were invariably made, not to find out the mode
of life which the other pursued, but simply to assure himself
that it was right and honourable. To this general
object all his counsels were addressed; but he was still
compelled to be content with a general but vague assurance
from the other, that it was so. Still there was one
charge which Edward Conway could not escape. This
was the omission of that duty to his country, which, in a
season of invasion, cannot be withheld without dishonouring
either the manhood or the fidelity of the citizen. Clarence
was not willing to ascribe to treachery this inaction;
yet he could not, whenever he gave any thought to the
subject, attribute it to any other cause. He knew that
Edward was no phlegmatic; he knew that he was possessed
of courage—nor courage merely; he knew that a
large portion of audacity and impulse entered into his character.
That he was active in some cause, and constantly
engaged in some business, Edward Conway did not himself
seek to deny. What that business was, however,

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neither the prayers nor the exhortations of Clarence and
his friends could persuade him to declare; while the discovery
of a circumstance, by the latter, which led him to
apprehend the interference of the former in another field
than that of war, contributed still farther to estrange them
from each other. Enough now has been said to render
the future narrative easy of comprehension.

While, with vexing and bitter thoughts, Clarence Conway
awaited the progress of his companion, with the
fugitive whom he had given into his charge, Supple Jack
(for that was the nom de guerre conferred by his comrades
upon the worthy woodman, in compliment to certain
qualities of muscle which made his feats sometimes remarkable
in the course of their forest adventures) penetrated
into the recesses of the swamp, with a degree of
diligence which by no means betokened his own disposition
of mind in regard to the particular business upon
which he went. But Supple Jack was superior to all that
sullenness which goes frowardly to the task, because it
happens to disapprove it. As a friend, he counselled without
fear; as a soldier, he obeyed without reluctance. He
soon reached the little island on the edge of the Wateree
river, where Clarence Conway had concealed his kinsman
from the hot hunt which had pursued him to that neighbourhood.
So suddenly and silently did he send his canoe
forward, that her prow struck the roots of the tree, at
whose base the fugitive reclined, before he was conscious
of her approach. The latter started hastily to his feet, and
the suspicious mood of Supple Jack was by no means lessened,
when he beheld him thrust into his bosom a paper
upon which he had evidently been writing. To the passing
spectator Edward Conway might have seemed to resemble
his half-brother. They were not unlike in general
height, in muscle, and in size. The air of Clarence may
have been more lofty; but that of Edward was equally
firm. But the close observer would have concurred with
the woodman, that they were, as kinsmen, utterly unlike in
almost every other respect. The aspect of Clarence Conway
was bright and open, like that of an unclouded sky;
that of Edward was dark, reserved, and lowering. There
was a shyness and a suspiciousness of manner in his
glance and movement; and, while he spoke, the sentences

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were prolonged, as if to permit as much premeditation as
possible between every syllable. His smile had in it a
something sinister, which failed to invite or soothe the
spectator. It was not the unforced expression of a mind
at ease,—of good-humour,—of a heart showing its clear
depths to the glances of the sun. It was rather the insidious
lure of the enchanter, who aims to dazzle and beguile.

As such only did our woodman seem to understand it.
The strained and excessive cordiality of Edward Conway,
as he bounded up at his approach,—the hearty grasp of
the hand which he extended,—met with little answering
warmth on the part of the former. His eye encountered
the glance of the fugitive without fear, but with cold reserve;
his hand was quickly withdrawn from the close
clutch which received it; and the words with which he
acknowledged and answered the other's salutation were as
few, and such only, as were unavoidable. The fugitive
saw the suspicion, and felt the coldness with which he
was encountered. Without seeming offended, he made it
the subject of immediate remark.

“Ha, Jack, how is this? Friends—old friends—should
not meet after such a fashion. Wherefore are you so cold?
Do you forget me? Have you forgotten that we were boys
together, Jack,—playmates for so many happy years?”

“No, no! I hain't forgotten any thing, Edward Conway,
that a plain man ought to remember;” replied the
woodman, taking literally the reproach of his companion.
“But we ain't boys and playmates any longer, Edward
Conway. We are men now, and these are no times for
play of any sort; and there's a precious few among us
that know with whom we can play safely, nowadays,
without finding our fingers in the cat's mouth.”

“True enough, Jack; but what's true of other people
needn't be true of us. Times change; but they shouldn't
change friends. We are the same, I trust, that we have
ever been to one another.”

This was said with an eager insinuating manner, and
the hand of Conway was a second time extended to take
that of the other. But without regarding the movement,
Supple Jack replied with a blunt resoluteness of

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demeanour, which would most effectually have rebuffed any less
flexible spirit:

“I reckon we aint, Edward Conway, and it's of no use
to beat about the bush to find out what to say. Times
change and we change, and it's onnatural to expect to keep
the same in all weathers. I know there's a mighty great
change in me, and I'm thinking there's the same sort of
change going on in a'most every body. I used to be a
quiet peaceable sort of person, that wouldn't hurt a kitten;
and now I'm wolfish more than once a week, and mighty
apt to do mischief when I feel so. I used to believe that
whatever a pair of smooth lips said to me was true, and
now I suspicions every smooth speaker I meet, as if he
was no better than a snake in the grass. 'Taint in my
natur to keep the same always any more than the weather,
and I tell you plainly I'm quite another sort of person from
the boy that used to play with you, and Clarence Conway,
long time ago.”

“Ah, Jack, but you hav'n't changed to him—you are
the same to Clarence Conway as ever.”

