CHAPTER I. CAPRICES OF FORTUNE.
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We have omitted, in the proper place, to record certain
events that happened, during the progress of the
conflict, in order that nothing should retard the narrative
of that event. But, ere it had reached its termination,
and while its results were in some measure doubtful, a
new party came upon the scene, who deserves our attention
and commanded that of the faithful woodman. A
cry—a soft but piercing cry—unheard by either of the
combatants, first drew the eye of the former to the neighbouring
wood from which it issued; and simultaneously,
a slender form darted out of the cover, and hurried forward
in the direction of the strife. Bannister immediately
put himself in readiness to prevent any interference between
the parties; and, when he saw the stranger pushing
forward, and wielding a glittering weapon in his
grasp, as he advanced, he rushed from his own concealment,
and threw himself directly in the pathway of the
intruder. The stranger recoiled for an instant, while
Bannister commanded him to stand.
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“Back!” said the latter, “back, my lad, 'till it's all
over. It won't be long now, I warrant you. They'll
soon finish it, but until they've done—”
He drew a pistol from his belt which he cocked, presented,
and thus closed the sentence. The stranger
shrunk back at this sudden and sturdy interruption, but,
recovering a moment after, appeared determined to press
forward. The second warning of the scout was more
imperative than the first.
“Stand back, I tell you,” cried the resolute woodman,
“or by blazes, I'll send daylight and moonlight both
through you with an ounce bullet. I ain't trifling with
you, stranger; be sarten, I'm serious when I take pistol
in hand. Back, I tell you, 'till the tug's over, and then
you may see and be seen. Move another step and I'll
flatten you.”
“No, no, no!” was the incoherent response,—“let
me pass. I will pass!”
The sounds which assured the woodman of the determination
of the stranger, were so faintly and breathlessly
articulated, that, at any other time, Jack Bannister would
have only laughed at the obstinate purpose which they
declared; but the moment was too precious for his friend,
and he was too earnest in securing fair play for all parties,
not to regard their tenor rather than their tone.
“If you do, I'll shoot you, as sure as a gun!” was
his answer.
“They will kill him!” murmured the stranger in accents
of utter despondency. He struck his head with his
palm in a manner of the deepest wo; then, as if seized
with a new impulse, waved a dagger in the air and darted
upon the woodman. So sudden was the movement and
unexpected, that Bannister never thought to shoot, but
clubbing his pistol, he dealt the assailant a blow upon the
skull, which laid him prostrate. A faint cry escaped the
lips of the stranger in falling; and Bannister fancied that
his own name formed a part of its burden. He was also
surprised when he recollected that the enemy, though
rushing on him with a dagger, had yet forborne to use it,
although sufficient opportunity had been allowed him to
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do so, had such been his purpose, in the surprise occasioned
by his first onslaught. But the moment was not
one favourable to reflection. Clarence had now overcome
his enemy, who was prostrate and insensible, and, faint
himself, was bending over him in a fruitless effort to
stanch the blood which issued from a deep wound on
the side. Bannister approached him with the inquiry—
“God be thanked, Clarence, that you are uppermost.
How is it with him? Is he dead?”
“I hope not. He pants. There is motion in his
heart.”
“I'm sorry for it, Clarence. I ain't sorry that you
han't killed him, for I'd rather you shouldn't do it;—but
I'm mighty sorry he's not dead. It'll be all the better
for him if he is. 'Twould save a neck smooth to the last.
But come—there's a great stir at the house. I can hear
the voices.”
“But we cannot leave him here, Jack. Something
must be done for him. Would to God I had never seen
him, for I feel most wretched, now that it's all over.”
“'Taint a time to feel such feelings. You couldn't
help it, Clarence. He would force it upon you. Didn't
I hear him myself? But it's no use talking here. We
must brush up and be doing. I've given a knock to a
chap here that's laid him as quiet as you laid him—a
small chap he was,—I might have stopped him, I'm
thinking, with a lighter hand; but I hadn't time to think,
he jumped so spry upon me.”
“Who is he?” demanded Clarence.
“I don't know; a friend to Edward Conway, looking
after him, I reckon. I'll see all about him directly, when
once you're off. But you must trot at once. There's a
mighty stir all about the house, and I'm thinking, more
than once, that I've hearn a whoo-whoop-halloo, below
there in the direction of the flats. 'Twas a mighty suspicious
sort of whoop for an owl to make, and I'm dub'ous
'twan't one that had a good schoolmaster. 'Twasn't
altogether nateral.”
“What are we to do with him?” demanded Clarence
as he gazed with an aspect of complete bewilderment,
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now at the body of his kinsman, and now at the distant
mansion.
“Do!—I take it, it's just the reasonable time to hearken
to the words of Scripture. `Let the dead bury their
dead;' and though I can't exactly see how they're to set
about it, yet when people's hard pushed as we are, it's
very well to put upon Holy Book all such difficult matters
as we can't lay straight by our own hands. I'm
thinking, we'd best lay him quietly in the vault and leave
him.”
“But he's not dead, Bannister, and with care might
recover.”
“More's the pity. It's better for you and me, and
himself, too, if he don't recover; and it seems to me
very onnatural that you should take pains first to put him
to death, and the next moment worry yourself to bring
him to life again.”
“I took no such pains, Bannister. I would not have
struck him, if I could have avoided the necessity, and I
strove to avoid making his wounds fatal.”
“I'm sorry for that agen. But this ain't no time for
palavering. You'll soon have these dragoons of Coffin
scouring the grounds of the barony, and Rawdon's too
good a soldier not to have his scouts out for three good
miles round it. Them trumpets that we hear are talking
some such language now; and we must ride pretty soon
or we'll be in a swamp, the waters rising, the dug-out
gone, and a mighty thick hurricane growing in the
west.”
“I cannot think of leaving the body thus, Bannister.”
“And you risk your own body and soul,—or your
own body, which is pretty much the soul of the `Congaree
Blues,' if you stop to take care of him,” replied the
woodman.
“What are we to do?”
“Clarence, trust to me. Take your horse—you'll find
him in that hollow; and get to the head of the troop before
Coffin's hoofs tread upon its tail. I'll be mighty
soon after you; but before I start, I'll give 'em a blast of
my horn, and a scare from my puppy-dog here”—
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meaning his pistol—“which 'll be pretty sure to bring a
dozen of 'em on my track. When they come here,
they'll find the body of Mr. Conway, and this lad that I
flattened; and they can do for 'em all that's needful. I'm
a hoping that this here person”—pointing to the chief of
the Black Riders—“is out of his misery for ever, and
won't trouble the surgeont with much feeling of his hurts.
As for the other lad, I don't think I could ha' hurt him
much with the butt only, though I struck him mighty
quick and without axing how much or how little he
could stand. Trust to me, Clarence, and go ahead.”
Obviously, this was the only course to be pursued in
order to reconcile the duties and desires which the partisan
entertained. He took not a single farther look at
his enemy, whose grim and ghastly features, turned up-wards
in the moonlight, presented an aspect far more
fearful than any which the simple appearance of death
presented; and, with a few words of parting direction to
the woodman, he hurried away to the hollow where his
horse had been concealed. In a few moments after, the
sturdy Bannister rejoiced, as his ear caught the slow
movement of his departing hoofs.
The bold fellow then, before putting his design in execution,
of alarming the British at the mansion and bringing
them down upon the spot, true to the business of the
scout stole forward in the direction of the dwelling, in
order to ascertain what he could, as to the disposition
and strength of the force which had come, and was still
advancing. A perfect knowledge of the place, its points
of retreat and places of shelter, enabled him to reach a
station where he saw quite as much as he desired. The
cavalry, a small body of men, were evidently drawn up
as a guard along the avenue, for the reception of the
commander in chief; and while Bannister admired their
array, and noted the stealthy caution which marked their
movements, he was also enabled to count their numbers
with tolerable certainty.
“More than they told me,” he muttered to himself,
“but a good ambushment will make up the difference,
by thinning them a little.”
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Having satisfied his curiosity, and perceiving that the
main body of the British army was at hand, he contented
himself with observing, with soldierly admiration, the
fine appearance of the troops—a body consisting chiefly
of the Irish regiments, then newly arrived from Europe—
and the excellent order of their march; and then stole
away, as quietly as he approached, to the place where he
had left the wounded. Returning with as stealthy a
movement as at his departure, he was surprised to discover
that the body of the stranger whom he had knocked
down was no longer where he had left it. A considerable
curiosity filled his bosom to discover who this person
was. His conduct had been somewhat singular, and
Bannister was almost sure that when he inflicted the
blow which had laid him prostrate, the stranger had
uttered his own name in falling; and that too, in tones
which were neither strange nor those of an enemy. His
first impression was that this person had feigned unconsciousness,
but had taken advantage of his momentary
absence to steal off into the contiguous woods. To seek
him there under present circumstances and with so little
time as was allowed him, would be an idle attempt; and
the woodman, with some disappointment, turned once
more to the spot where the outlaw was lying. To his
surprise he found a second person with him, whom a
nearer glance discovered to be the very person whose
absence he had regretted. The stranger was lying upon
the body of Edward Morton, and seemingly as lifeless
as himself; but he started up when he heard the footsteps
of Bannister, made a feeble attempt to rise from the
ground, but fell forward with an expression of pain, and
once more lay quiescent upon the body of the outlaw.
The scout drew nigh and addressed the youth with an
accent of excessive kindness, for the milk of a gentle as
well as a generous nature, flowing in his heart from the
beginning, had not been altogether turned by the cruel
necessities of the warfare in which he was engaged.
But, though he spoke the kindest words of consolation
and encouragement known to his vocabulary, and in the
kindest tones, he received no answer. The youth lay in
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a condition of equal stillness with him whose body he
seemed resolved to cover with his own. Bannister readily
conceived that he had swooned. He advanced accordingly,
stooped down, and turned the face to the
moonlight. It was a fair face and very pale, except
where two livid streaks were drawn by the now clotted
blood, which had escaped from beneath the black fur cap
which he wore. This, upon examination, the scout found
to be cut by the pistol-blow which he had given; and it
was with a shivering sensation of horror, to him very
unusual, that, when he pressed lightly with his finger
upon the skull below, it felt soft and pulpy.
“Lord forgive me!” was the involuntary ejaculation
of the woodman,—Lord forgive me, if I have hit the
poor lad too hard a blow.”
His annoyance increased as he beheld the slight and
slender person of the youth.
“There was no needcessity to use the pistol, poor fellow.
A fist blow would have been enough to have kept
him quiet;”—and, muttering thus at intervals, he proceeded
to untie the strings which secured the cap to the
head of the stranger. These were fastened below the
chin; and, in his anxiety and haste, the woodman, whose
fingers may readily be supposed to have been better fitted
for any less delicate business, contrived to run the slip
into a knot, which his hunting knife was employed to
separate. The cap was removed, and in pressing the
hair back from the wound, he was surprised at its smooth,
silk-like fineness, and unusual length. This occasioned
his increased surprise, and when, looking more closely,
he saw in the fair light of the moon, the high narrow
white forehead in connection with the other features of
the face, a keen and painful conjecture passed through his
mind, and with tremulous haste and a convulsive feeling
of apprehension, he tore open the jacket of dismal sable
which the unconscious person wore, and the whole
mournful truth flashed upon his soul.
“God ha' mercy, it is a woman!—it is she,—it is
poor Mary. Mary—Mary Clarkson! Open your eyes,
Mary, and look up. Don't be scared—it's a friend—it's
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me, Jack Bannister! Your old friend, your father's
friend.—God ha' mercy! She don't see, she don't hear,—
she can't speak. If I should ha' hit too hard! If I
should ha' hit too hard!” The anxiety of the honest fellow
as he addressed the unconscious victim of his own
unmeditated blow would be indescribable. He sat down
on the sward and took her head into his lap, and clasped
her brows, and laid his ear to her heart to feel its beatings,
and when, with returning consciousness, she murmured
a few incoherent words, his delight was that of
one frantic. He now laid her down tenderly, and ran
off to a little spring which trickled from the foot of the
hill, with the position of which he was well acquainted.
A gourd hung upon the slender bough of a tree that
spread above the basin. This he hastily scooped full of
the water, and ran back to the unfortunate girl. She
had somewhat recovered during his absence—sufficiently
to know that some one was busy in the work of restoration
and kindness.
“No, no,” she muttered—“mind not me—go to him—
him! Save him before they kill him.”
“Him, indeed! No! Let him wait. He can afford
to do it, for I reckon it's all over with him. But you,
Mary, dear Mary,—tell me, Mary, that you are not
much hurt—tell me that you know me—it was I who
hurt you; I—your old friend John Bannister, Mary,—
but it's a God's truth I didn't know you then. I'd ha'
cut off my right arm first, Mary, before it should ever
have given pain to you.”
“Leave me, if you have mercy,—I didn't want your
help;—you can't help me—no! no!—Go to him. He
will bleed to death while you are talking.”
“Don't tell me to leave you, Mary; and don't trouble
yourself about him. He'll have all the help he needs—
all he deserves—but you! look up, dear Mary, and tell
me if you know me. I am still your friend, Mary—your
father's friend.”
The mention of her father seemed to increase her
sufferings.
“No! no!—not that!”—she muttered bitterly; and
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writhing about with an effort that seemed to exhaust all
her remaining strength, she turned her face upon the
ground, where she lay insensible. Never was mortal
more miserable or more bewildered than our worthy
scout. He now suffered from all the feelings, the doubt
and indecision which had beset his commander but a
little while before. To remain was to risk being made a
prisoner, yet to leave the poor victim of his own random
blow, in her present condition, was as painful to his own
sense of humanity as it was unendurable by that tender
feeling which, we have already intimated, possessed his
heart in an earlier day for the frail victim of another's
perfidy; and which her subsequent dishonour had not
wholly obliterated. He gazed with a sort of stupid sorrow
upon the motionless form before him, until his big,
slow gathering tears fell thick upon her neck, which his
arm partially sustained, while his fingers turned over the
long silken hair, portions of which were matted with her
blood, in a manner which betrayed something of a mental
self-abandonment on the part of one of the hardiest scouts
in the whole Congaree country. How long he might
have lingered in this purposeless manner, had not an
interruption from without awakened him to a more resolute,
if a less humane course, may not be conjectured.
In that moment the resources of the strong man were
sensibly diminished. The hopes and loves of his early
youth were busy at his heart. Memory was going over
her tears and treasures, and wounds which had been
scarred by time and trial were all suddenly re-opened.
In this musing vein he half forgot the near neighbourhood
of his enemies, and the dangers which awaited him in the
event of captivity. It was not then the mere prospect of
restraint which threatened the rebel if taken prisoner.
The sanguinary rage of party had to be pacified with
blood; and it is strongly probable that the merciless executions
of which the British commanders were so frequently
guilty in the south, were sometimes prompted
by a desire to conciliate the loyalists of the same region
who had personal enmities to gratify, and personal revenges
to wreak, which could be satisfied in scarcely
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any other way. Of these dangers the sturdy woodman
was made most unexpectedly conscious by hearing the
tones and language of military command immediately
behind him. A guard was evidently approaching, sentries
were about to be placed, and the sounds which
startled him on one side were echoed and strangely answered
by a sudden clamour of a most unmilitary character
which rose, at nearly the same instant, from the
swamps and flats which lay along the river a few hundred
yards below. Mary Clarkson could have explained
the mystery of the latter noises, were she conscious
enough to hear; but such was not the case. Her consciousness
was momentary, and when obvious, betrayed
itself in expressions which now denoted a wandering intellect.
A stern agony filled the heart of the scout as
he rose to his feet, lifted her tenderly in his arms, and
bore her towards the tomb, before the entrance of which
he laid her gently down, in a spot which he knew would
make her conspicuous to the eyes of the first person
approaching. He had barely disengaged her from his
arms, and was still bending over her with a last look, the
expression of which, though unseen by any, spoke more
effectually the anguish which he felt, than could ever
have been conveyed by the rude and simple language of
his lips, when he felt a hand upon his shoulder—a quick,
firm grasp—followed by the sounds of a voice, which it
soon appeared that he knew.
“Oh! Ha! Caught at last, Supple Jack;—Supple,
the famous! Your limbs will scarcely help you now,
You are my prisoner.”
“Not so fast, Watson Gray—I know you!” replied
the scout as he started to his feet and made an effort to
turn; but his enemy had grappled him from behind, had
pinioned his arms by a grasp from limbs as full of muscle
as his own, and was in fact fairly mounted upon his
back.
“And feel me too, Jack Bannister, I think. There's
no getting loose, my boy, and your only way is to keep
quiet. There are twenty Hessians at my back to help
me, and as many Irish.”
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“More than enough, Watson Gray, for a poor Congaree
boatman. But you're rather vent'rous, I'm thinking,
you are, to begin the attack. You're rather a small
build of a man, if my memory sarves me rightly—you
ha'nt half of my heft, and can't surely think to manage
me.”
“I do. If I'm light, you'll find me strong—strong
enough to keep your arms fast till my wild Irish come
up, and lay you backward.”
“Well, that may be, Watson. But my arms ain't my
legs, my lad. Keep them, if you can”—and grasping
with his hands the arms of his asssilant, with a hold as
unyielding as his own, he set off at a smart canter down
the hill, in spite of the fierce and awkward struggles of
the other to rescue himself from the predicament in which
his own overweening confidence had placed himself.
“It's but natural that you should kick and worry,
at riding a nag that you han't bitted, Watson Gray, but
it's of no use; you're fairly mounted, and there's no getting
off in a hurry,” was the consoling language of the
scout as he ran towards the wood with his captive.
“I see that you never hearn of the danger of shaking
hands with a black bear. The danger is that you can't
let go when you want to. A black bear is so civil an
animal, that he never likes to give up a good acquaintance,
and he'll hold on, paw for paw, with him, and
rubbing noses when he can, though it's the roughest tree
in the swamp that stands up between him and his friend.
Your arms and shoulders, I reckon, are jist as good and
strong as mine. But your body ain't got the weight, and
I could carry you all day, on a pinch, and never feel the
worse for it. You see how easy we go together!”
“D—n you, for a cunning devil,” cried the embarrassed
Gray, kicking and floundering furiously, but vainly
striving to get loose.
“Don't you curse, Watson Gray;—it sort o' makes
you feel heavier on my quarters.”
“Let me down, Bannister, and you may go free, and
go to the devil where you came from.”
“Well, you're too good. You'll let me go free—I'm
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thinking that it's you that's my prisoner, my boy. I'll
parole you as soon as I reach my critter.”
“I'll shout to the Hessians to shoot you as you run,”
vociferated the other.
“Will you, then. You don't consider that your back
will first feel the bullets. You're a cunning man, Watson
Gray. I've always said you were about the best
scout I know'd in the whole Congaree country, and it's
a long time since we've been dodging about one another.
I was a little dub'ous, I confess, that you were a better
man than myself. I was: but you made a poor fist of
this business—a poor pair of fists, I may say,” concluded
the woodman with a chuckle.
“So I did—a d—d poor business of it!” groaned the
other. “I should have put my knife into your ribs, or
had the scouts round you first.”
“The knife's a bad business, Watson,” was the reply
of the other;—“a good scout that's not onnatural, never
uses it when less hurtful things will answer. But it's
true you should ha' put your Hessians between me and
the woods before you cried out `you're my prisoner!'
If ever a man jumps into determination at all, it's jist
when he hears some such ugly words, on a sudden, in
his ears; and when I felt you, riding so snugly on my
back, I know'd I had you, and could ha' sworn it.”
A desperate effort to effect his release which Watson
Gray made at this time, put a stop to the complacent
speech of the other, and made him less indulgent.
“I'll cure your kicking, my lad,” said he, as, backing
himself against a pine tree, he subjected his involuntary
burden to a succession of the hardest thumps which he
could inflict upon him by driving his body with all its
force against the incorrigible and knotty giant of the
forests. The clasping of the captive, which ensued,
sufficiently attested the success of this measure; and an
attempt which Gray made a moment or two after to get
the ear of Supple Jack within his teeth, which was answered
by a butt that almost ruined his whole jaw, terminated
the fruitless endeavours of the former to free
himself from his awkward predicament. Meanwhile, the
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stir and confusion were increasing behind the fugitives,
and it was a wonder to both that they had not been pursued.
The sounds, imperfectly heard by the woodman,
seemed to be those of actual conflict; but he felt himself
secure, and his thoughts reverted, over all, to the poor
Mary Clarkson—the victim of the outlaw with whom
she had been left, and, perhaps, his own victim. The
poor fellow regarded himself with horror when he thought
of the cruel blow his hand had inflicted. But he had no
time for these reflections; and the necessity of joining his
commander, moved him to new vigour in his progress.
He had now reached the place where his horse was
concealed. His first movement was to pitch his captive
over his head, which he did very unexpectedly to the
latter. In the next moment, his knee was upon his
breast, and with pistol presented to his mouth, he made
Watson Gray surrender his weapons. These consisted
only of two hunting knives, and an ordinary pocket
pistol. He then rifled his pockets of all which they contained,
kept his papers, but generously restored his
money.
“Now, Watson Gray, you're a Congaree man, like
myself, and if I've thumped you a little hard as we run,
put it down to the needcessity of the case and not because
I wanted to hurt you. I'll let you off now, on your
parole, that you may go back and help Ned Conway.
You've been his helper and adviser a mighty long time,
and you've done for him a precious deal of ugly business.
He'll need more help now, I'm thinking, than you can
give him. There's a poor boy there—too—a young
slender chap, that I hit with a'most too heavy a hand,
I'm afeard, and if you can do any thing for her—”
“Her!” said the other.
“Oh, yes—the truth will out—she's a gal though in
no gal's clothes. Perhaps you know her. You ought
to—you know enough of Ned Conway's wickedness to
know that. Take care of that gal, Watson Gray, and if
physic can do her good, see that she gets it. I ax it of
you as a favour. You're a stout fellow, Watson, and
I've long tried to have a turn with you. I'm thinking
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you're a better scout than I am; but there's no discredit to
you to say that you want my heft and timbers. In a close
tug I'm your master; but I'm dub'ous you'd work through
a swamp better than me. See to that gal, Watson, for
the sake of the Congaree country. She's one of our
own children, I may say, seeing we're both from the
river;—and if there's any cost that you're at, in helping
her, either for food or physic, let me know of it, and you
shall have pay, if I dig the gold out of some enemy's
heart. Good by, now, Watson, and remember that you
must never take a bear by the paws till you've first made
terms with him about letting go.”
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CHAPTER II. PROGRESS AND SUSPENSE.
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“Was ever poor devil caught so completely in his own
trap before!” was the querulous exclamation of Watson
Gray, as with a painful effort he rose from the ground
where his adversary had so ungently stretched him out.
“Egad, I'm sore all over; though I think there's no
bone broken!” He rubbed his arms and thighs while he
spoke with an unctuous earnestness which showed that
he spoke in all sincerity, though still with some doubt
whether his limbs preserved their integrity.
“Confound the scamp! I thought I had been sure. His
arms fastened—his back turned!—Who'd have thought
of such a canter down hill with a strong man over his
shoulders! Well, he certainly deserves the name of
Supple Jack! He's earned it fairly by this bout if he
never had it before. If ever fellow was strong and supple
over all the men I ever knew, he's the man. But for
those sleepy Hessians, I'd have had him;—and I wonder
what can keep them now. The dull, drowsy, beef-eyed
Dutchmen—what the d—l are they after—what
stir's that?”
A buzz of many voices in earnest controversy, in the
direction of the vault, arrested the speaker in his soliloquy,
and stimulated his apprehensions.
“By Jupiter! they're fighting among themselves.
What an uproar—they're at loggerheads, surely—the
Hessian boobies.”
The anxiety of the scout made him half forgetful of
his bruises as he turned towards the scene which he
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had, perforce, described. There seemed sufficient cause
to justify his apprehensions. The clamour which first
startled him, was followed by oaths, execrations, and
finally the clash of arms. He hurried forward to the
scene of the uproar, and arrived, not a moment too soon,
to prevent bloodshed. It will be necessary that we
should retrace our steps for a while in order to trace the
causes of the present commotion.
It will be remembered that Mary Clarkson left the
bivouac of the Black Riders, at the very time, when,
going through the bloody ceremonial of pledging themselves
to one another for the performance of a new crime,
they left her to suppose that they would very shortly
follow upon her footsteps. This, to a certain extent,
was, indeed, the fact. They followed, but not so soon
as she expected; and she reached the miserable man for
whom she had sacrificed the life of woman's life, in full
time to have forewarned him of their approach and purpose,
had this, under the circumstances, been either
necessary or possible. We have already seen what
those circumstances were; and the cruel insults which
followed her unselfish devotion to a creature so little
deserving the care of any heart. The chief of the outlaws
had already fallen beneath the arm of his kinsman.
The Black Riders had still some arrangements to make—
some stimulating liquors to quaff, and purposes to
fulfil scarcely less stimulating—before they started for
the work of treachery and murder. One of these arrangements,
was the elevation of Stockton to the chief command,
as if Morton were already dead. Ensign Darcy,
by a natural transition, and as a becoming reward for his
good service, was promoted at the same time to the station
which the other had so lately filled. Morton had
his friends among the banditti, who simply submitted to
proceedings which they could not baffle and openly dared
not resist. They, however, held themselves in reserve,
with a mental determination to defeat, if possible, the
dark purposes of their companions before they could
possibly carry them out to completion. But this determination
was ineffective for the time, simply because it
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
was individual. They had no opportunity allowed them
for deliberation, and being half suspected of lukewarmness,
they were not suffered to get together unwatched
and unobserved by the dominant faction. Elated with
his success, the arrogant Stockton fancied that the path
of the future was fairly open before his steps, unembarrassed
by all obstructions, and the smiles of good fortune
beckoning him to the conquest. There was but one task
before him to render all things easy, and that, a malignant
sentiment of hate, goaded him on to perform. The murder
of Edward Morton—his personal enemy—the man
who knew his secret baseness, and who scorned him in
consequence—was yet to be executed, and this, when he
thought of the past, its bitterness and contumely;—of the
future, its doubts and dangers—became a task of grateful
personal performance. To this task, when all the ceremonials
were over, of his own and confederate's elevation,
he accordingly hurried. His men were soon put in readiness,
and Darcy, who had traversed the ground more
than once before, took charge of the advance. Their
plans were simple but sufficient, had the circumstances
continued throughout as they were at the beginning.
They had meditated to advance upon, and to surround
the mansion, in which they supposed their captain to be;
then raising the cry of “Sumter,” create an alarm, in the
confusion of which Morton was to be put to death. It
need not be said that the unexpected approach of a British
army—under a forced march, and without any of the
usual clamours attending on the progress of a large body
of men, utterly baffled all their calculations;—and when,
following the path towards the tomb, which Morton had
originally taken, Lieutenant Darcy arrived at the spot,
he found it almost in complete possession of soldiery,
consisting of the very Hessians, some twenty in number,
on the assistance of whom Watson Gray had so
confidently calculated, when he made the rash attempt
on the person of Jack Bannister. The Hessian troops
had never before been seen by the Black Riders, and
Darcy immediately jumped to the conclusion, that these
were partisan troops of Lee's legion, which he knew
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
had, a little time before, been seen in the neighbourhood;
and the conjecture was natural, not only that they might
be there still, but that Morton might already have become
their captive. The incautious movement of these soldiers,
suggested to Darcy, who was not without his
ambition, the project of capturing the whole of them.
They were evidently as careless of danger, as if they had
never known what apprehension was; and finding them
squatting around some object near the tomb, busy in low
discussion, the next most natural conjecture, to one of his
marauding habits, was, that they had already rifled the
mansion and were now sharing its plunder. The cupidity
of the habitual robber rendered his judgment easy of
access to any suggestion which favoured the mercenary
passions of his heart; and taking that for granted which
was merely possible, and waiting for no farther knowledge
of the truth, Darcy stole back to Stockton, who
was following with the main body; and readily filled his
mind with the ideas which predominated in his own.
But few questions were asked by the new captain. The
information of Darcy seemed to cover all the ground;
and they were both instantly ripe for action.
“There are not twenty—squat upon the turf—some
of their arms lie beside, and some upon the tomb, and
the plunder, if one may judge from the interest they take
in it, must be rather more than has blessed their eyes for
many a day. We can surround them in a jiffy, without
striking a blow.”
“But Morton!—do you see nothing of him?” demanded
Stockton anxiously.
“No! But if these fellows found him at this house,
they've saved us some trouble. They've done for him
already.”
“Enough! set on, and lead the way. Manage it,
Darcy, to suit yourself; you alone know the path.”
“Hark! a trumpet! I have heard that trumpet once
before. It must be at the mansion.”
“The more need for hurry. These fellows are a
squad of Lee's or Sumter's, who have rifled the house
before the main body came up. We must be in time to
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
relieve them of their burden before they get help from the
strongest. After that, we can push up for the house, and
see what can be done with the rest.”
“Keep all still then,” said Darcy. “I'll undertake to
surround these rascals, and borrow their plunder, without
emptying a pistol. Let your horses be fastened here,
and we'll go on foot the rest of the journey. Dismount!
dismount!—we have but a few hundred yards to go!”
Such were the arrangements of the Black Riders; and
yielding the management of the affair entirely to Darcy,
Stockton followed with his band in silence. With the
stealthy progress of the Indian, each individual passed to
his appointed station, until the tomb, and all about it, was
completely environed with a cordon militaire, from
which nothing could escape. A signal whistle warned
them to be in readiness, and a second commanded
the movement. The operation was fully successful.
The Hessians were surrounded before sword could be
drawn or yager lifted. Nothing could well exceed the
astonishment of the mutual parties, the captors equally
with the captive. The Hessians, with an army of two
thousand men or more, at hand, to find themselves, on a
sudden, in custody of a force not twice their own number;
while the amazement of the Black Riders was
scarcely less, when they heard the clamours of the people
they had made captive, in a language which they could
not comprehend, and the harsh sounds of which seemed
to them so shocking and unnatural. Their disappointment
was something increased also to discover, that instead
of the treasure of the house of Middleton, the
family plate and ladies' jewels,—the supposed plunder,
around which the Hessians had been squatting, was
neither more nor less than the body, seemingly dead, of
the tender boy who usually attended upon their captain.
It was at this moment of confusion on both hands, and
before any thing could be understood, or any thing explained,
that Watson Gray made his appearance, to the
satisfaction of one at least of the parties.
“How now, Darcy, what's the matter here? What
are you doing with these men? Let them go.”
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
“Let them go, indeed, when we've just taken them.
Let them rather go to the gallows.”
“Gallows! why, who do you take these fellows for?”
“Lee's legion, or a part of it!”
“Indeed! Had your courage ever carried you nigh
enough to Lee's legion, you'd have found out your mistake.
Why, man, what are you thinking of? These are
His Majesty's new levies, hired or bought from the Prince
of Hesse Cassel, at two and sixpence a head, and d—d
extravagant pay too, for such heads as they've got. Let
them go—they're Hessians!”
A gibberish utterly beyond translation by any present
arose in echo from the captured foreigners, in full confirmation
of this assurance. By this time Stockton made
his appearance, and the face of Watson Gray might have
been seen to indicate some surprise when he saw him.
Gray knew the relation in which Stockton stood to his
captain; and was instantly assured that the latter had
never deputed to him the chief command in his absence.
The circumstance looked suspicious; but Gray was too
old a scout to suffer his suspicions to be seen, until he
knew in what condition the game stood.
“Ah, Stockton!” he said, indifferently—“is that you?
but where's Ben Williams—is he not in command?”
“No, I am,” said Stockton—“I am for the present.
We came to look after the captain.”
“The captain!—why, where did he leave you?”
“In the swamp flats, some two miles below.”
“And what brings you to look after him? Did he order
it?”
“No,” said Darcy, taking up the tale with an adroitness
of which he knew that Stockton was no master—
“no; but we heard trumpets, and as he stayed rather long,
we were apprehensive about him. When we came and
saw these fellows here, with strange uniforms, we took
'em for Lee's legion, as we heard that Lee was dodging
about this neighbourhood.”
“And you really have never seen Lee's uniforms, ensign?”
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
“No!—never, we've been operating above, you know;
and—”
“You have not found the captain then!”
“Not yet, and what to do—”
“I'll tell you. Look there and you'll find him. The
sooner we attend to him the better.”
He led the way to the body of Edward Morton as he
spoke, stooped down with composure, but interest; and
proceeded to examine it for the signs of life which it contained.
The wily Darcy followed his example, and his
conduct, in turn, suggested to Stockton that which it
would be proper for him to pursue. Much time was not
given to the examination, and still less in vain regrets and
lamentations. The selfishness of man's nature soars
triumphant above all other considerations, in a time of
war; and life becomes as small a subject of consideration,
as any one of its own circumstances.
“Some ugly hurts here, I reckon;” said Darcy, “we
must get him to the house and to the hands of the surgeon,
as soon as possible.”
“Does he live?” asked Stockton in a whisper, over
Darcy's shoulder.
“Ay, he lives!” was the answer made by Gray, in
tones which were somewhat sharpened by asperity;
“there's life enough to go upon, and, with good care, he'll
be able shortly to be in the saddle. If we can stop the
blood there's nothing to be afraid of, I'm thinking.”
This man boldly took the lead, as a man having his
wits about him will be always apt to do, in seasons of
sudden peril and great surprise. Even Stockton tacitly
submitted to his guidance.
“Give way there, my good fellows, and let's see what
we're about. Here, one of you,—take that door—there—
the door of the vault—from its hinges;—and we'll carry
him to the house on that.”—He muttered through his
closed teeth at the conclusion,—and his hands were unconsciously
pressed upon his hips as he spoke—“He'll
have an easier ride than I had of it. My bones will tell
of it for a month.”
The door of the vault was soon brought forward, and
-- 034 --
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
the Black Riders with careful hands raised their captain
upon it. Darcy and Stockton both busied themselves in
this service. But though performed with great caution,
the motion recalled the wounded man to consciousness
and pain, and two or three half-stifled moans escaped
from his lips. He muttered a few words also, which
showed that he still fancied himself engaged in all the
struggles of a protracted and doubtful strife. When Gray
had seen him fairly placed upon the frame, which was
amply large, he thought of the poor girl whom the earnest
solicitations of Supple Jack had commended to his
care;—and, with a degree of interest and tenderness,
which could scarcely have been expected from one habitually
so rough, he himself assisted to place the slight
form of the victim beside the body of her betrayer. By
this time, however, the friendly stupor which had first
come to her relief, no longer possessed her faculties.
She had recovered her consciousness, but under the burning
pressure of fever, which filled her mind with all the
fancies of delirium. She raved of a thousand things, incoherently,
which perhaps none present could in any
way comprehend but the one individual who was engaged
in conducting the operations. He, too, harsh as was his
nature, callous and insensible—the creature of the cruel
man whose profligate passions he served, and who had
reduced her to the thing she was,—he, too, did not appear
entirely unaffected by the wild agony which her
ravings denoted and expressed. He walked beside her,
as a dozen of the soldiers carried the litter towards the
house, and few were the words, and those only such as
seemed to be necessary, which he uttered during the
mournful procession.
“You had better set your men in handsome order,
Stockton. You will meet Lord Rawdon at the house,
with all his suite, and a fine show of military. He likes
to see handsome dressing and a good front, and he'll look
to you for it while the captain's sick.”
“A cursed chance, this,” muttered Stockton as he drew
aside with Darcy to put in execution the suggestions of
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
the scout. “Who'd have thought it? Rawdon here, and
we not know a word about it!”
“It's devilish fortunate we did not rush on in the dark.
That peep of mine was well thought on! But it makes
very little difference, except the loss of the plunder. Morton's
pretty well done for. No less than five wounds,
upon him—two in the jaw, and three in the body.”
“But how came it? Who could have done it?” said
Stockton.
“That matters less than all! Some friend, I take it,—
who knew what we wished most and saved us the trouble
of the performance.”
“But how strange!—and how stranger than all that
we should have been deceived in that boy—that Henry!”
“Ay!—but let us hurry on, and show alacrity as well
as order! of course, we'll say nothing now about the
captaincy! Your still lieutenant only, and if Morton
dies—”
“He must die!” said the other.
“Ay! he must. Rawdon will leave him a surgeon,
and we will find a guard; and if he survives the one,
there's but little chance of his getting off from the other.
Eh! what think you?”
“It will do;” was the significant answer of Stockton.
They understood each other thoroughly, before they put
their men in order. The thoughts of Watson Gray were
not less busy, as he pursued his way alone with the
wounded persons; nor were they more favourable to the
conspirators, than was the determination of these friendly
to their captain. He knew, better than any other man,
the true history of the latter, and the sort of relation in
which he stood to his troop. He was not ignorant, also,
of the scorn which Morton felt for Stockton, and the
hate, more deadly because secret, with which the other
requited it. He could readily conceive, at the same
time, that Stockton's interest would lie in the death of
his captain; and putting all these things together, in his
mind, he determined to keep his eyes open, and watchful
of every movement of the parties.
“Rawdon will take them with him to Ninety-Six,” he
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
muttered, as he came to this conclusion. “I will persuade
him to do so, at least, and the chances are fair that they
will get themselves knocked on the head before the siege
is over. But whether they do or not, we shall gain time,
and if Morton's hurts are curable, we shall know it before
they get back, and provide accordingly. But one thing
must be cared for. Rawdon must not know Morton in
the house of Flora Middleton. That would spoil all.
I must speak with him before the body arrives. He must
leave the matter to me.”
Whatever may have been the tie that attached Watson
Gray to the chief of the Black Riders, his course was
evidently that of a true and shrewdly thinking friend.
He had no sooner determined what was proper for him
to do, than he hurried ahead of the procession, and made
his appearance in the spacious hall of the mansion,
several minutes before it could possibly arrive. His
lordship was in the parlour with the ladies, but Gray
knew him to be a man of business, with whom business
is always a sufficient plea for any interruption.
“Say to his lordship that Watson Gray would speak
with him in private, on matters of some importance,” he
said to an officer in attendance, who knew the estimation
in which the scout was held, and at once disappeared to
do his bidding.
-- 037 --
CHAPTER III. A CONFERENCE WITH THE ENEMY.
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
Lord Rawdon, in the History of the War in the
Southern Colonies, appears to have been one of the
sternest leaders of the time; as sanguinary in his temper
as Earl Cornwallis, and without any of those impulses
of a better temper, which have secured for the
latter, from one of the American captains, the doubtfully
deserved epithet of the “amiable Cornwallis.” Rawdon
left himself open neither to the lurking irony nor the
obvious flattery of such an epithet. His discipline was
rigid to the last degree; his temper cold and inflexible;
and he seems to have regarded the enemies whom he had
the fortune to conquer as something, which, like the spoil
he won, he might easily dispose of according to the mood
which governed him at the moment; and not under the
direction of any fixed principles or written laws. His
cruelties, open and specious, are on record; but these do
not concern us at this moment; and we must admit that
the King of England had no representative in all the Revolution
who was more constant to his duties or more
resolute in their performance. Lord Rawdon had also
the merit of being a gentleman; a hard, cold, inflexible
soldier,—too free to shed blood, and not politic enough
to do so at the right time and in the right place;—obdurate
in his purpose and unpliant in his feelings—but still
a gentleman: a qualification for his crimes of perhaps
very small intrinsic value, but one which he possessed in
common with very few, among the many with whom he
co-operated during his career in the southern country.