“Yes, bless God for all his marcies, that made me love
the boy when he was a boy, and kept the same heart in
me after he came to be a man. I aint ashamed to say that
I love Clarence the same as ever, since he never once, in
all my dealings with him, boy and man, ever gave me
reason to mistrust him. He's mighty like an oak in two
ways—he's got the heart of one, and there's no more bend
in him than in an oak.”

The cheek of the fugitive was flushed as he listened to
this simple and direct language. He was indiscreet enough
to press the matter farther.

“But why should you distrust me, Jack Bannister.
You have known me quite as long as you have known
Clarence, we have played as much together—”

“Ay!” exclaimed the other abruptly, and with a startling
energy. “But we hav'n't fou't together, and bled together,
and slept together, and starved together, Edward Conway.
You hav'nt been so ready as Clarence to come out for your
country. Now I've starved in his company, and run, and
fou't, and been with him in all sorts of danger, and he's
never been the first to run, and he's always been the last
to feel that he was afraid, and to show that he was hungry.

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For nine months we had but one blanket between us, and
that was half burnt up from sleeping too close to the ashes
one cold night last Christmas. It's these things that made
us friends from the beginning, and it's these things that
keep us friends till now. You don't seem altogether to
remember, that you and me were never friends, Edward
Conway, even when we were playmates; and the reason
was I always mistrusted you. Don't think I mean to hurt
your feelings by telling you the truth. You're a sort of
prisoner, you see, and it would be mighty ongenteel for me
to say any thing that mought give offence, and I ax pardon
if I does; but as I tell you, I mistrusted you from the beginning,
and I can't help telling you that I mistrust you to
the end. You ha'n't got the sort o' ways I like, and when
that's the case, it's no use to strain one's natur' to make a
liking between feelings that don't seem to fit. Besides,
you have a bad standing in the country. These men of
Butler's swear agin you by another name, and it looks
mighty suspicious when we come to consider that none of
the whigs have any thing to say in your behalf.”

“One thing is certain, John Bannister,” replied the
fugitive composedly; “you at least preserve your ancient
bluntness. You speak out your mind as plainly as ever.”

“I reckon its always best,” was the answer.

“Perhaps so, though you do me injustice, and your
suspicions are ungenerous. It is unfortunate for me that,
for some little time longer I must submit to be distrusted.
The time will come, however, and I hope very soon, when
you will cease to regard me with doubt or suspicion.”

“Well, I j'in my hope to your'n in that matter; but till
that time comes round, Edward Conway, I mought as well
say to you that we are not friends, and I don't think it 'ill
make us any nearer even if you was to prove that you're
no tory. For why,—I know that you're no friend to Clarence,
for all he's done for you.”

“Ha, Bannister—how—what know you?”

“Enough to make me say what I'm saying. Now, you
hear me, jest once, for the first and last time that I may
ever have a chance of letting you see my mind. I know
enough to know that you've been a-working agin Clarence,
and I suspicions you ha'n't done working agin him. Now,
this is to let you onderstand that Jack Bannister has ne'er

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an eye in his head that do'n't watch for his friend and agin
his enemy: and I tell you, all in good natur', and without
meaning any malice, that, whatever harm you do to him,
that same harm I'll double and treble to you, though I wait
'till the worst weather, and walk on bloody stumps, to do
it. I suspicions you, Edward Conway, and I give you fair
warning, I'll be at your heels, like a dog that never barks
to let the world know which way he's running.”

“A fair warning enough, Bannister,” replied the fugitive
with recovered composure, and a moderate show of dignity.
“To resent your language, at this time, would be almost
as foolish as to endeavour to prove that your suspicions
of me are groundless. I shall not feel myself less manly
or less innocent by forbearing to do either.”

“Well, that's jest as you think proper, Edward Conway;
I must ax your pardon ag'in for saying rough things
to a man that's a sort of prisoner, but I'm thinking it's
always the cleanest play to speak the truth when you're
forced to it. You've been talking at me ever since the
time I helped Clarence to git you into the swamp, as
if I had been some old friend of your'n, and it went
agin me to stand quiet and hear you all the time, and
not set you right on that matter. Now, as the thing's
done, with your leave we'll say no more about it. My
orders from the colonel are to carry you out of the swamp,
so you'll make ready as soon as you can, for there's precious
little of daylight left for a mighty dark sort of navigation.”

“And where is he—where do you take me?” demanded
the fugitive.

“Well, it's not in my orders to let you know any more
than I've told you: only I may say you don't go out exactly
where you came in.”

“Enough, sir. I presume that my brother's commands
will ensure me a safe guidance? I am ready to go with
you.”

This was said with that air of resentment which amply
proved to the woodman that his blunt freedoms had been
sensibly felt. He smiled only at the distrust which the
words of the fugitive seemed to betray, and the haughtiness
of his manner appeared rather to awaken in the woodman
a pleasurable emotion.

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“Well,” he muttered half aloud as he prepared to throw
the boat off from her fastenings; “well, it's not onreasonable
that he should be angry. I don't know but I should
like him the better if he would throw off his coat and
back all his sly doings at the muzzle of the pistol. But
I have no patience with any thing that looks like a sneak.
It's bad enough to be dodging with an enemy, but to
dodge when a friend's looking after you, is a sort of
sport I consider mighty onbecoming in a white man.
It's nigger natur', and don't shame a black skin, but—
well, you're ready, Mr. Edward? Jest take your seat in
the bottom, and keep steady. It's a ticklish sort of navigation
we've got before us, and our dug-out aint much more
heavier than a good sized calabash. She'll swim if we're
steady, but if you dodge about we'll sp'il our leggins, and
mought be, have to swim for it. Steady, so. Are you
right, sir?”

“Steady—all right!” was the calm, low response of the
fugitive, as the canoe darted through the lagune.

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