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
Well acquainted with the character of the Middleton
family, it had been, as we have already elsewhere intimated,
the policy of this commander, as well as of him
by whom he had been preceded, to treat the inmates of
the Barony with all indulgence. Their popularity with
the surrounding country, which it was desirable to conciliate,
was a sufficient reason for an indulgence, which, in
the reckless career of the invaders, they had not been
disposed to extend to many; and the time was fast approaching
when, in the declining power of their arms,
their desperation led them to withdraw even this degree
of favour, in the vain hope to coerce the patriotism which
they found it impossible to persuade or seduce. Already
had the tone of British superiority been lowered. They
could no longer maintain themselves in their strongholds;
and, evacuating Camden under the accumulating pressure
of the American forces, Rawdon was even now on his
way to “Ninety-Six,” to protract the hour of its downfall.
This was the last stronghold left them in the interior,
and to delay, not to baffle its assailants, in the work
of conquest, was now the only hope of the British commander.
The political aspects of the time were all unfavourable
to British ascendancy; and the temper of his
lordship underwent a corresponding change with his
changing fortunes. This could be seen by the Middletons,
the moment when he announced himself their
guest, with the air and manner of one who feels all the
changes in his own fortunes, and readily divines the effect
of such change upon his reluctant host. He looked,
though he did not say:—“I know that you receive me
with reluctance—that my presence is hateful to you—
nay, that you perceive and exult in my approaching overthrow,—
but, I still have the power to compel your respect,
and I may yet awaken your fears. You shall
receive me, and seem to be glad to do so.”
But the suspicious mood of Rawdon became quieted,
when, in the gentle and easy deportment of the ladies, he
failed to behold the exulting expression of those sentiments
which he fancied might fill their bosoms. They
were superior to that vulgar sentiment of triumph which
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
shows itself in the ill-disguised grin, or in the reserved
and chilling demeanour. A quiet dignity and a gentle
grace was apparent in the conduct of both, in receiving
the British chief:—and this, in the younger of the two
ladies, was mingled with some little tremulousness—the
result of her consciousness of what had just before taken
place between herself and Clarence Conway—which
Rawdon was not unwilling to ascribe to the agitation
which his own presence must naturally produce in every
youthful mind. This notion pleased his self-complacency,
and made the work of soothing more easy to the ladies;
but they could still perceive that they had assumed, as
enemies, in the recent successes of their countrymen, an
increased importance in his eyes, which lessened his
smiles, and probably increased their dangers;—and they
were soon made to understand this difference in a more
direct and decided manner. Tea, at that time the bane
of the country, though the blessing of the ladies, was the
crowning dish of the evening repast; and this commodity,
though employed simply in compliment to the
Briton, gave Rawdon an opportunity to say something on
the subject of their loyalty, as he sat down the rich bowl
of gold-rimmed China, from which, in that day of a
luxury far more ostentatious than ours, though of far less
general ostentation, the precious beverage was drunk.
“I rejoice to see, ladies, that your patriotism—so I
think you call this flinging away your king and country—
takes counsel of good taste, and does not allow you to
fling away your tea-bowls also. It would have been a
serious trial of faith to your sex to have given up the
Celestial liquor for more than a season.”
The old lady answered smartly, with no small portion
of that spirit which then distinguished the dames of Carolina.
“I cannot accept your compliment to our tastes, my
lord, at the expense of our patriotism. You perceive
that while your lordship drinks tea, we confine ourselves
to such beverage only as our milch cows yield us.
Sometimes we regale ourselves on Indian tea, which is
made of the Cussenna leaf, but this only when our milk
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
fails us, which is no unfrequent event, since the Black
Riders have found their way into our neighbourhood.”
“And their presence, madam, is only another evil consequence
of your patriotism. But surely the whole burden
of this complaint should not fall upon the Black
Riders. There have been such `Riders' as follow Lee
and Sumter in this neighbourhood lately; of whom report
speaks not more favourably; and who probably love
milch cattle quite as well as any body else. Nay, my
fair young mistress,” addressing himself to Flora, “there
is another Rider, black enough in my eyes, but, perhaps,
any thing but black in yours. Ha! you can guess who
I mean by this description; and I will not name him for
your sake, but let me catch him!” and he raised a
threatening finger, while a half smile rested upon his lips.
Flora could not altogether suppress the blush which found
its way to her cheeks, and was as little able to control
the irony that rose at the same time to her lips.
“Ah, my lord, you are too severe upon our poor sex;
but—”
She paused, and the colour heightened upon her cheeks.
“But what?” he asked, seeing her hesitate.
“But what if he catches you, my lord?”
“Flora, Flora!” said the grandmother, with a look
and voice of warning. A momentary gravity overspread
the face of Rawdon, and his severe features, under the
dark shade of his lowering brows, almost startled Flora
with a sentiment of apprehension for her own imprudence;
but the good sense and breeding of his lordship
came to her relief as well as his own.
“Ah, my fair foe,” he said with a smile of good nature,
“still incorrigible—still dangerous. The tongues
of your Carolina ladies inflict deeper wounds than the
swords of your heroes.”
“I would you could think so, my lord.”
“Why, they do,” he answered, “they do.”
“Nay, my lord, I will not contradict you, and yet I
am trying to persuade myself that you will think otherwise
before you come back from `Ninety-Six.”'
“And do you find the task of self-persuasion difficult?
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
I should think not; at least, you hope I will come
back?”
“Yes, my lord, I hope so—in safety; but with such
opinions as will make you think better of our soldiers,
and, in this reason, find a much farther journey necessary.”
“What, to Charlestown, eh? a forced march back?”
“To England, my lord; to England; at that distance
there will be some chance of our being better friends,
and we shall then resume our tea.”
“But without the duties?” he said laughing.
“Not altogether, my lord. I, for one, feel all the
disposition to be the dutiful friend—if you please the dutiful
child—of England;—but not the subject, not the
slave! Her victim, rather!”
“Ah, my fair Flora, we wish no sacrifice: none of
you, at least. We shall drag no damsel to the altar, unless
it be to one of her own choosing. But in revenge
for this sharp speech of yours, fair lady, may I know
when Colonel Conway was here last; how long since
he has taken his departure, and where I may expect to
find him?”
“He has been here, my lord, I frankly tell you, but
when he left I will not say. You will find him—”
She hesitated as if in meditation, while her large brilliant
eyes shone without a cloud upon her auditor, and
her form seemed to dilate in more than feminine majesty
as she rose to leave the room:—
“Stay, Miss Middleton,” said his lordship, “you
have not told me where I may expect to find Colonel
Conway.”
Her answer was immediate, with flashing eyes, and
fearless accents.
“You may expect to find him, my lord, wherever an
ambush can be laid; whenever a bold soldier may fancy
that his sword can make an enemy feel; or a good blow
can be struck for the liberties of his country.”
“Humph!” exclaimed Rawdon, gravely, though without
displeasure, as Flora left the room. “Your
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
granddaughter, Mrs. Middleton, is quite as fierce a rebel as
ever.”
“She is young, my lord, and very enthusiastic, but
though she speaks thus, I'm sure she is quite as unhappy
at this war as any of us. We all wish it well over.”
“That is saying every thing for the right side. To
wish it well over, madam, is simply to wish our king
his own again. But now, that your daughter has withdrawn,
let me remind you, Mrs. Middleton, of the royal
favour to yourself and family—”
“To me, my lord;—to my family!” was the reply of
the venerable lady, with some appearance of astonishment.
“Yes, madam, in the immunity you have so long enjoyed,
when it has been well known to his majesty's
commanders in the South, that your own and the sentiments
of your grand-daughter—your opinions and wishes—
are all unfavourable to his authority.”
“Am I to understand, my lord, that his majesty's officers
are instructed to wage war against the opinions of
the women as well as the swords of the men of Carolina?”
“No, madam, far from it; but those opinions sharpen
those swords—”
“I am proud, my lord, to think, and hear you acknowledge
that such is the case!”
“I had not thought, madam, to have hearkened to this
language from your lips. The protection you have enjoyed—
your immunities from the confiscation which has
usually followed disloyalty, should, I think, have prompted
a degree of gratitude for his majesty's government,
which would have saved his representative from such an
answer.”
“You mistake, my lord, in some important particulars.
My immunities are not due to his majesty's government.
If they are to be spoken of as due anywhere, they must
be ascribed to that sense of manliness in the soldiers of
both sides in this bloody warfare, all of whom, it seems
to me, would have blushed the colour of your scarlet,
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
my lord, at doing hurt to two lone women in the wilderness.”
Rawdon did blush with vexation at the retort, as he
answered it with a strong effort at gentlemanly composure.
“You have surely mistaken me, Mrs. Middleton. My
purpose was simply to intimate that his majesty's officers
have been at some pains, more than is customary
in a country which has been so completely covered with
contending armies, to preserve from detriment and hurt
your possessions and interests.”
“I confess, my lord, the amount of what you now
say seems to me to differ little from what was said before.
You have forborne to seize my own and my child's
property, though we have been bold enough to think that
you had no right to seize it; and for this you demand
our gratitude. My lord, I understand, though you have
not spoken, the real purpose which you feel unwilling to
declare. I can very well comprehend the difficulties
under which his majesty's arms labour at present. I
know that their supplies are everywhere cut off; and
that they look to what are called `forced loans' to enable
them to prosecute the war.”
“You are well informed, I perceive, madam. Am I
to understand that the rebel Sumter has been recently
your guest?”
“Within ten days, my lord, and my opinions being
such as they are, I placed in his hands, for the use of my
country, the entire plate of the Middleton Barony, and
every jewel of value which belonged to myself and child.
The few spoons which graced our board to-night, and the
bowl in which our children have been baptized from immemorial
time, are all that were kept back from the free
gift which my feelings made to my friends. These, my
lord—”
“Of these, madam, the cause of my king does not
make it necessary that I should deprive you;” replied
Rawdon with a graceful dignity which left nothing to be
complained of. “Your plate would have been important
to us, Mrs. Middleton; and you will do us the justice to
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
believe, that, knowing as we did its great intrinsic value,
we did not make this requisition until the last hour, and
then only in obedience to necessities which none but ourselves
can comprehend. Believe me, madam, though I
am somewhat disappointed, it is a pain spared me, which
I would have felt, in depriving you of this family treasure.
Nor can I complain, regarding your social attachments
with respect, that you have yielded it to the hands
of those who will make use of it against me. I must do
as well as I can without it. Let me not lose your esteem,
my dear madam, because of my proposition, which
you will also do me the justice to believe was not less
painful than unavoidable.”
The meassage of Watson Gray was received at this
moment, and the venerable old lady disappeared with a
kind courtesy, leaving his lordship free to the interview
with the scout.
“A brave-hearted old woman!” said his lordship, during
the brief interval in which he remained alone. “She
has given a monstrous subsidy to Greene, which will
keep him on his legs awhile, and perhaps trip ours; and
yet I cannot be angry with her. The stock is a good
one;—one would almost wish a mother or a daughter of
such a noble heart and so fearless a temper. Ah, Gray,
I've been looking for you. When did you get over from
the Wateree?”
“I left there yesterday morning. I rode all night, and
had to make more than two turns between the Hills and
the Congaree, to get out of the way of Marion's men,
who seem to me to be thicker than ever. Your lordship's
for Ninety-Six?”
“Yes—can you tell me any thing about it? These
rascally horse of Lee and Conway have, I fear, cut off
all my messengers to Cruger, as they certainly have cut
off every thing, in the shape of intelligence, from me.”
“It's dreadful hard pressed, your lordship, that's all I
know, and that was my knowledge three days ago.”
“I fear I shall be too late,” said Rawdon. “But you
wished to see me on other business. What is it?”
“Does your lordship know that Col. Conway, with all
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[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
his troop, has been here within the last hour? Your
coming scared him from his roost.”
“Indeed, so lately!” said his lordship. “Then he
cannot even now be far. We must send Major Banks
after him:” and his lordship was about to summon a
messenger.
“If I might venture to counsel your lordship, you will
do nothing to-night. It will be only to send your detachment
into an ambush. This is what Conway expects,
and what he will prepare for.”
“But we cannot suffer him to lie or loiter about our
encampment, we must brush him off at the risk of a
sting.”
“No, your lordship, but a double guard and extra
videttes will serve all necessary purposes, and, with the
dawn, Major Banks can be in motion. Now, however,
Conway is in possession of his own ground, all of which
he knows, while Major Banks will be moving to danger
with a blind across his eyes.”
“You are right:—and what has Conway been doing
here, and where is his brother,—our desperado of the
Congaree?”
“Here, also! within a hundred yards of us.”
“Ha! How is it I have not seen him, then?”
“You will see him shortly, my lord, and in bad condition.
The brothers have met, single handed, and they
have brought the old grudge to a finish, I'm afraid. There
has been a desperate fight between them, and the captain
is very much hurt. It is somewhat doubtful if he ever
gets over it.”
“And the other—the rebel;—has he escaped? goes he
scot free?”
“That I can't tell. I should think not, however, for,
knowing how Ned Morton hates him, and how many
good reasons he has for killing him, he would run all risks
of his own life to make a finish of the other. His condition
makes me think that the other must be hurt; but
his hurts cannot be serious, for he certainly got off.”
“How heard you this, Gray?”
“From that rascally fellow, Bannister, otherwise called
-- 046 --
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Supple Jack—the same who carried off Col. Cruger's
black charger from the Forks of Congaree. The colonel
offered twenty guineas to take the scout alive, and I
thought I had him at one time to-night. But I caught a
Tartar. He gave me a strange trot, and such a shaking
as I shall feel in all my bones for a month to come.”
Here Gray gave a full description of the scene, at
which his lordship's muscles relaxed infinitely; and he
then proceeded to narrate those other details which led
him to the subject of Morton's attendance. On this head
it was necessary to exercise some adroitness. It was no
part of Gray's policy to let Rawdon see that a provincial
scout should presume to suspect the integrity of a royal
officer, and he studiously forbore in consequence, declaring
those suspicions which he felt of Stockton.
“It is important that the connection of Captain Morton
with the Black Riders, should not be suspected while
he lies here wounded. No guard could possibly save
him from the rebels, should they be able to identify his
person. Here he is known as Edward Conway, the
brother of one who is no small favourite with the ladies
of the Barony. This will save him from danger without,
and secure him good attendance within. Miss Middleton,
herself, will, I think, see to that, if on the score of his
connections only. I will provide the guard for Captain
Morton, and you can take with you his troop which is
under the command of Lieutenant Stockton, a brave man
and a good officer. They are pretty strong, and the
greatest daredevils under the sun. You'll get good service
out of them, and will need them too, my lord, if, as
I suspect, you are somewhat short of cavalry.”
“You think rightly, Gray; and your plans are good.
I will leave a surgeon's assistant with Morton, which is
all that I can do; but my own surgeon will see to his
hurts before he goes.”
“Your lordship will be so good as to remember that
Captain Morton is no more than Mr. Conway here.”
“Ay, ay,—but what noise is that below?”
“The captain's body, I reckon. Will your lordship
look at him?”
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
“Is he sensible—conscious?”
“I think not yet, my lord. He was in a swoon when
I left him, in consequence of loss of blood.”
“It will not need then. I will send Mr. Coppinger to
examine his hurts, and as I am to know nothing about
him, you must take your own course to get him domiciled
among the ladies.”
“That is easily done, your lordship,” said Gray, retiring,
“I have your lordship's permission to make the
necessary arrangements.”
“You have; send me Lieutenant Farrington, who
waits without;” said Rawdon, as the other left the room.
It scarcely need be said that the wily Gray succeeded
in all his present purposes. His opinions were esteemed
to be sufficiently sound by his lordship, to be followed
implicitly. Lieutenant Stockton was relieved from the
care of his captain, and ordered to place himself, with his
whole troop, under the command of Major Banks of the
British cavalry, and the bare intimation of Morton's situation,
to the ladies of the barony, secured for the wounded
man one of the most comfortable chambers in the mansion;
nor did Watson Gray neglect the forlorn and outcast
damsel whom John Bannister had commended to his
care. An adjoining apartment was readily procured for
her in the same spacious dwelling, and the surgeon's aid
was solicited for the poor victim as soon as it had been
bestowed upon her betrayer. We leave Edward Conway
in the same house with Flora Middleton—but as yet
utterly unconscious of her presence and near neighbourhood;—
while we pursue the route taken by his brother.
-- 048 --
CHAPTER IV. A MIDNIGHT ATTACK. —A PRISONER.
[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]
Clarence Conway was not far distant from the
British camp, and was soon found by John Bannister,
after the latter had taken his leave of Watson Gray.
The partisan had already reached his troop, and got it in
partial readiness for immediate exercise. His force was
little more than that of a captain's command, consisting
of some eighty-five men all told; but, on occasion, his
regiment might be made complete. Such fluctuations
were constant in the American army; and were inevitably
consequent to the miserable system then prevalent
in regard to militia service. Marion's brigade has been
known to range from eight, to eight hundred men—and
this difference, in scarcely any case, the result of disaster.
The volunteers came and went, according to circumstances
of more or less necessity; and, sometimes as it suited
their inclinations. There were always good reasons for
this seeming laxity of discipline, as well because of the
pressure of a far superior foe, as in the exhausted condition
of the country of Carolina, where, for a space of
nearly two years, few crops of any kind had been planted;
and it became next to impossible to find food and forage
for any large body of men and horse, for any considerable
time together. The service was of a sort, also, to render
small bodies of horse far more useful than grand armies;
and where food was to be procured, and brought from a
great distance, such detachments were of the very last
importance. Conway's regiment, according to the necessities
of the service, was in half a dozen hands;
-- 049 --
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
Sumter had a portion of it at this time, on the Santee; Marion
on the Pedee; while Greene exercised the remaining
divisions as Conway employed the small body in his
immediate command;—in cutting off supplies—intercepting
messengers, overawing the disaffected, and hanging
upon the skirts of the enemy where they marched, as at
this time, in a body too large for any more bold procedure.
Bannister found his leader well prepared for movement
and anxiously awaiting him. The former told his story
in a few words, not entirely omitting the ludicrous passages
which had taken place between himself and Gray.
As the connection between this latter person and Edward
Morton was very well known to Clarence, the mind of
the latter was rendered rather easy on the subject of his
brother. He knew that Morton was of sufficient importance
to the British army to make his restoration the particular
charge of Rawdon; but his satisfaction on this
subject was somewhat qualified when he remembered
that the patient would, necessarily, become an occupant
of the same dwelling with Flora Middleton. His anxieties
were such as are natural enough to the lover, who,
in such cases, will always be apt to fancy and to fear a
thousand evil influences. He had no doubts of the firmness
and fidelity of Flora, but knowing the connections of
Morton, he dreaded lest the latter should find some means
to abuse the hospitality which he well knew would be
accorded him. These thoughts were troublesome enough
to render activity desirable by way of relief; and, after a
brief space given to consultation with his favourite scout,
and private meditation, he determined to beat up the
quarters of Rawdon before morning.
It was midnight when Bannister began to bestir himself
and his comrades for this purpose. The troop had been
suffered to snatch a few hours of brief repose on the edge
of a little bay, that stretched itself nearly to the river bank
on one hand, and to the main road of the country on the
other; in such a position of security and under such good
watch that no apprehension could be excited for their
safety, a dense thicket covered their front; beyond, and
-- 050 --
[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]
lying between the thicket and the barony, was an open
pine wood, the undergrowth being kept down by the destructive
practice, still barbarously continued in the south,
of firing the woods annually in the opening of the spring.
This wood was traversed by the scouts of Conway, who
saw the advanced videttes of the British, without suffering
themselves to be seen, and gradually receded as the
latter continued to approach; still, however, keeping
a keen eye upon the stations which they severally assumed.
On the present occasion, following the suggestion
of Watson Gray, Lord Rawdon had doubled his
sentries, and increased the usual number of videttes.
His post was well guarded, though nothing could have
been more idle than the fear that a force, such as he commanded,
could be securely annoyed by any of the roving
squads of horse which the Americans had dispersed
about the country. But, at this time, the timidity of the
British increased hourly in due degree with the increased
audacity of the Americans. There was too much at
stake to suffer any British commander to omit any of the
usual safeguards of an army; and their plans and performances,
from this period, show a degree of scrupulous
caution, which, at certain periods of strife—and this was
one of them in their situation—may, with justice, be
considered imbecility. To dash for a moment into the
camp of the British, and carry off a group of captives,
was one of the ordinary proofs of the novel confidence
which the partisans had acquired of their own prowess,
during the year in progress.
Conway, however, was not the man to do any thing
rashly at such a moment. If caution was necessary to
the British, prudence was also a high virtue, at this particular
juncture, with the Americans. Before he led his
men forward, he determined to explore the British camp
himself; and having arranged with Bannister for a concerted
espionage, the two went forward for this purpose,
though on different routes. Conway pursued the way
through the pine forest in front, while Bannister took an
opposite but parallel course along the high road, which
he crossed for this purpose. They were absent about
-- 051 --
[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]
two hours, and, in the mean time, every thing was quiet
enough in the camps. At the end of this period they returned
in safety; and a mutual report enabled them to determine
upon the course which they were to take. They
had satisfied themselves of the true position of the British
army, and discovered, that, while the sentries were
doubled on the path to which it was advancing, they had
not conceived it necessary to place more than an ordinary
watch on that which they had passed over during the day.
By making a small circuit of a mile and a half along a
negro footpath which carried them through a swamp on
the right, Conway found that he could get into the British
rear, and probably use the sabre to advantage on the
edge of the encampment. This was to be done with the
main body of the troop, while a feint was to be made with
the residue along the better guarded British line in front.
It was near two o'clock in the morning when the preparations
of the partisans were completed; and John
Bannister had already gathered together the division
which had been assigned him, when he was plucked on
the sleeve by a soldier whose person he could not distinguish
in the shadows where they stood. This person
called him aside for a moment, and Bannister then discovered
him to be the father of poor Mary Clarkson.
This man was a sullen, dark, solitary, but unsubdued
spirit; who said nothing, felt nothing, asked for nothing,
complained of nothing, and had but one desire in the
world. John Bannister had missed sight of Clarkson till
now, and, perhaps, had rather avoided him since his return
from the scene in which his unlucky arm inflicted
the unintentional injury upon the child of the former.
He now shrunk to look upon the miserable old man; and
when he spoke to him, it was with a feeling of compunctious
sorrow, almost as great as he would have felt had
he himself inflicted upon the unhappy father the wrong
which was due to Edward Morton only.
“You ha'n't spoke to me about going with you, Jack
Bannister,” said Clarkson, with some irritation in his
tones; “but I'm going with you jest the same.”
“No, Jake, you're to keep with Lieutenant Peyton's
-- 052 --
[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]
party, that's to make a feint here in front. He'll call you
up, the moment we set off.”
“I don't stay with him, Jack;—I must keep with you
or the colonel,” said the man doggedly.
“But why, Jake, why won't you stay?”
“You're going to strike at the camp, ain't you? You'll
ride up to the barony, perhaps?”
“May be so—there's no telling yet.”
“That's why I want to go with you or the colonel.”
“Well, now, Jake, I'd much rather you'd stay with
the lieutenant.”
“It's onpossible,” said Clarkson obstinately. “Look
you, Jack Bannister, I don't take it as friendly, that you
didn't tell me that Ned Conway was at the barony.”
“How do you know?—who told you?” demanded the
woodsman in some astonishment.
“Never you mind. I know that you saw him there,
and what's more I know that the colonel fit with him,
and's hurt him mightily. But I know he's not got what's
to finish him; and I'll go where there's any chance to
do it.”
“Lord, Jake, there's no chance. We'll not get nigher
to the camp than the outposts, and if we can carry off a
few outskarters it's all we look for. Ned Conway is at
the house, I reckon, snug in his bed, with more than a
thousand men close round him. There's no chance for
you to reach him.”
“I reckon I can work through all of them, John
Bannister, seeing what's my business. I must go with
you or the colonel—no mistake.”
Bannister knew his man—knew how idle was every
thing like expostulation, and though he also well knew
that such a determination as Clarkson expressed was
only like to ensure his being knocked on the head sooner
than any of the rest, yet, as that was only a chance of
war among military philosophers, he let him have his
way, and quietly enrolled him with the rest. It would
have been a study for the painter to have seen the savage
old man reload his rifle, pick the touchhole, put in extra
priming, and turn the bullet in his jaws, ere he wrapped
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
it in the greasy fold of buckskin of which his patches
were made.
“Poor old fellow!” muttered Bannister to himself as
he beheld these operations, “I'm thinking he says a
prayer every time he chooses a bullet; I'm sure he does
whenever he's grinding his knife.”
It was with some reluctance that Clarkson was persuaded
to gird a sabre at his side. The instrument was
new to his hand, but he clutched it with sufficient familiarity
when Bannister told him it was heavy and sharp
enough to cleave a man through from his shoulder to his
thigh. All being now in readiness, Conway gave instructions
to Lieutenant Peyton to make no movement on the
front, until sufficient time had been allowed him for getting
into the rear of the encampment; and then to give
the alerte with all the clamour he could command. By
two and two, he led his troops forward, each man on foot
and guiding his steed with rein shortened, until they had
passed the narrow open neck of high land on which the
public road ran, and which separated the one bay which
he had lately occupied from another to which he now
bent his steps. A British vidette was stationed not more
than a hundred yards from the point of passage, and
great indeed were the anxieties of Clarence and of all,
until the horses ceased to traverse the highland, and entered
upon the mucky unresounding footing of the swamp.
But they escaped without notice. The British sentinel
was in his drowsiest mood, and suffered the passage to
be effected without alarm. The last two files were now
entirely beyond his hearing, and Conway, throwing off
the difficult constraint, gave orders to his followers to
mount and follow him at as swift a pace as possible
through the negro trail which they now traversed. Then,
a silence as awful as that of the grave descended upon the
forest which he had left, and prevailed over the same for
a space of nearly two hours more, when Lieutenant
Peyton prepared to make the feint, which was to divert
the attention of the British camp from the point which
was seriously threatened. With twenty men, judiciously
scattered along the front so as to present an object of
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
equal alarm to the whole line of the enemy's sentries, he
slowly advanced, and having that advantage which arises
from a perfect knowledge of his ground, his approach
remained unseen and unsuspected until it was almost
possible for his pistols to be emptied with some prospect
of each bullet being made to tell upon its separate
victim.
A silence almost equally great prevailed over that vast
hive of human hearts, which was then beating within the
immediate precincts of the barony. Sleep had possessed
the great body of its inmates. Exhaustion had done its
worst. The forced marches of Lord Rawdon, stimulated
as they had been by the fear of losing the last and strongest
outpost of his government, together with its brave
and numerous garrisons, had severely tested the strength
and the spirit of his troops, and deep was the lethargy
of all those to whom the privilege of sleep had been
accorded. Nor were those to whom it had been expressly
denied, in a condition of much more ability and
consciousness. The sentinels, though strictly cautioned,
had suffered themselves to be persuaded that there could
be no danger, in a region in which they well knew there
was no enemy embodied in sufficient force to make itself
feared by their own; and if they had not formally yielded
themselves up to sleep upon their places of watch, they
at least made no serious effort to escape its grateful influences,
and were no longer vigilant as they would have
been in a time of danger. Through the avenue, and
ranged along the grounds of the park which lay beside
it, two thousand men in groups, lay upon their arms, in
happy slumber, uncovered to the serene sky of May;
while, in the silvery glances of the soft moonlight, which
glistened brightly from his steel cap and polished bayonet,
the drowsy sentinel performed his weary round of watch;
or, leaning in half consciousness only, against the massive
trunk of some ancient oak, yielded himself, in momentary
forgetfulness, to dream of the green island or
the heathery highlands of his European home.
In the mansion where Lord Rawdon had taken up his
abode, the same silence prevailed, but not the same
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
degree of apathy. Busy and sad hearts, and suffering
forms, were wakeful in its several chambers. Rawdon
himself slept;—but, in the apartment assigned to the
chief of the Black Riders, Watson Gray was an anxious
watcher. The surgeon had examined and dressed the
wounds of the former, upon which he had as yet declined
to give an opinion. Conway had lost much blood, and
this, Gray very well knew, was rather favourable to his
condition. The patient lay, not sleeping, perhaps, but
with his eyes closed and his senses seemingly unobservant.
An occasional groan escaped him, as if unconsciously.
Exhaustion, rather than repose, was signified
by his quiescence.
In another part of the house lay his suffering victim.
Her mind wandered in all the misdirected heat of delirium,
the result equally of mental and physical pain. By
her side sat Flora Middleton. The sex of the poor victim
had been made known to the mistress of the mansion
through the medium of the servants, by the timely management
of Watson Gray;—but that wily associate of
the outlaw chief, had not omitted the opportunity which
it afforded him of turning the event to favourable account
in behalf of the man he served so faithfully.
“It's a poor girl,” he said to the servant to whom his
information was entrusted, “that followed Colonel Conway
from the Congaree, and when he and his brother
fought by the vault, which they did about your young
mistress, the poor girl jumped between to save the
Colonel, and got her hurts that way. She's only dressed
in boy's clothes that she mightn't be known among the
troop.”
The falsehood found its way to the ears for which it
was intended; and the proud heart of Flora Middleton
rose in indignation as she heard it.
“But the wretched woman is yet a woman, and she's
suffering;”—was the humane sentiment with which she
silenced the communicative negro. “She is a woman,
whatever may be her vices, and I will see to her myself.”
And when she beheld her, she could no longer scorn
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
the frail victim of a misplaced affection and a reckless
lust. Emaciated and wan, the miserable girl sang and
gibbered with all the unconcern of the confirmed maniac;
and prated at intervals of the childish follies which are
usually the prime sources of pleasure to the child. She
spoke of girlish wants and girlish pleasures, and ran on
in a manner of inconsiderate merriment, which was of all
things the most mournful and heart-sickening to contemplate.
But she seemed neither to see nor hear. It was
only when the surgeon pressed his hand upon the wounded
skull that she lapsed away into utter silence, which
was accompanied by a vacant stare upon the operator, so
hideous in the death-like imbecility which it expressed
as to make Flora shudder and turn away with a sickening
horror that took from her all strength to serve or to assist.
It was only when the surgeon had finished the
operations which he deemed necessary, that she could
resume strength to return to the chamber, and the patient
then lay in a condition of stupor that secured her
effectual silence for the time. Not a word now escaped
her lips, but a choking sob occasionally heaved her bosom
as if with convulsion, and amply denoted the “perilous
stuff” which lay thick and deadly about her heart.
Flora Middleton sat beside her, with one female servant
in attendance, when all the rest had retired. Her personal
presence was not necessary, but she could not
sleep on account of the troublesome and humiliating
fancies which possessed her, on the subject of the story
which she had heard in regard to Clarence Conway.
That she should have surrendered her best affections to
one who could thus have abused and degraded the warmest,
if not the loftiest devotion of her sex, was, indeed, a
subject of humiliating consideration to a spirit so proud
as hers;—and it was with a feeling of relief that the sudden
sharp shot of the assault, and the wild ringing of the
midnight trumpet, while it denoted the approach of unexpected
conflict, disturbed the train of painful thought
into which her mind had unavoidably fallen.
The tumult without was as wild and terrible as it had
been sudden. A moment of the deepest midnight
-- 057 --
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
stillness had been succeeded by one of the fiercest uproar.
Excited, rather than alarmed, she hurried from the
chamber, and encountered at the head of the stairway
the person of Lord Rawdon, who was joined a moment
after by Watson Gray. His lordship saw her, and a
smile, which was scarcely one of good nature, over-spread
his countenance as he remarked:
“Your rebel Colonel is busy among us, Miss Middleton:—
he is a bold fellow, but will pay for his rashness.”
“I told your lordship that you would soon find him,
but he is even more easy of access than I thought him,”
was the reply of the maiden, who, at the moment, had
forgotten every thing that she had ever heard to her
lover's disadvantage, and now glowed with all the
natural pride of one who joyed in the courage of her
countryman.
“I trust that he will wait to receive my acknowledgments
for his early attentions;” was the answer of
his lordship, uttered through his closed teeth, as he
hurried down the steps. But the wish of his lordship
was not gratified. The alarm was not of long continuance,
though, in that brief space of time which it had
occupied, it had been sharp in an equal degree, and the
surprise of the camp had been made with as much success
as its audacity deserved. The sentries had been
hewn down at their posts, one patrol entirely cut off,
and a party of the assailants, penetrating to the head of
the avenue, had cut in pieces a half score of Hessians
before they had well started from their slumbers. The
whole affair had been the work of a few moments only,
and when the British were in condition to meet the
invader, there was no enemy to be found. They had
dissipated with the flexibility of the atmosphere, in the
obscure haze of which they completely vanished from
the eyes of the pursuing and vengeance-breathing soldiery.
In the lower hall of the mansion, Lord Rawdon received
the report of the officers of the night, to whom,
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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
it may be supposed, his countenance was in no respect
gracious. Naturally stern of temper, the annoyance
was calculated to increase its severity, and add to the
habitual harshness of his manner. He stood against
the chimney-place, as the several officers in command
made their appearance, and his keen eyes examined
them with frowning expression from beneath the thick
bushy brows, which were now contracted into one overhanging
roof, which almost concealed them, in turn,
from the sight of those whom they surveyed. Sharp,
indeed, was the examination which followed, and bitter,
though brief, were the various comments which his
lordship made on the several events of the evening as
they were reported in his hearing.
“Majoribanks,” said he, “you were in charge of the
camp appointments for the night. You will make your
full returns at morning of the officers on duty; and let
them report to you the names of the last relief. What
is the report you make of the camp now? What is the
killed, wounded, and missing?”
The portly, noble-looking, and truly noble officer
whom he addressed, answered with equal ease and
dignity.
“The returns are ready for your lordship now;”
placing the papers in his hands—“this, your lordship
will perceive, is the list of officers and guards on
duty; and here is a brief summary of the killed and
wounded, which are found. It will need an inspection
of the rolls of companies to ascertain the missing, and
this cannot be so well done till daylight.”
“'Tis well, sir,—you are prompt and ready. I wish
your officers of the night had known their duty so
well.” And with this speech he bestowed upon the
surrounding group a single glance of vexation and
reproof.
“Humph!” he exclaimed as he read—“Can it be
possible! So many slain outright; good fellows too—
not apt to sleep upon their posts”—and he enumerated
with his voice and finger—“Fergus, Childs, Spohrs,
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Dilworth, Mooney, Wagner—fourteen slain and as
many wounded.” He crumpled the paper in his hands
with increased vexation.
“By heavens, these beggarly rebels will learn to
walk by noonday into our camps, and hew and havoc
where they think proper. The British name will be a
subject for their mockery, and as for our valour!—for
shame, for shame, gentlemen; what will be thought of
this proceeding? what report shall I make of this conduct
to our king?”
He strode, unanswered, to and fro along the unoccupied
portion of the hall; the officers under his rebuke,
looking, with downcast eyes, that did not once venture
to meet his glance.
“And what of the enemy, Majoribanks? Have they
got off in utter safety? If I mistake not, I heard a full
platoon from the grenadiers—”
“We have found but one dead body, your lordship.”
“Indeed!—one body. They will fight us all night,
and every night, on the same terms:” and his lordship
laughed outright in very chagrin and bitterness.
“And one prisoner;”—continued Majoribanks.
“Ah:—one prisoner! Well, you hung him, did
you?”
“No, your lordship: we did not hang him;” was the
cold but respectful answer of Majoribanks. “We knew
not that such a proceeding would be either proper or
desirable.”
Rawdon's eyes gleamed with a savage keenness of
glance on the speaker, as he replied—
“Ha! you did not, eh? Well, let it be done instantly!
I will answer for its propriety. Gray,” he
continued, turning to the scout, who stood at the entrance,
“see to it. You shall be our provost for the
occasion. Find out the nearest tree—not in sight of
the dwelling, mark me,—and let the rope be a good
one. Let him be hung with due propriety.”
Majoribanks turned away to conceal his emotion,
while Gray replied—
“May it please your lordship, it might be advisable
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to examine the person before hanging him. He can
probably give you some valuable intelligence—something,
perhaps, about `Ninety-Six.”'
“True, true!—it does please me. Bring him before
us. I will examine him myself.”
An officer disappeared, and a few moments only had
elapsed, when, conducted by a file of soldiers, our old
associate John Bannister was placed before the British
commander.
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CHAPTER V. A REPRIEVE FROM THE GALLOWS.
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The sturdy boatman of the Congaree was in no ways
daunted when dragged into that imposing presence. On
the contrary, his person seemed to have risen in elevation
and acquired new erectness, in defiance of the cords
which secured his arms, and in spite of an evident halt
in his walk, the consequence of some injury which he
had probably sustained in the melée which had just taken
place. An easy but not offensive smile was upon his
countenance as he entered, and though erect and manly,
there was nothing insolent or ostentatious in his carriage.
He bowed his head respectfully, first to his lordship and
then to the surrounding officers, and having advanced almost
to the centre of the room, he paused in waiting and
without a word. Rawdon surveyed his person with little
interest, and was evidently annoyed by the cool deliberateness
and conscious dignity of the woodman's bearing.
“Who are you, fellow?” he demanded.
“My name's John Bannister, your lordship. I'm a
sort of scouting serjeant, when I'm in the woods, for Col.
Conway's rigiment; but with my hands hitched behind
me, jest now, I don't feel as if I was any body.”
“Your master—where is he now?” demanded his
lordship.
“Well, your lordship, if I've rightly larned my chatechism,
he's looking down upon us now, and listening to
every word that's said.”
“See to the doors and windows,” exclaimed Rawdon
hastily, as he put his hand upon his sword, while his
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flashing eyes turned to the windows of the apartment:—
“who knows but we may have another visit from this
audacious rebel. He has had every encouragement to
come again.”
A silent chuckle of the scout attested his satisfaction
at the mistake into which he had led his captor, in consequence
of his peculiar modes of speech and thinking.
“What does the fellow mean by this insolence?
Speak, sirrah, ere I send you to the halbrid.”
“And if your lordship did, I reckon I should speak
pretty much as I do now. Your lordship asked me where
my master is; and as I know no master but God Almighty,
I reckon I answered no more than rightly,
when I said he was looking, jest this very moment, in
upon our proceedings. By the chatechis' I was always
taught that he was pretty much here, there, and every
where;—a sort of scout for the whole univarse, that didn't
want for any sleep, and never made a false count of the
number set out agin him—”
“Is the fellow mad?” demanded Rawdon, with impatience,
interrupting the woodman, who seemed very well
disposed to expatiate longer upon this copious subject;
“who knows any thing of this fellow?”
“I do, your lordship,” whispered Watson Gray, but
in tones that reached the ears of Bannister. “He's the
same person that I told you of to-night—he's the famous
scout that Col. Cruger offered twenty guineas for, for
stealing his horse.”
The last words awakened all Bannister's indignation,
which he expressed without heeding the presence in
which he stood.
“Look you, Watson Gray,” said he, “that's not so
genteel, all things considerin'; and I'll look to you to answer
it some day. The horse was a fair prize, taken
from the enemy's quarters at the risk of my neck—”
“That risk is not over, scoundrel; and that you may
be made justly sensible of it, let the provost take him
hence to a tree, at once. We shall save Cruger his
twenty guineas.”
Here Watson Gray again whispered in the ears of his
lordship.
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“Ah, true,” said the latter: then, addressing Bannister,
he asked in accents of unusual mildness,
“Are you willing to save your life, my good fellow?
Speak quickly, for we have little time to waste, and you
have none to spare.”
“Well, I reckon, your lordship, as I'm a good fellow,
I oughtn't to be afeard either to live or to die; though if the
choice is given me, living's my preference at this present.
I might have a different choice next week, or even
to-morrow, for any thing I know just now.”
“Too many words by half, sirrah. Hear me: you
can save your life by proving yourself honest for once in
it. Speak the truth to all the questions I ask you, and
no prevarication.”
“I'll try, your lordship,” said the scout quietly, as he
turned a huge quid of tobacco in his mouth and voided it
behind him on the floor, with a coolness which did not
lessen his lordship's indignation.
“How many men were with your Colonel in this assault
to-night?”
“Well, about thirty men, I reckon, which wa'nt more
than half his force. T'other half played with the sentinels
along the woods above.”
“Thirty men! Was ever heard the like. Thirty
men to beat up the quarters of a British General, and
ride over his whole army.”
“There's more, I reckon, your lordship,” said Gray,
in a whisper, “Col. Conway sometimes has a whole regiment,
and I've seldom known him with less than a
hundred.”
“Hark ye, fellow, if you are found in a falsehood,
that instant I send you to the gallows;” exclaimed Rawdon
sternly, addressing the scout.
“And if your lordship believes a man that does his
talking in a whisper, in preference to him that speaks
out, its likely you'll send all your prisoners there. It's
no use for me to tell you the truth, when there's a man
behind you that's been known on the Congaree ever since
I was knee high to a splinter, to be a born liar, to undo
all I say. If you believe him you can't believe me,
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though to speak a truth that there's no denying, I ain't
very willing to tell your lordship any thing about the
consarns of the troop. I'm dub'ous if that ain't treasonable.”
“You are very scrupulous all at once, my fine fellow—
but, whether you are believed or not, we shall still
hear what you have to say. Does the garrison at `Ninety-Six'
hold out?”
“I reckon not now. It did yesterday morning, but
'twas mighty hard pushed then, and as we caught all
your messengers, and got all your letters to Col. Cruger,
I'm thinking he's given in, seeing there was no sort of
chance of your lordship's coming.”
“Damnation! I sent two messengers since Sunday.”
“I reckon your lordship's count ain't altogether right;
for I myself caught three. I choked one chap till he
emptied his throat of a mighty small scrap of intelligence
that he had curled up like a piece of honest pigtail in
his jaws; and we physicked another before he surrendered
the screw-bullet that he swallowed. The third
one gin up his paper like a good fellow, j'ined our troop,
and helped us powerful well in the little brush we made
in the avenue to-night. He's a big fellow, a Dutchman
by birth, that come out of the forks of Edisto. His
name's a mighty hard one to spell, and I can't say that I
altogether remember it; but he showed us five guineas
that your lordship gave him to go to `Ninety-Six,' and I
reckon he'd ha' gone, if we hadn't caught him. He
fou't powerful well to-night, for I watched him.”
John Bannister was evidently not the person from
whom much intelligence could be extracted, and every
word which he uttered seemed to be peculiarly chosen to
mortify his captors. Not that the worthy scout had any
such intention, for he well knew the danger to himself of
any such proceeding; and, as we have said before, his
manner, though loftier than usual, was unobtrusive, and
certainly never intended any thing like insolence. His
free speech came from his frank nature, which poured
forth the honest feelings of his mind without much restraint,
and utterly regardless of the situation in which he
-- 065 --
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stood. He was just sufficiently cautious to baffle his examiners
on every subject, the truth of which might affect
unfavourably the troop and the service in which it
was engaged. Rawdon soon discerned the character of
the person with whom he had to deal; and provoked beyond
patience by the annoying detail the scout had given
of the capture of his three messengers, he thus, summarily,
cut short the conference.
“You are a good scout, John Bannister, and your loss,
I have no doubt, will be severely felt by your leader.
Provost, take him to the end of the lane, give him three
minutes for prayer, and then hang him to the tallest tree
in front of the avenue. Let him hang till daylight, that
the Irish regiments may see and take warning from the
spectacle. It may cure a few of them of the disease of
desertion, which is so apt to afflict so many. Go, my
good Bannister, my provost will see to your remaining
wants. I think your Colonel will feel your loss very
much.”
“I'm jest now of the same opinion, your lordship,”
replied the scout composedly, “but I'm not thinking he's
so nigh losing me altogether. I don't think my neck in
so much danger yet, because I reckon your lordship won't
be so rash—”
“Away with him—take him hence, as I bid ye;” was
the stern and conclusive command of the British general,
to whose haughty mind the sang froid of Bannister was
eminently insulting.
“I would jest like to let your lordship know before I
leave you—” was the beginning of another speech
of Bannister, which the angry gesture of Rawdon did
not suffer him to finish. The provost and his attendants
seized on the prisoner in obedience to the lifted finger of
his lordship, and they were about to hurry him, still
speaking, from the apartment, when they were stopped
at the door by the sudden entrance of Flora Middleton.
“Stay!” she exclaimed, addressing the officer, “stay,
till I have spoken with his lordship.”
Rawdon started back at beholding her, and could not
refrain from expressing his surprise at her presence.
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“At this time of the night, Miss Middleton, and here!”
“Very improper conduct, your lordship would intimate,
for a young lady; but the circumstances must excuse
the proceeding. I come to you, sir, in behalf of
this poor man, who is your prisoner, and whom I understand
you are about to execute, in violation of the laws
of humanity, and as I believe, the laws of war.”
His lordship was evidently annoyed.
“You have chosen a very unnecessary labour, Miss
Middleton, and pardon me if I think a very unbecoming
one.”
“Nay, pardon me, my lord, but I cannot think that
my interposition to save life, and to prevent murder, can
properly be called an unbecoming one.”
“Murder!” muttered his lordship through his closed
teeth, while, as if to prevent his frowns from addressing
themselves to the fair intruder, he was compelled to avert
his face.
“Yes, my lord, murder; for I know this man to be as
worthy and honest a citizen as ever lived on the Congaree.
He has always been my friend and the friend of the
family. He has never avowed his loyalty to the king—
never taken protection—but, from the first, has been in
arms either under Pickens or Sumter, in opposition to
his majesty. The fate of war throws him into your
hands—”
“And he must abide it, lady. He has been such a
consistent rebel, according to your own showing, that he
well deserves his fate. Provost, do your duty!”
“My lord, my lord, can it be that you will not grant
my prayer—that you will not spare him?”
“It would give me pleasure to grant any application
to one so fair and friendly, but—”
“Oh, deal not in this vain language at such a time, my
lord. Do not this great wrong! Let not your military
pride seduce you into an inhumanity which you will remember
in after days with dread and sorrow. Already
they charge you with blood wantonly shed at Camden—
too much blood—the blood of the old and young—of the
gray-headed man and the beardless boy, alike—but, I
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believe it not, my lord;—no! no!—turn not away from
me in anger—I believe it not—I would not wish to believe
it.”
“Too much, too much!” murmured Majoribanks, as
he regarded the fair speaker, and saw the dark spot turn
to crimson on the brow of the stern and savage captain.
He well perceived, whatever might have been his hopes
of her pleading before, that her last allusion to the Camden
massacres had spoiled the effect of all.
“Your entreaty is in vain, Miss Middleton. The man
is doomed. He shall be an example to warn others
against shooting down sentinels at midnight.”
“No! no! Be not inflexible—spare him; on my
knees, I implore you, my lord. I have known him long,
and always worthily;—he is my friend and a noble-hearted
creature. Send not such to the gallows—send
the ruffian, the murderer, the spy—but not a worthy man
like this.”
“Rise, Miss Middleton,—I should be sorry to see you
kneel, without succeeding in your prayers, either to God
or mortal.”
“You grant it then!” she exclaimed eagerly, as he
raised her from the floor.
“Impossible! The man must die.”
She recoiled from his hands, regarded him with a silent
but searching expression of eye, then turned to the
spot where John Bannister stood. The worthy scout no
longer remained unmoved. Her interposition had softened
the poor fellow, whom the threatening danger from
his foes had only strengthened and made inflexible and
firm. He now met her glance of bitterness and grief,
while a smile mingled sweetly upon his face with the
big tear which was swelling in his eye.
“God bless you, my dear Miss Flora,—you're an
angel, if ever there was one on such a place as airth; and
I'm jest now thankful to God for putting me in this fix,
if it's only that I might know how airnestly and sweetly
he could send his angel to plead in favour of a rough old
Congaree boatman like me. But don't you be scared,
for they can't do me any hurt after all; and if his
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lordship had only listened to me a leetle while longer at first,
he'd ha' been able to have said the handsome thing,
and consented to all you axed him. Look here, my lord,
'twont do to hang me, unless you'd like to lose a better
man in the bargain.”
A look of inquiry was all that his lordship deigned the
speaker, who, turning to the provost, begged him to take
his grasp from his shoulder.
“I can't run, you see, if I wanted to, and somehow I
never could talk to my own liking, when I had the feel
of an enemy's hand upon me.”
“Speak up, fellow,” said Majoribanks, who saw the
increasing vexation of Rawdon, “and tell his lordship
what you mean.”
“Well, the long and short of the matter's this, your
lordship. If you look at your roll, I reckon you'll find a
handsome young captain, or mou't-be a major, among
your missing. I made him a prisoner myself, at the head
of the avenue, on the very first charge to-night, and I
know they've got him safe among my people; and his
neck must be a sort of make-weight agin mine. I ain't of
much count any how, but the `Congaree Blues' has a sort
of liking for me, and they can find any quantity of rope
and tree when there's a need for it. If you hang me,
they'll hang him, and your lordship can tell best whether
he's worth looking after or not. It's a thing for calculation
only.”
“Is this the case? Is there any officer missing?” demanded
Rawdon, with a tone of suppressed but bitter
feeling.
“Two, your lordship,” replied the lieutenant of the
night—“Major Penfield and Captain Withers.”
“They should hang! They deserve it!” exclaimed
Rawdon; but an audible murmur from the bottom of the
hall, warned him of the danger of trying experiments
upon the temper of troops who had just effected a painful
forced march, and had before them a continuation of the
same, and even sterner duties.
“Take the prisoner away, and let him be well guarded,”
said his lordship. Flora Middleton, relieved by this
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order, gave but a single glance of satisfaction to the
woodman, as she glided out of the apartment.
With the dawn of day, the British army was under
arms, and preparing to depart. Flora Middleton, who
had enjoyed no rest during the night, and had felt no desire
for it, under the numerous anxieties and painful feelings
which filled her heart, took her station in the balcony,
where she could witness all their movements; and no
more imposing array had ever gratified her eyes. Lord
Rawdon was then in command of the very êlite of the
British army. The hardy and well-tried provincial loyalists
formed the nucleus of the efficient force of near
three thousand men, which he commanded; and these,
many of them, well mounted, and employed as dragoons
and riflemen at pleasure, were, in reality, the chief reliance
of his government. The Hessians had been well
thinned by the harassing warfare of two seasons; and
were neither numerous nor daring; but nothing could exceed
the splendid appearance of the principal force which
he brought with him from Charlestown, consisting of
three full regiments, fresh from Ireland, with all the glow
of European health upon their cheeks, full-framed, strong
and active; martial in their carriage, bold in action, and
quite as full of vivacity as courage. Flora Middleton beheld
them as they marched forward beneath her eyes,
with mingling sentiments of pity and admiration. Poor
fellows! They were destined to be terribly thinned and
humbled by the sabre of the cavalry, the deadly aim of
the rifle, and that more crushing enemy of all, the pestilential
malaria of the southern swamps. How many of
that glowing and numerous cavalcade were destined to
leave their bones along the banks of the Wateree and
Santee, in their long and arduous marchings and counter-marchings,
and in the painful and perilous flight which
followed to the Eutaws, and from the Eutaws to Charlestown.
On this flight, scarce two months after, fifty of
these brave fellows dropped down, dead, in the ranks, in
a single day; the victims of fatigue, heat, and a climate
which mocked equally their muscle, their courage, and
vivacity; and which not even the natives at that season
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could withstand. The brave and generous Majoribanks
himself—the most honourable and valiant of enemies—
little did Flora Middleton fancy, as he passed his sword-point
to the earth in courteous salute, and smiled his
farewell, while marching at the head of his battalion beneath
the balcony, that he too was one of those who
should find his grave along the highways of Carolina, immediately
after the ablest of his achievements at Eutaw,
where to him, in particular, is due the rescue of the
British Lion from the claws of the now triumphant
Eagle.
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CHAPTER VI. “NINETY-SIX. ”—A FLIGHT BY NIGHT.
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Clarence Conway, with a single exception, had
every reason to be satisfied with the result of his expedition.
He had lost but one man, slain; and but two were
missing. One of these, as we have seen, was John
Bannister; the other was the unhappy father of the
wretched Mary Clarkson. The reader is already apprised
of the situation of the former; of the latter neither
party had any present knowledge: Conway was utterly
ignorant, and very anxious about the fate of his trusty
agent. The loss of John Bannister could not be compensated
to him by any successes whether as a soldier
or a man. He was incomparable as a scout; almost as
much so in personal conflict; superior in judgment in
most matters relating to partisan warfare; but, over
all, he was the friend, the ever faithful, the fond;—
having an affection for his leader like that of Jonathan of
old, surpassing the love of woman. Clarence Conway
did full justice to this affection. He loitered and lingered
long that night while leaving the field of conflict, in the
hope to see the trusty fellow reappear; and slow indeed
were his parting footsteps when, at the dawn of day, he
set his little band in motion for the Saluda. This measure
was now become one of inevitable necessity. He
had done all that could be required of him, and much
more than had been expected. It was not supposed that
with a force so small as his he could possibly occasion
any interruption or delay in the progress of an army such
as that led by Rawdon, and he had most effectually
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performed those duties along the Congaree which had been
done by Sumter and Marion on the waters of the Santee
below. Every messenger between Rawdon and Ninety-Six
had been cut off, and, while the urgent entreaties of
Cruger, having command of the latter garrison, had failed
in most cases to reach the ears of Rawdon, the despatches
of the latter promising assistance, and urging the former
to hold out, had been invariably intercepted. Nor were
the performances of the gallant young partisan limited to
these small duties only. He had, in concert with Colonel
Butler, a famous name among the whigs of Ninety-Six,
given a terrible chastisement to the sanguinary tory,
Cunningham, in which the troop of the latter was utterly
annihilated, and their leader owed his escape only to the
fleetness of an inimitable steed. But these events belong
not to our story.
With a sad heart, but no diminution of enterprise or
spirit, Colonel Conway took up the line of march for the
Saluda, with the purpose of joining General Greene before
Ninety-Six; or, in the event of that place being
already in possession of the Americans, of extending his
march towards the mountains, where General Pickens
was about to operate against the Cherokee Indians. But
though compelled to this course by the pressure of the
British army in his rear, his progress was not a flight.
His little band was so compact, and so well acquainted
with the face of the country, that he could move at
leisure in front of the enemy, and avail himself of every
opportunity for cutting off stragglers, defeating the operations
of foraging parties, and baffling every purpose or
movement of the British, which was not covered by a
detachment superior to his own. Such was his purpose,
and such, to a certain extent, were his performances.
But Conway was soon made sensible of the inefficiency
of his force to contend even with the inferior cavalry of
the enemy. These were only inferior in quality. In
point of numbers they were vastly superior to the Americans.
The measures which Rawdon had taken to
mount the loyalists in his army, had, to the great surprise
of the Americans, given him a superiority in this
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particular, which was equally injurious to their hopes
and unexpected by their apprehensions. The march of
the British, though urged forward with due diligence by
their stern commander, was, at the same time, distinguished
by such a degree of caution as effectually to discourage
Conway in his attempts upon it. The onslaught
of the previous night justified the prudence of this wary
general. The audacity of the Americans was, at this
period, everywhere felt and acknowledged, and by none
more readily than Rawdon. His advance guard was sent
forward in treble force—his provincial riflemen skirted
the woods on the roadside, while his main army defiled
between, and his cavalry scoured the neighbouring thickets
wherever it was possible for them to hide a foe.
Conway was compelled to console himself with the profitless
compliment which this vigilance paid to his spirit
and address; and after hovering for the best part of a
day's march around the path of the advancing enemy,
without an opportunity to inflict a blow, he reluctantly
pressed forward with increased speed for Ninety-Six to
prepare General Greene for the coming of the new
enemy. Our course is thither also.
The post of Ninety-Six was situated on the crown of
a gentle but commanding eminence, and included within
its limits the village of the same name. This name was
that of the county, or district, of which it was the countytown.
Its derivation is doubtful; but most probably it
came from its being ninety-six miles from Prima George,
at the period of its erection the frontier post of the colony.
Its history is one of great local interest. Originally a
mere stockade for the defence of the settlers against Indian
incursion, it at length became the scene of the first
conflicts in the southern country, and perhaps in the
revolutionary war. It was here that, early in 1775, the
fierce domestic strife first began between the whigs and
tories of this region;—a region beautiful and rich by
nature and made valuable by art, which, before the war
was ended, was turned into something worse than a
howling wilderness. The old stockade remained at the
beginning of the revolution, and when the British
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[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
overran the state, they garrisoned the place, and it became
one of the most valuable of that cordon of posts which
they established around and within it. Its protection and
security was of the last importance to their interests. It
enabled them to maintain a communication with the Cherokees
and other Indians; and to keep in check the whig
settlements on the west of it, while it protected those of
the loyalists, north, south, and east. The most advanced
post which they occupied, its position served to strengthen
the influence of Camden and Augusta, and assisted them
to overawe the population of Georgia and North Carolina.
It was also for a long period the chief depôt of recruits;
and drew, but too successfully, the disaffected youth of
the neighbourhood into the royal embrace.
The defences of this place had been greatly strengthened
on the advance of the American army. Colonel
Cruger, an American loyalist, who was entrusted with
the command, was an officer of energy and talents; and
proved himself equally adequate and faithful to the trust
which was reposed in him. Calling in the aid of the
neighbouring slaves, he soon completed a ditch around
his stockade, throwing the earth, parapet height upon it,
and securing it within by culverts and traverses to facilitate
the communication in safety between his various
points of defence. His ditch was farther secured by an
abattis, and, at convenient distances, within the stockade,
he erected strong block-houses of logs. But the central
and most important point in his position, lay in a work
of considerable strength—which the curious in antiquarian
research and history may see to this day in a state
of comparative perfectness—called the “Star Battery.”
It stood on the southeast of the village which it effectually
commanded, was in shape of a star, having sixteen salient
and returning angles, and communicated by lines with
the stockade. In this were served three pieces of artillery,
which, for more ready transition to any point of
danger, were worked on wheel carriages. On the north
side of the village arises a copious fountain, of several
eyes, which flows through a valley. From this rivulet
the garrison obtained its supplies of water. The county
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prison, lying contiguous to this valley and commanding
it, was also fortified, as was another stockade fort, lying
on the opposite side of the valley, of considerable strength,
and having within it a couple of block-houses, which assisted
in covering the communication with the spring.
A covert way led from the town to the rivulet; and the
whole, including the village, was enclosed by lines of
considerable extent and height. To defend his position,
Cruger had a select force of six hundred men, many of
them riflemen of the first quality, and not a few of them
fighting, as they well knew, with halters about their
necks.
Greene commenced the siege under very inauspicious
circumstances, and with a force very inadequate to his
object. This siege formed one of the most animated and
critical occurrences during the southern war, and had
already lasted near a month, when Colonel Conway joined
his little troop to the force of the commander-in-chief.
The available army of Greene scarcely exceeded that of
Cruger. He had no battering cannon; and there was no
mode of succeeding against this “Star” redoubt, which
was the chief point of defence, but in getting over or
under it. Both modes were resolved upon. Regular
approaches were made, and on the completion of the
first parallel a mine was begun under cover of a battery
erected on the enemy's right. This work was prosecuted
day and night. No interval was permitted—one
party laboured, while a second slept, and a third guarded
both. The sallies of the besieged were constant and
desperate; not a night passed without the loss of life on
both sides; but the works of the Americans steadily
advanced. The second parallel was at length completed,
the enemy summoned to surrender, and a defiance returned
to the demand. The third parallel was begun,
and its completion greatly facilitated by the invention of
a temporary structure of logs, which, from the inventor's
name, were called the “Mayham towers.” These were,
in fact, nothing more than block-houses, constructed of
heavy timbers, raised to a height superior to that of the
beleagured fort and filled with riflemen. These
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sharp-shooters succeeded, in a little time, in driving the artillerists
of the garrison from their guns. Hot shot were
tried to destroy the towers, but the greenness of the
wood, in June, rendered the effort unavailing. The
artillery of the “Star” could no longer be used by daylight,
and by night it was little to be dreaded. The garrison
was now greatly straitened. Their provisions were
fast failing them; they could no longer venture for water
to the rivulet. Women were employed for this purpose
by daylight, and men in women's clothing; and by
night they received their supplies with the help of
naked negroes. Other means were found for conveyance.
Burning arrows were shot into the fort, but Cruger
promptly threw off the roofs of his houses. An attempt
was made to destroy the abattis by fire, but drew down
death on every one of the daring fellows who attempted
it Beside the “Mayham towers,” one of which was
within thirty yards of the enemy's ditch, the besiegers
had erected several batteries for cannon. One of these,
twenty feet in height, and within one hundred and forty
yards of the “Star,” so completely commanded it, that it
became necessary to give its parapet an increased elevation.
Bags of sand were employed for this purpose.
Through these, apertures were left for the use of small-arms;
and the removal of the sand-bags by night, gave
room for the use of the artillery. Bloody and deadly
was the strife that ensued for ten days, between the combatants.
During this period not a man could show himself
on either side without receiving a shot. As the conflict
approached its termination it seemed to acquire
increased rancour, and an equal desperation, under different
motives, appeared to govern both parties.
This could not be sustained long, and the fall of the
garrison was at hand. Cruger still held out in the hope
of succour, for which he had long implored his commander.
He had sufficient means, apart from the natural
courage which the good soldier may possess, for making
him defend his post to the very last extremity. There
were those within its walls to whom no indulgence would
have been extended by its captors—men whose odious
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crimes and bloody deeds had long since forfeited the
security even of those laws which are allowed to temper
with mercy the brutalities of battle. But their apprehensions,
and the resolution of Cruger, could not long supply
the deficiencies under which the besieged were suffering.
But two days more were allotted them for the retention
of a post which they had so gallantly defended. But
these two days were of the last importance for good or
evil to the two parties. In these two days the American
commander was apprised of the circumstances which
rendered it necessary that the place should be carried by
assault or the siege raised. The arrival of Conway announced
the approach of Rawdon, and the same night
furnished the same important intelligence to Cruger.
But for this intelligence that very night must have witnessed
the surrender of the post.
The circumspection and close watch which had been
maintained so long and so well by the American general
and his able subordinates, and which had kept the garrison
in utter ignorance of the march of Rawdon from
Charlestown, was defeated at the last and most important
moment from a quarter which had excited no suspicions.
The circumstance has in it no small portion of romance.
A young lady, said to be beautiful, and certainly bold—
the daughter of one tried patriot and the sister of another—
had formed in secret a matrimonial connexion with a
British officer, who was one of the besieged. Her residence
was in the neighbourhood, and she was countenanced
in visiting the camp with a flag, on some pretence
of little moment. She was received with civility and
dined at the general's table. Permitted the freedom of
the encampment, she was probably distinguished by her
lover from the redoubt, and contrived to convey by signs
the desire which she entertained to make some communication
to the besieged. The ardour of the lover and
the soldier united to infuse a degree of audacity into his
bosom, which prompted him to an act of daring equally
bold and successful. He acknowledged her signal, darted
from the redoubt, received her verbal communication,
and returned in safety amidst a shower of bullets from
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the baffled and astonished sentinels. Such is the story
told by tradition. It differs little from that which history
relates, and in no substantial particular; what is obscure
in the tale, but increases what is romantic. The feu de
joie of the besieged and their loud huzzas apprised the
American general of their new hopes; and too plainly
assured him that his labour was taken in vain.
Colonel Conway was admitted that night to the tent of
the general, where a council of war was to be held as to
the course now to be pursued. Greene necessarily presided.
Unmoved by disappointment, unembarrassed by
the probable defeat of his hopes and purposes, this
cheerful and brave soldier looked around him with a
smile of good humour upon his military family while
he solicited their several opinions. His fine manly face,
bronzed by the fierce glances of the southern sun, and
heightened by an eye of equal spirit and benevolence,
wore none of that dark disquietude and sullen ferocity,
the sure token of vindictive and bad feelings, which
scowled in the whole visage of his able opponent, Rawdon.
A slight obliquity of vision, the result of small-pox
in his youth, did not impair the sweetness of his glance,
though it was sufficiently obvious in the eye which it
affected. Conway had seen him more than once before,
but never to so much advantage as now, when a defeat
so serious as that which threatened his hopes, had rendered
necessary the measure of consultation then in hand.
He looked for the signs of peevishness and vexation but
he saw none. Something of anxiety may have clouded
the brow of the commander, but such an expression only
serves to ennoble the countenance of the man whose pursuits
are elevated and whose performances are worthy.
Anxiety makes the human countenance only the more
thoroughly and sacredly human. It is the sign of care,
and thought, and labour, and hope—of all the moral
attributes which betoken the mind at work, and most
usually at its legitimate employments.
On the right hand of Greene sat one who divided between
himself and the commander-in-chief the attention
of the ardent young partisan. This was the celebrated
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Kosciuzko. He had served throughout the siege as chief
engineer, and, under his guidance, the several approaches
had been made. His tall, erect, military form, pale, thin
and melancholy features, light brown hair, already thinned
above his lofty brow, together with the soft blue eye
which lightened them up at moments with almost girlish
animation, seemed to the mind of Conway inexpressibly
touching. The fate and name of Kosciuzko seemed so
intimately connected with that of his country, that the
eye of the spectator beheld the miseries of Poland in the
sad features of its melancholy exile. His words, few,
and sweetened as it were by the imperfect English in
which they were expressed, riveted the attention of all,
and were considered with marked deference by the commander,
to whom they were addressed. There were
other brave men at that anxious table, but Conway had
eyes and ears for none but these. There was Lee of
the legion, whom Greene emphatically styled the eye
and wing of his army; Campbell of the Virginians, who
subsequently fell at the Eutaw, while bravely leading on
his command; Kirkwood of the Delawares, happily designated
as the continental Diomed, a soldier of delightful
daring; Howard of the Marylanders; Rudolph of the
legion, Armstrong, and Benson, and others; whose presence
would enlighten any council-board, as their valour
had done honour to every field in which they fought;
but the centre of attraction lay between the two great men—
emphatically great either in their achievements, or in
the proud relation which they bore to the human family
for which they suffered. The name of Kosciuzko belongs
to two hemispheres, and though his position may
have been subordinate in one, his name is honourably
identified with the history of both.
The consultation was brief. The points to be discussed
were few.
“You perceive, gentlemen,” said Greene, opening the
proceedings, “that our toils appear to have been all taken
in vain. Apprised of Lord Rawdon's approach, the
garrison will now hold out until the junction is effected,
and for that we cannot wait, we are in no condition to
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meet Lord Rawdon single-handed. Colonel Conway,
whose exertions merit my warmest acknowledgments,
represents his force as quite too formidable for any thing
that we can bring against him. He brings with him
three fresh regiments from Ireland, the remains of the
regiment of Boze, near six hundred loyalists whom he
has mounted as cavalry, besides Coffin's dragoons;—in
all, an army little short of three thousand men. To this
we can oppose scarce eight hundred in camp and fit for
duty; Marion and Sumter are too far, and too busy, below,
to leave me any hope of their co-operation before
Rawdon comes within striking distance; and the presence
of his lordship in such force, will bring out Cunningham
and Harrison, with all their loyalists, who will give sufficient
employment for Pickens and Washington above.
Retreat is absolutely necessary, but shall our labours here
for the last month be thrown away? Shall we give up
`Ninety-Six' without a struggle? Shall we not make the
effort to gain the post, and behind its walls prepare for
the reception of Rawdon?”
The unanimous opinion of the council tallied with the
wishes of the commander. The assault was resolved
upon. The necessary orders were given out that night,
and the army was all in readiness, on the morning of the
18th of June, to make the final attempt. The forlorn
hope was led, on the American left, against the `Star'
battery, by Lieutenants Seldon and Duval. Close behind
them followed a party, furnished with hooks fastened to
staves, whose particular duty it was to pull down the
sand-bags which the enemy had raised upon their parapet.
Colonel Campbell next advanced to the assault at the
head of the 1st Maryland and Virginian regiments. These
all marched under cover of the approaches, until they
came within a few yards of the enemy's ditch. Major
Rudolph commanded the forlorn hope on the American
right against the stockade, supported by the legion infantry,
and Kirkwood's Delawares. The forts, the rifle
towers, and all the American works were manned, and
prepared to sweep the enemy's parapet, previous to the
advance of the storming party. Duval and Seldon were
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to clear the abattis and occupy the opposite curtain, then,
driving off the enemy, were to open the way for the
workmen. The sand-bags pulled down, Campbell was to
make the assault, availing himself of their aid in clambering
up the parapet. To Colonel Lee was left the assault
upon the stockades, of which, when obtained, he was
simply to keep possession, and await events.
A discharge of artillery at noon, was the signal for the
assault, which was followed by the prompt movement of
the storming parties. An uninterrupted blaze of artillery
and small-arms covered the advance of the forlorn hope;
and, enveloped in its shadowing smokes, this gallant little
band leapt the ditch and commenced the work of destruction.
But the besieged who had so bravely and for so
long time defended their ramparts, and whom the approach
of Lord Rawdon had inspirited with renewed
confidence, was prepared for their reception; and met
the assault with equal coolness and determination. The
assailants were encountered by bristling bayonets and
levelled pikes, which lined the parapet, while a stream
of fire, poured forth from intervals between the sand-bags
was productive of dreadful havoc among them. The form
of the redoubt gave to the besieged complete command
over the ditch, and subjected the besiegers to a cross
fire, which the gradual removal of the abattis only tended
to increase. The day was lost—the hope of the assailants,
small at the beginning, was now utterly dissipated,
and mortified and pained, less at being baffled than at the
loss of so many brave men, Greene gave the orders which
discontinued the assault. Yet for near three quarters of
an hour, did these brave fellows persist, notwithstanding
the fall of two-thirds their number and both their leaders.
This daring and enduring courage enabled them to occupy
the curtain and maintain, hand to hand, the conflict with
the garrison. They yielded at length, rather to the summons
of their commander, than to their own fear of danger;
the greater part of their men were killed or wounded,
but the latter were brought off amidst the hottest fire of
the garrison. The misfortune of Greene did not end
here. The British general was at hand, and, the dead
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being buried, the American commander struck his tents
and commenced the retreat which carried Clarence Conway
still farther from a region in which all his feelings
and anxieties were now deeply and doubly interested.
We will not attempt to pursue his flight, but retracing
our steps in a quarter to which he dare not turn, we will
resume our march along with that of the British army,
when they left the Middleton Barony, to advance upon
Ninety-Six.
But, in going back to Briar Park, it is not our purpose,
at this time, to trespass again upon its inmates. We
shall simply join company with our ancient friend, John
Bannister, and trace his progress, as a prisoner, in the
train of his captors. Watson Gray having been entrusted
by Lord Rawdon with the exclusive disposition of this
business, in consequence of the suggestions which the
latter had made him the night before, had very naturally
assigned the custody of the scout to the Black Riders, of
whom, under a roving commission, Gray ranked as an
inferior officer. He had every reason for believing the
charge to be a secure one. Bannister had long been an
object of dislike and apprehension to this troop, as he had
on several occasions discovered their most secret haunts,
and beaten up their quarters. His skill in the woods was
proverbial, and dreaded by all his enemies accordingly;
and the recent display which he had made, in the case
of Gray himself of that readiness of resource which had
rendered him famous, was very well calculated to mortify
the latter, and make him desirous of subjecting his own
captor, to all the annoyance likely to follow captivity.
Whatever may have been the motives by which he was
governed in this proceeding, the probability was apparent
and strong that Supple Jack could not have been put into
less indulgent custody; but circumstances baffle the
wisest, and events, which are utterly beyond human foresight,
suddenly arise to confound all the calculations of the
cunning. John Bannister found a friend among the
Black Riders when he little expected one. When the
army came to a halt that night, which was not till a
tolerably late hour, their camp was made on the northern
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side of the little Saluda, just within the line of the present
district of Edgefield, a commanding spot was chosen for
the bivouac, and every precaution taken to secure it from
disturbance for the night. The preparations for supper
produced the customary stir, but these were rapidly dismissed:
excessive fatigue had lessened appetite, and sleep
was alone desirable to the regiments which had been
pressed forward to the utmost of their marching powers,
from the very first moment of their leaving Charlestown.
The intense heat of the climate, at that season, made this
task an inappreciably severe one. The duties of the
cavalry had been, if possible, still more severe than those
of the infantry; compelled as they were to make continual
and large circuits through the country, around the
line of march of the army, in order to defeat the ambuscades
of the Americans, which were not less frequent
than successful. Group after group dispersed, and,
hanging their martial cloaks in the trees above them, to
guard them from the deleterious dews of the night, the
warriors, one by one, resigned themselves to repose.
The Black Riders were stationed beside a grove which
skirted one of the forks of the little Saluda, and were not
the last to avail themselves of the general privilege of
sleep. A few trees sufficed to cover their entire troop,
and they clustered together in several small bodies, the
horses of each group being fastened to swinging limbs of
trees close to those which sheltered their riders, in order
that they might be ready at hand in any sudden emergency.
In the centre of one of these squads lay John
Bannister. He was bound hand and foot; the bandages
upon the latter members being only put on for sleeping
purposes and withdrawn when the march was to be resumed.
A few rods distant, paced a sturdy sentinel, to
whom the double duty was entrusted of keeping equal
watch upon the horses and the prisoner. With this exception,
Bannister was almost the only person whose
eyes were unsealed by slumber in the encampment of the
dragoons. He was wakeful through anxiety and thought,
for though one of the most cheerful and elastic creatures
breathing, he had too many subjects of serious
-- 084 --
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apprehension, to suffer him to be sufficiently at ease in mind to
enjoy that repose which his body absolutely needed.
There was yet another reason to keep him wakeful. He
was very far from being resigned to his fate. He had
no taste for the condition of the prisoner, and the moment
that found him a captive found him meditating
schemes for his own deliverance. His plans had reference
to himself entirely. He was one of those self-dependent
people, who never care to look abroad for those
resources which may be found within; and closing his
eyes where he lay, and affecting the sleep which he
could not obtain, he wearied himself with the examination
of a hundred different plans for escaping from his
predicament. While he lay in this position he heard
some one approach and speak to the sentinel. A brief
dialogue ensued between them, carried on in terms quite
too low to be distinguished by him, but the tones of the
stranger's voice seemed familiar to the ear of the listener.
Bannister opened his eyes and discerned the two persons;
but in consequence of the umbrage of the trees
between he could only see their lower limbs; after a
while one of them disappeared, and fancying that it was
the stranger, and that the sentinel would again resume
his duties, the prisoner again shut his eyes and tried to
resume the train of meditation which the intrusion had
disturbed. He had not long been thus engaged when he
was startled by the low accents of one speaking behind
the column of the tree against which his head was leant,
and addressing him by name.
“Who speaks?” he demanded in the same whispering
tones in which he had been addressed.
“A friend.”
“Who?”
“Muggs.”
“What, Isaac?”
“The same.”
“Ah, you varmint! after I convarted you, you'll still
follow the British.”
“Hush!” whispered the other with some trepidation
in his tones. “For God's sake, not so loud. Stockton
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and Darcy and two more are jest under the oaks to the
left, and I'm dub'ous they're half awake now.”
“But how come you here, Muggs?”
“Why, nateral enough. I hearn the army was on its
march, and I reckoned there was guineas to be got on the
march, in exchange for rum and sugar; so I hitched horse
and wagon together, and turned sutler for the troop as I
used to; and mighty glad are they to see me; and
mighty glad I am to see you, John Bannister, and to try
and give you a help out of your hitch.”
“I'm dub'ous of you, Isaac Muggs. I'm afeard you
aint had a full convarsion.”
“Don't you be afeard. Trust to me.”
“How? Trust to you for what? will you loose me—
git me a horse, and a broadsword—hey? Can you do
this for the good cause, Isaac, and prove your convarsion.”
“Don't talk, but turn on your side a little, so that I
can feel where your hands are tied. Be quick—I haint
much time to spare. Ben Geiger, who is your sentry, is
gone to my wagon to get a drink, and will be back pretty
soon, and I'm keeping watch for him, and a mighty good
watch I'll keep.”
“There,—cut Muggs, and let me get up: but you
must cut the legs loose too. They've hitched me under
and over, as if I was a whole team myself.”
“And so you are, John Bannister; but you mustn't
git up when I cut you loose.”
“Thunder! and why not, Muggs. What's the use of
loosing foot and fingers if one's not to use them.”
“Not jest yet; because that'll be getting Ben Geiger
into a scrape and me at the back of it. You must wait
till he's changed for another sentry, and till I gives the
signal. I'll whistle for you the old boat horn tune that's
carried you many a long night along the Congaree;—you
remember?—well, when you hear that you may know
that the sentry's changed. Then watch the time, and
when the t'other sentinel draws off toward the horses,
you can crawl through them gum bushes on all fours and
get into the bay. As for the horse, I'm dub'ous there's
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no getting one easy. They'll make too much trampling.
But I'll meet you on t'other side of the bay, and bring
you a pistol, or sword, or whatever I can find.”
“Well, well! You bring the sword and pistol. It'll
be mighty hard where there's so many, if I can't find the
nag myself.”
“Work your hands:” said the landlord.
“They're free, they're free;” was the exulting response
of the scout, almost too loudly expressed for prudence.
“Hush, for God's sake, and don't halloo until you're
out of the bush. Take the knife now in your own hands,
and cut loose you're feet. But you must lie quiet, and
let the ropes rest jest where they are. Make b'lieve
you're asleep till you hear my whistle, and then crawl
off as if you were all belly, and wriggle away as quiet as a
blacksnake. I must leave you now. It's a'most time
for Ben Geiger to get back.”
The scout did not await a second suggestion to apply
the keen edge of the hunter's knife, which the landlord
furnished him, to the cords which fastened his feet.
These he drew up repeatedly with the satisfaction of one
who is pleased to exercise and enjoy the unexpected
liberty which he receives; but the suggestions of the
landlord, which were certainly those of common sense,
warned him to limit these exercises, and restrain his
impatient members, till the time should arrive for using
them with advantage. He accordingly composed himself
and them, in such a manner as to preserve the appearance
of restraint; arranged the perfect portions of the ropes
above his ankles, and tucked in the severed ends between
and below. Then, passing his hands behind him, as before,
he lay on his back outstretched with all the commendable
patience of a stoic philosopher awaiting the
operations of that fate with which he holds it folly if not
impertinence to interfere. The landlord, meanwhile,
had resumed the duties of the sentinel, and was pacing
the measured ground with the regularity of a veteran, and
the firm step of one who is conscious of no lapse of
faithfulness. The scout's eyes naturally turned upon him
with an expression of greatly increased regard.
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“Well,” said he in mental soliloquy, “I was half
dub'ous I'd have to lick Muggs over agen, before he could
be brought to a reasonable way of thinking. I was
mightily afeard that he only had half an onderstanding of
the truth when I gin him that hoist on the Wateree; but
it's a God's providence that orders all things, in his
blessed marcy, for the best, and let's one licking answer
for a stout man's convarsion. I'm dub'ous, if Muggs
hadn't ha' lost one arm in the wars, if he would have
onderstood the liberties we're fighting for half so easily.
Liberty's a difficult thing to be onderstood at first. It
takes mighty hard knocks, and a heap of thinking, to
make it stand out clear in the daylight; and then it's
never half so clear or half so sweet as when there's some
danger that we're going to lose it for ever, for good and
all. If ever I wanted to teach a friend of mine how to
believe in the reason of liberties, I'd jist lock him up in a
good strong jail for three months, or mou't be six, put
on a hitch of ploughline on hands and legs, and then argy
him to show that God made a mighty great mistake when
he gin a man a pair of feet and a pair of hands when he
might see for himself that he could sleep in the stumps at
both ends and never feel the want of 'em. But there
comes Ben Geiger, I suppose, and I must lie as if mine
were stumps only. Lord! I'll show 'em another sort
of argyment as soon as Isaac gins that old Congaree
whistle. It's only some twenty steps to the wood, and
I reckon it can't be much more to the bay, for the airth
looks as if it wanted to sink mighty sudden. These chaps
round me snort very loud—that's a sign, I've always
hearn, of sound sleeping. I don't much mind the risk of
getting off to the bay, but I'm getting too fat about the
ribs to walk a long way in this hot weather. Noise or
no noise, I must pick out one of them nags for the journey.
Let 'em snort. I don't much mind pistol-bullets when
they fly by night at a running horseman. They're like
them that shoot 'em. They make a great bellowing but
they can't see. Let 'em snort; but if I work my own
legs this night, it'll be to pick out the best nag in that
gang, and use him by way of preference.”
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Time moved very slowly, in the estimation of the
anxious scout. Ben Geiger, the sentry, had resumed his
watch and walk. Muggs had disappeared, and solemn
was the silence that once more prevailed over the encampment.
Two full hours had elapsed since the limbs
of Bannister had been unloosed, and still he waited for the
signal which was to apprise him that the moment for
their use was at hand. But it came at last, the long
wailing note, such as soothes the heart with sweet melancholy,
untwisted from the core of the long rude wooden
bugle of the Congaree boatman, as he winds his way
upon the waters of that rapid rushing river. The drowsy
relief-guard soon followed, and Ben Geiger disappeared
to enjoy that luxury of sleep from which his successor
was scarcely yet entirely free. He rubbed his eyes and
yawned audibly while moving to and from with unsteady
step along the beaten limits of his round. His drowsy
appearance gave increased encouragement to the woodsman.
But even this was not necessary to give confidence
to so cool a temper, so cheerful a spirit, and so adroit a
scout. The sentry had looked upon the prisoner and the
horses in the presence of the guard when Geiger was
relieved. Satisfied that all was safe, he had started upon
his march; and, giving sufficient time to the guard to
resume their own slumbers, Jack Bannister now prepared
himself for his movement. This event, which would
have been of great importance, and perhaps of trying
danger to most persons in his situation, was really of
little consequence in his eyes. With the release of his
hands and feet he regarded the great difficulty as fully
at an end. The risk of pistol-shot, as we have seen
from his soliloquy, he considered a very small one.
Besides, it was a risk of the war in which he was engaged,
and one which he had incurred an hundred times
before. On foot, he well knew that he could surpass the
best runner of the Indian tribes, and once in the thick
bay which was contiguous, he could easily conceal himself
beyond the apprehension of cavalry. If he had any
anxiety at all, it was on the subject of choosing a horse
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from the cluster that were attached to the swinging limbs
of the adjacent oaks.
“There's a dark bay, I'm thinking, that, as well as I
can make out in the moonlight, is about the best. The
black is a monstrous stout animal, but too high and heavy
for the sand roads. The gray is a little too showy for
a scout that ought to love the shade better than the sunshine.
I reckon I'll risk the bay. He ain't too heavy
and he ain't too low. He has legs enough for his body,
and his body looks well on his legs. He'll do, and if
I could only take the saddle from the black and clap it on
the bay, I'd be a made horseman. It's a prime English
saddle, and I reckon the holsters don't want for filling.
It's mighty tempting, but—”
A favourable opportunity for making a movement
now suggesting itself, his soliloquy was cut short. The
scout had his eyes all around him. The sentinel's back
was toward him, and he commenced his progress. To
the citizen, uninformed in the artifices of Indian warfare,
the mode of operations adopted and pursued by our scout,
would have been one of curious contemplation and study.
It is probable that such a person, though looking directly
at the object, would have been slow to discern its movements,
so sly, so unimposing, so shadowy as they were.
With the flexibility of a snake his body seemed to slide
away almost without the assistance of hands and feet.
No obvious motion betrayed his progress, not the slightest
rustling in the grass, nor the faintest crumpling of the
withered leaf of the previous autumn. His escape was
favoured by the gray garments which he wore, which
mixed readily with the misty shadows of the night and
forest. Amid their curtaining umbrage it was now impossible
for the sentinel to perceive him while pursuing
his rounds; and aware of this, he paused behind one of
the trees on the edge of the encampment, and gently
elevating his head, surveyed the path which he had
traversed. He could still distinguish the sounds of sleep
from several groups of his enemies. The moonlight was
glinted back from more than one steel cap and morion,
which betrayed the proximity of the Black Riders.
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There lay Stockton and Darcy and the rest of that fearful
band whose pathway had been traced in blood along the
Congaree and Saluda. More than one of the associates
of the scout had fallen by their felon hands. The scout
ground his teeth together as he surveyed them. How
easy, with their own broadswords, to make his way,
even at little hazard to himself, over severed necks and
shoulders spouting with their gore. The feeling was
natural to the man, but for an instant only. Bannister
dismissed it with a shudder; and turning warily in another
direction, he proceeded to put in execution his design
of choosing the best horse from among the group,
for the purpose of making his flight as agreeable to himself,
and as costly to his enemies, as was possible.
Circumstances seemed to favour him, but he never forewent
his usual caution. He proceeded with sufficient
gentleness, and produced no more disturbance among the
animals than they habitually occasioned among themselves.
His closer examination into their respective
qualities confirmed the judgment which he had previously
formed while watching them from a distance. The dark
bay was the steed that promised best service, and he succeeded
with little difficulty in detaching him from the
bough to which he was fastened. To bring him forth
from the group, so as to throw the rest between himself
and the sentinel's line of sight, was a task not much more
difficult; and but little more was necessary to enable our
adventurous scout to lead him down the hill side into the
recesses of the bay, in the shade of which he could mount
him without exposure, and dart off with every probability
of easy escape. But courage and confidence are very
apt to produce audacity in the conduct of a man of much
experience; and our scout yearned for the fine English
saddle and holsters which were carried by the black.
Dropping the bridle of his bay, therefore, over a slender
hickory shoot; he stole back to the group, and proceeded
to strip the black of his appendages. But, whether the
animal had some suspicions that all was not right in
this nocturnal proceeding, or was indignant at the preference
which the scout had given in favour of his
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companion over himself, it is certain that he resented the
liberties taken by the intruder in a manner that threatened
to be more fatal to the fugitive than all the pistols of the
encampment. He proceeded by kicking and biting to
prove his jealousy and dislike, and this so effectually, as
to make it a somewhat difficult matter for the scout to
effect his extrication from the group, all of whom were
more or less restive, and prepared to retort upon the
black the sundry assaults which, in his random fury, he
had inflicted upon them. This led to a commotion which
attracted the attention of the sentinel, and his challenge,
and evident approach, compelled Bannister to discard his
caution and betake himself with all expedition to the
steed which he had captured. He darted forward accordingly,
and the sharp bang of the pistol followed his
appearance on the back of the steed. This, though it
awakened only the merriment of the fugitive, aroused the
whole encampment. There was no time for contemplation;—
none for the expected conference with the landlord.
John Bannister knew this. He cast an instinctive
glance to the northern heavens, as if seeking for their
guiding star, then pricking his steed with the point of his
knife, they dashed away with a hurry-scurry through the
woods that defied their intricacies, and seemed to laugh
at the vain shouts and clamour of the Black Riders, who
were seeking to subdue to order, with the view to pursuit,
their now unmanageable horses. The circumstance that
had led to the discovery of Bannisters' flight, availed
somewhat to diminish the dangers of the chase. Before
the refractory steeds could be quieted, and the dragoons
on the track of his flight, the tread of his horse's heels
was lost entirely to their hearing. They scattered themselves,
nevertheless, among the woods, but were soon
recalled from a pursuit which promised to be fruitless;
while Bannister, drawing up his steed when he no
longer heard the clamours of his pursuers, coolly paused
for a while to deliberate upon the circumstances of his
situation. But a few moments seemed necessary to
arrive at a resolution; and, once more tickling his
horse's flanks with the point of his knife, he buried
himself from sight in the darkest recesses of the forest.
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CHAPTER VII. SHADOWS AND STRAWS UPON THE SURFACE.
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The excitement at the Middleton Barony was succeeded
by something of a calm; but not its usual calm.
It had now other tenants than those whose quality and
sex had maintained its peace along with its purity. The
chief of the outlaws, attended closely by his faithful adherent,
Watson Gray, was still its inmate; and there
was yet another stranger, in the person of a nice, dapper
surgeon's assistant, to whom Rawdon had given
the wounded man in charge. This young gentleman
was named Hillhouse. He was clever enough in his
profession. He could take off a leg in the twinkling of
an eye; but he was one of that unfortunate class of
smart young persons who aim at universal cleverness.
There was no object too high for his ambition, and, unhappily,
none too low. He philosophized when philosophy
was on the tapis, and
“Hear him but reason in divinity,”
you would have fancied the British camp was the very
house of God, and the assistant surgeon the very happiest
exponent of his designs. He talked poetry by the
canto, and felicitated himself on the equal taste with
which he enjoyed Butler and Cowley—the antipodes of
English poets. But, perhaps, his happiest achievement
was in the threading of a needle, and to see him in this
performance was productive of a degree of amusement,
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if not real pleasure, which could neither be described
easily nor well estimated. His adroitness was truly
wonderful. Armed with the sharpened thread in one
hand, and the needle in the other—his lips working the
while with singular indefatigableness—his left foot firmly
planted in the foreground, his right thrown back, and
poised upon the toe;—and he laughed to scorn the difficulty
which the doubtful eye of the needle seemed to
offer to his own. His genius, though universal, lay eminently
this way. He had the most marvellous nicety
of finger in threading needles that ever was possessed
by mortal. Unhappily, he was not satisfied with a distinction
so notable. He aimed to be something of a
gallant—a roué—a universal conqueror. His complaisance
was prodigious, where the sex was concerned.
Poor young creatures!—how he pitied them! How he
regretted, in the language of Goethe, that though
“Art is long, life is short;”
and there is but one life to execute all the desires even
of universal genius. He would willingly have had himself
cut up in little for their sakes, could the ubiquitous
attributes of his mind, have availed for the several subdivisions
of his body. But, as this could not well be
done, he could only sigh for their privations. Fancy,
with such complaisance, the person of the ugliest
“Greathead” in existence—a man, with a short neck,
head round as a bullet, eyes like goggles, and a nose as
sharp as a penknife; a mouth which could hold a pippin,
and was constantly on the stretch as if desiring
one. Fancy, yet farther, such a person in the house
with a woman like Flora Middleton, smirking indulgently
upon that damsel, and readily confounding the
cool contempt with which she regarded him, as only a
natural expression of that wonder which his presence
must naturally inspire in a country girl, and it will not
be difficult to anticipate some of the scenes which took
place between them whenever it was the fortune of the
gallant to be thrown into company with the maiden.
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Mr. Hillhouse was too provident of time in all matters,
to suffer any of his talents to remain unemployed,
when he could arrange it otherwise. Love-making was
regarded as one of these. It was not with him a matter
of passion or of sentiment. He had not a single
sensibility at work. It was simply as an accomplishment,
and as an exercise for his accomplishments, that
he condescended to smile upon the fair, and to confer
those affections which he otherwise affected to solicit.
He himself had no affections—perhaps such a creature
never has. He was deficient in that earnestness of
character without which the sensibilities are forms
rather than substances—the shows of things which only
delude, and never satisfy the desires of the mind. He
had scarcely seen Flora Middleton before he had planned
her conquest. While examining the wounds of Morton,
in connexion with the head surgeon, he was turning
over in his mind, and framing the words of that salutation
which he was to address, on the first occasion, to
that young lady. It was not many hours after Rawdon's
departure, before he commenced his operations.
The breakfast-table was the scene. Mrs. Middleton,
whom the fatigues and alarms of the night had overcome,
was not present; and, looking sad and unhappy,
Flora took her seat at the coffee-board. Mr. Watson
Gray and Mr. Hillhouse appeared at the first summons,
though the latter did not seem conscious that the room
was blessed with any other presence than his own, and
that other with whom he condescended to converse.
Watson Gray, with sufficient good sense, smiled, took
his seat, and said nothing beyond what was required of
good breeding. But the surgeon, with less sense, was
much more ambitious. The events of the night, the
military movements of the dawn, and the beauty of the
morn which succeeded, furnished him with ample topics.
He was in hope that the “spirit-stirring drum and earpiercing
fife,” and so forth, had not vexed too greatly
the slumbers of Miss Middleton;—a wish that the
young lady answered with a grave nod, and an assurance
which her countenance belied, that she never felt
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better in her life. The weather, the never-failing topic,
enabled him to dilate copiously from the poets—Milton
being the first at hand—with an almost literal description.
“A most lovely morning, Miss Middleton; and here
you may be said to realize the truth of Milton's description
of another region.” Hemming thrice, to relieve
himself from an obstruction in the throat which he did
not feel, he proceeded, in a sort of chant, to give the
beautiful address of Eve to Adam,—beginning,
“Sweet is the breath of morn, he rising sweet
With charm of earliest birds,” &c. &c.
But nothing could exceed the unction of his look and
gesture, when, approaching the conclusion of the apostrophe,
he betrayed by his look, tone, and action, the
true reason why the selection had been made—
“But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds; nor rising sun,
On this delightful land; nor herb, tree, flower,
Glistening with dew; nor fragrance after showers;
Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night
With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.”
“In truth, sir, your selection is very appropriate.
The description, at this season of the day and year, is
very correct, when applied to our Congaree country.
One would almost fancy that Milton had been thinking
of us. At least, our self-complaisance may well take
the liberty of applying his verses as we please. But,
sir, do tell me how your patient is.”
This was all said with the most indifferent, matter-of-fact
manner in the world. The answer to the inquiry
was lost in the professional knowledge which enveloped
it. A long, painful jargon ensued, on the subject of
wounds in general; then followed an analysis of the
several kinds of wounds—gun-shot, rifle, sabre, pike,
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bayonet, bill, bludgeon—wounds in the head and the hip,
the shoulder and the leg, the neck and the abdomen.
“But of all wounds, Miss Middleton, I feel at this moment
more than ever convinced that the most fatal
are those which are inflicted upon the human heart.”
This was followed by a glance of the most inimitable
tenderness, while the hand of the speaker rested upon
the region, the susceptibilities of which were alleged
to be so paramount.
“Your opinion, sir,” said the young lady, with becoming
gravity, “is confirmed by all that I ever heard
on the subject. Indeed, sir, our overseer, who is an excellent
judge in such matters, and who was at one time
the only butcher in Charlestown,—prefers shooting a
steer through the heart always, in preference to the
head. He asserts that while death is certain to follow
the hurt in the one region, it is a very frequent circumstance
that the hardness of the other renders it impenetrable
to the bullet, unless the aim be very good
and the distance be very small. But you, sir, ought to
be the best judge of the correctness of this opinion.”
Watson Gray made considerable effort to suppress
the grin which rose in spite of him to his visage, but
Mr. Hillhouse did not see it, and was not conscious of
the latent meaning in what Flora Middleton had said.
He thought to himself, “This is a very simple girl, certainly—
a mere rustic. I shall have no trouble with
her;” and he proceeded to offer some objections to the
opinion of the overseer, to all of which Flora Middleton
assented with the air of one who is anxious to get rid
of a wearisome person or subject. But the surgeon
was not to be shaken off so easily, and every question
which she found it necessary to propose, however simple
or little calculated to provoke dilation, only had the
effect of bringing about the same results. The same
jargon filled her ears—the same inflated style of compliment
offended her taste; and in answer to the third
or fourth inquiry as to the condition of his patient, he
assured her that “Wounds were either fatal or they
were not. Death might follow the prick of a needle,
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while a man has been known to survive even a puncture
of the heart itself;”—here followed another significant
glance at the lady;—“but,” he continued, with
the air of a man who declares the law, “while there is
life there is hope.—Hope, as we are told by our little
poet of Twickenham, `hope springs eternal in the human
breast;' and the last person, Miss Middleton,
whom hope should ever desert, should be the surgeon.
So many have been the marvellous cures which the art
of man has effected, that he should despair of nothing.
Nothing, you know, is impossible with Providence,—
perhaps, I should say, with art; for many have been its
successes, which ignorance has falsely and foolishly attributed
to miraculous interposition. Miracles, Miss
Middleton, are not common things. I am of opinion,
though I would not have you suppose me sceptical or
irreligious, that a great many events are represented as
miraculous which owe their occurrence to natural and
ordinary laws. There was an instance—it came under
my own observation in the island of Jamaica—”
“Pardon me, sir, if you please, but if your patient can
longer spare your presence, mine cannot. I am to understand
you then, as of opinion that Mr. Conway can
only survive by what is ordinarily considered a miracle;
but which, I am to believe, will be then wholly ascribable
to your professional skill?”
“I reckon, Miss Middleton,” said Watson Gray,
rising from the table as he spoke, “that Mr. Conway
stands a good chance of getting over it. He's got some
ugly cuts, but he hasn't much fever, and I don't think
any of the wounds touch the vital parts. I've seen a
good many worse hurts in my time, and though I'm no
doctor, yet I think he'll get over it by good nursing and
watching.”
Mr. Hillhouse was greatly confounded by this interposition.
His eyebrows were elevated as Watson Gray
went on, and he permitted himself to exhibit just sufficient
interest in the interruption as to wheel his chair
half round, and take a cool contemptuous look at the
speaker. The latter did not wait for reply or
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refutation; and the simple directness of what he said, was
sufficiently conclusive to Flora, who rose also, and—
the gentlemen having finished breakfast—prepared to
leave the room. But Mr. Hillhouse was not willing to
suffer this movement. He had still more knowledge to
display.
“Do not be deceived by this person, Miss Middleton,—
a very cool person, certainly, not wanting in presumption—
a strange person—I should judge him to be the
overseer of whom you have spoken?”
“No, sir; I only know him as one of the friends of
Mr. Conway.”
“Ah,—a friend of Mr. Conway—a very strange selection.
There is nothing about which gentlemen
should be so careful, as in the choice of friends. A
friend is a man—”
“Excuse me, sir,—but may I beg your attention, at
your earliest leisure, in the chamber of the young
woman. Her delirium seems to be increasing.”
“It will give me pleasure to obey your requisitions,
Miss Middleton; but let me warn you against forming
your judgment, upon the subject of Mr. Conway's condition,
from the report of this person—this overseer of
yours. I doubt not that he's an excellent butcher, Miss
Middleton, but, surely, it is obvious to you that the art
of taking life and that of saving it, are very different
arts. Now, I suspect, that he could tell very nearly as
well as myself what degree of force it would be necessary
to use in felling a bullock, but the question how to
bring the same bullock to life again—”
“Is surely one that is better answered by yourself,
and I should consult you, sir, were it ever necessary, in
preference to every body else.”
The surgeon bowed at the compliment, and with undiminished
earnestness, and more directness than usual,
returned to his subject, if subject he may be said to
have, who amalgamated all subjects so happily together.
“Mr. Conway, ma'am, is not so bad as he might be,
and is a great deal worse, I'm disposed to think, than
he wishes himself to be. His wounds are not deadly,
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though he may die of them; yet, though life itself be but a
jest, I must consider them serious. This overseer of
yours is right in some things; though, I suspect, he
only reports my own remarks to Lord Rawdon, made
this morning, ere his lordship took his departure. I told
his lordship that I considered the case doubtful, as all
maladies must be considered; for you know that there
is no certainty in life, but death. He has fever, and
that is unfavourable; but, as he has little fever, that is
favourable. In short, if he does not suffer a great
change for the worse, I trust that he will get better.
Nay, I may admit that I have hopes of it, though no certainties.
The surgeon who speaks of certainties, in
such matters, is—pardon me, Miss Middleton—little
better than a fool.”
“I thank you, sir; you have really enlightened me on
many subjects. I am very much obliged to you. You
must have seen a great deal of the world, sir.”
“The world! Miss Middleton, I have sounded it every
where. I have basked on the banks of the Niger; I
have meditated at the foot of the Pyramids; have taken
my chibouque with a Pacha, and eaten sandwiches
with the Queen of Hungary. I have travelled far, toiled
much; spent five years in India, as many in the West
Indies, two in South America; and yet, you see me
here in South Carolina, still nothing more than second
surgeon to a little army of less than five thousand men,
commanded by a general, who—but no matter! Lord
Rawdon is a good soldier, Miss Middleton, but, burn
me! a very poor judge of good associates.”
“You must have left your maternal ties at a very
early period, to have travelled so far, and seen so much.”
“Apron strings” softened into “maternal ties,” did
not offend the surgeon's sensibilities.
“A mere boy, Miss Middleton; but it is surprising
how rapidly a person acquires knowledge, who starts
early in pursuit of it. Besides, travelling itself is a delight—
a great delight—it would do you good to travel.
Perhaps, were you to go abroad only for a single year,
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you would feel less surprised at the extent of my acquisitions.”
“Indeed, sir, do you really think so?”
“I do, 'pon my honour, I do. Your place here is a
very fine one. You have, I understand, some ten thousand
acres in this estate—the Old Barony it's called—
slaves in sufficient number to cultivate it, and really
every thing remarkably attractive and pleasant. I can
very well understand how it is that you should not care
to leave it even for a season; but if you only knew
what a joy travelling is—to go here and go there—see
this thing and that—be asked to this fête and that
palace; and know that the whole gay world is looking
for your presence and depending on your smile; if you
once knew this, Miss Middleton, you'd give up your
acres and your slaves, your barony and all its oaks;
think them all flat, stale, and unprofitable—you'd—”
“Oh, sir, excuse me. You are too eloquent. If I
remain longer, I shall be persuaded to go; and I must
go in order to remain. Good morning, sir. I trust that
you will devote your earliest leisure to the poor young
woman.”
The surgeon bent and bowed almost to the ground,
while his hand was pressed to his lips with the air of
exquisite refinement which distinguished that period.
The dandy is clearly human. All ages have possessed
the creature under one guise or another. The Roman,
the Greek, the Egyptian, the Hebrew, all the Asiatics,
the English and the French, have all borne testimony
to their existence; and, perhaps, there is no dandy half
so ultra in his styles as the Cherokee or the Chickasaw.
Nature and art both declare his existence and recognise
his pretensions. In this point of view, common sense
can urge no objections to him. He clearly has an
allotted place in life, and like the wriggling worm that
puts on a purple jacket and golden wings, though we
may wonder at the seeming waste of so much wealth,
we cannot deny its distribution, and must suppose that
the insect has its uses however unapparent. The exquisite
may stand in the same relation to the human
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species as the jay or the peacock among the birds.
These teach the vanity of their costume while displaying
it: as the man of sense learns to avoid the folly,
even in degree, which is yet the glory of the fool.
“Charming creature!” exclaimed the dandy, yawning
and throwing himself backward on the cushions
of the huge sofa, which stood temptingly contiguous—
“Charming creature! She deserves some pains-taking.
Her person is not fine but her lands are;—her
beauties are few, but her slaves are many. She is
rather simple, perhaps—but, gad, my soul!—he is hard
indeed to satisfy whom these fine grounds, excellent
mansion, good lands, charming groves, and balmy
atmosphere would not reconcile to any sacrifices. We
must make it, some day or other, all of us; and thou,
Augustus Hillhouse, be thou not too nice! Already
hast thou suffered many a choice fleshly dainty to slip
through thy fingers because of thy fastidious stomach.
Beware! Thou art wasting time which is precious.
Age will come upon thee! Age! ah!”—with a shiver—
“it will need fine mansion, and noble park, and
goodly income, to reconcile that to thy philosophy.
`In the days of thy youth,' saith the proverb. I will
take counsel of it in season. The damsel's worth
some pains-taking, and the sacrifice is not without its
reward. But such a gown and stomacher as she
wears! I must amend all that. There is also an
absence of finish in the manner, which too decidedly
betrays the rustic. Her voice, too, hath a twang—a
certain peasant-like sharpness which grates harshly
upon the ear. But these things may be amended!—
Yes, they may be amended. I must amend them, certainly,
before I can commit myself among my friends;
for what would Lady Bell, who is a belle no longer,
say to such a bodice, such a stomacher, and above all
to a carriage which shows a degree of vigour so utterly
foreign to good breeding. I must teach her languor,
and that will be the worst task of all, for it will require
exertion. She must learn to lounge with grace, to sigh
with a faint-like softness, to open her eyes as if she
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were about to shut them, and, when she speaks, to let
her words slide out through the tips of her lips as if she
were striving all she could, short of positive effort, to
keep them in! Ah, charming Bell, sweet Lady Charlotte,
and thou, dearest of all the dears, fair Moncrieff,
could this barony-girl grow wise in those things in
which ye are so excellent, and how much lovelier were
she than all of ye! Ye are landless, sweet ladies—
and therefore ye are loveless. These acres weigh
heavy against your charms. Augustus Hillhouse, be
not foolish in thy fastidiousness. Take the fruits which
the gods bestow upon thee, and quarrel not with the
bounty because of the too much red upon the apple.
It is a good fruit, and the red may be reconciled, in due
season, to a becoming delicacy.”
The dandy soliloquized at greater length, but neither
his euphronism nor his philosophy finds much favour in
our sight. We are not of that class of writers who
delight in such detail, and we shall not accordingly—
and this omission may surprise the fashionable reader—
furnish the usual inventory of Mr. Hillhouse's dress
and wardrobe. Enough that it was ample even for his
purposes, and enabled him to provide a change, and
a different colour, for every day in the month. He had
his purple and his violet, his green and his ombre, the
one was for the day of his valour, the other, for his
sentiment, the third for his love-sadness, and the fourth
for his feeling of universal melancholy. We shall only
say, that his violet was worn at his first interview with
Flora Middleton.
While his head ran upon his marriage, a measure
which he had now certainly resolved upon, it was also
occupied with certain incidental and equally important
topics, such as the dress which should be worn on such
occasion; for the day of his marriage was the only day
he had never before provided for; and the subsequent
disposition of the goods and chattels which he was to
take possession of with his wife. Stretched at length
upon the cushions, with one leg thrown over an arm of
the sofa and the other resting upon the floor, his head
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raised upon the pillows, which had been drawn from
both extremities for this purpose;—his eyes half shut
in dreamy languor, and his lips gently moving as he
whispered over the several heads of topics which engaged
his reflection; he was suddenly aroused by hearing
the fall of a light footstep behind him. At first he
fancied that it might be one of the servants, but a negro
is usually a heavy-heeled personage, who makes his
importance felt upon the floor, if nowhere else; and
when, in the next moment, Mr. Augustus Hillhouse
remembered this peculiarity in his nature, he fancied
that the intruder could be no other than the fair rustic
whose acres he was then disposing of with the most
mercantile facility. Nothing could be more natural
than that she should very soon find her way back to
the spot where it was possible to find him. Under this
impression, he started to his feet with an air of well-practised
confusion; and having been at some pains to
throw into his countenance an excess of sweetness and
sensibility, he turned his eyes, as he fancied, upon the
fair intruder, to meet—not the lady of his love, nor one
of the gentler sex at all—but a man, and such a man!
Never was creature so wofully confounded as our young
gallant. The person who encountered his glance, though
but for an instant only, was the very picture of terror—
gaunt terror—lean misery, dark and cold ferocity.
Clothed in the meanest homespun of the country, and
that in tatters, the tall, skeleton form of a man, stood in
the doorway, evidently receding from the apartment.
In his eyes there was the expression of a vacant anger—
something of disappointment and dislike—a look of
surprise and dissatisfaction. In his hand, at the moment
of his disappearance, Mr. Hillhouse fancied that
he saw the sudden shine of steel. But he was so completely
confounded by the apparition that he was for a
few moments utterly incapable of speech; and when he
did speak, the spectre disappeared.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” was the
shivering inquiry which he made. A savage grin was
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the only answer of the stranger, and the next instant
the surgeon stood alone.
“The devil—sure!” he exclaimed; but recovering
his courage, he darted after his strange visiter. He
rushed into the passage-way—out into the porch—ran
down the steps, looked out into the court—but in vain.
He could see nobody. Even the sentinels, whom he
knew to have been placed at the portals, front and rear,
were withdrawn; and no object more suspicious than a
lame negro met his eye in the whole range of vision
that lay within it. He re-entered the house, more than
ever satisfied that he had been favoured with a visit
from a personage whose intimacy implies brimstone
and other combustibles; and a sudden resolution to
resume his duties, and see at once into the condition of
his patients, whom he began to think he had too long
neglected, was the result of his supernatural visitation.
The first object of his care was the person of the outlaw—
not because of his superior claims, or worse condition,
but simply because he felt his nerves too much
agitated to encounter the young lady in whose presence
it was necessary to practise that nice and deliberate
precision of tone and manner, language and address,
which form the first great essentials of successful
euphuisme in all ages. Regarding Watson Gray as a
mere circumstance in a large collection of dependencies—
a sort of hanging peg, or resting port, a mounting
block, or a shoetie, in the grand relationships of society—
he had no scruple at exhibiting his real emotions in
his presence; and he poured forth to the cooler and
more rational scout the intelligence of which he was
possessed. Gray regarded the surgeon as a fool, but
had no reason to suppose that he was a liar. He saw
no reason to doubt that he had seen somebody, and
concluded that his alarm had somewhat magnified the
terrors of what he saw. But his description of the costume
worn by the visiter was so precise and particular,
that he well knew that neither the fears nor the follies
of the other could have caused his invention of it; and
with graver looks than he himself was aware of, he
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descended instantly to the lower story. There, he
found the sentinels, each at his post, and they swore
they had been so from the beginning. This one circumstance
led the scout to think more lightly of the
surgeon's story; but there was still something in the
description which had been given him that he could not
dismiss from his consideration. He searched the immediate
neighbourhood of the premises, but without discovering
any thing to awaken his suspicions. He saw
nothing; but a keen watchful eye followed his progress,
every step which he made, along the avenue. The
father of Mary Clarkson had survived the conflict of
the preceding night. It was his spectre which had so
fearfully alarmed the contemplative surgeon. He had
good reason for his alarm. His sudden movement
alone, which enabled the vindictive old man to discern
the petite and popinjay person of the surgeon, saved
him from the sharp edge of the uplifted knife. The
couteau de chasse of the woodman—an instrument not
unlike the modern bowie-knife—had, at one moment,
nearly finished the daydreams of Mr. Hillhouse and his
life together. Finding nothing on his search like the
object described, Watson Gray was disposed to think
that the surgeon had seen one of the soldiers on duty,
who had probably found his way into the mansion with
the view of employing his eyes or his fingers—for the
moral sense of the invading army, officers and soldiers—
does not seem to have been very high;—but this idea
was combated by the fact that Hillhouse had been for
many years, himself, a member of the British army,
and knew, as well as any body, the costume of its
several commands. The nervous excitement of the
surgeon, which was not overcome when Gray returned
to the chamber, was another argument against this
notion. But a new light broke in upon Watson Gray
when he remembered the ancient superstition along the
Congaree.
“You've seen the ghost of the Cassique,” he said,
with a conclusive shake of the head—“old Middleton
walks, they say. I've heard it a hundred times. He
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used to wear homespun and a hunting-shirt—though I
never heard it was ragged—and the big knife and rifle
was never out of his hands. The Congaree Indians
used to call him King Big Knife, and, sure enough, he
made it work among their red skins whenever they
came about his quarters and didn't carry themselves
rightly. He was a most famous hunter, and between
the bears and the savages, the knife and rifle had very
little rest with him. I reckon it's him you've seen,
though it's something strange for a ghost to walk in
broad day-time.”
The surgeon was not entirely satisfied with this
explanation; not because it seemed very unreasonable,
but simply because it clashed with his habitual
philosophy.
“Ah, my good friend,” he exclaimed, patronizingly—
“I see you labour under some very vulgar errors. The
belief in ghosts is entirely done away with. Ghosts,
like continental money, had their value only so long as
the people had credulity. The moment you doubt, the
ghosts disappear, and the money is rejected. They
found credit only among a simple people and in the
early stages of society. As Philosophy—divine not
crabbed as dull fools suppose—as Philosophy began to
shed her beams upon the world”—&c. &c. &c.
Watson Gray had already ceased to listen, and we
may as well follow his example. Talking still, however,
while working about the wounds of his patient,
the surgeon at length awakened another voice, and the
faint, but coherent words of the outlaw, summoned the
scout to his bedside.
“Where am I?—what does all this mean, Gray?”
But the surgeon interfered, and for five minutes expatiated
on the great danger to a patient situated as he
was, in using his own, or hearing the voice of any but
his professional attendant.
“Nothing, my good sir, can be more injurious to the
nervous system, particularly where there is any tendency
upward—any mounting of the blood to the
brain! I have known numberless instances, where the
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results have been fatal, of the most trifling conversation.
Once in India, a colonel of cavalry, as brave a fellow as
ever lived—Monkton—a noble fellow—dressed like a
prince—won every woman he looked at, and was
happy in never being made to marry any—he suffered
from a gunshot wound got in a desperate charge which
he made at the head of his regiment, upon the native
troops. The rajah himself fell—and my poor friend
Monkton—”
“Pshaw!” feebly exclaimed the outlaw—but with an
emphasis and manner sufficiently marked to be offensive.
“Pshaw! pshaw! sir—I do not understand—”
The wounded man interrupted him—
“Pray do: only be silent, while I hear what my
friend says. Come hither, Gray.”
“I warn you, sir—I wash my hands of the responsibility!”
exclaimed the now indignant surgeon.
“Gray, can't you turn that fool fellow from the
room,” said Morton in a tone which was only inaudible
to Hillhouse from the feebleness of the speaker.
But no such steps were necessary. The indignant
surgeon availed himself of the moment to obey the
requisition of Miss Middleton, and visit his other patient:
and the outlaw and his subordinate were left
undisturbed to a long, and, to them, not an uninteresting
conference. This conference had relation to many
events and interests which do not affect the progress
of this narrative, and do not accordingly demand our
attention; but we may add, that no portion of the intelligence
which Watson Gray brought his commander
was of half the interest, in his mind, as those events
which we have previously related, in the occurrences
at Briar Park, after the moment of Edward Morton's
insensibility.
“That I live at all is almost miraculous,” was the
remark of the outlaw; “for I had goaded him”—meaning
his brother—“almost to desperation, and when my
hand failed me I looked for death.”
“But why do this?” was the earnest inquiry of
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Gray—“why, when so much was at stake? I thought
you had made it your chief care, and believed it your
correct policy, particularly as concerns Miss Flora, to
keep him in the dark. Why tell him all—why goad
him with this knowledge?”
“So it was my policy, and so I had resolved; but
the devil and my own passions drove me to do it; and
some other feelings which I could not well account for.
Hate, hate, hate!—was at the bottom of all, and I suppose
I needed blood-letting.”
“You have had it—enough of it.”
“Ay, but I live in spite of it, Watson Gray, and I feel
that I shall still live. I shall not die this bout—not while
I am here—here in the same house with her, and while
all things below are, as you tell me, ripe and favourable.
This alone is enough to cure wounds thrice as numerous
and thrice as deep as mine. I am here with her,
and let me but use these limbs once more, and the
victory and the prize are mine. I will wear them,
Watson Gray, with a savage joy which shall find
triumph in a thousand feelings which confer any thing
but joy. She shall know and he shall know what it is
to have felt with feelings such as mine.”
The outlaw sank backward with exhaustion, and
Watson Gray found it necessary to enforce the suggestions
of the surgeon, and to impose upon the speaker
that restraint which his weakness showed to be more
than ever necessary. This was a difficult task; the
outlaw being impatient to hear particulars, and dilate
upon hopes and passions, which filled all the secret
avenues of his soul with joy! It was only by warning
him of the danger of defeating every thing by tasking
his powers prematurely, that he was subdued to silence;
but his lips still worked with his desire to speak, and
while he lay with shut eyes upon his couch, almost
fainting with exhaustion, his heart heaved with the
exulting images which fancy had already arrayed before
his mind, in preparing his contemplated triumph.
That triumph included the possession of Flora Middleton,
and his escape with her, and other treasures, only
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less valuable in his own estimation, and of far greater
value in that of his confederate. Already he was
dreaming of groves in the West Indian Islands;—of a
safe retreat from the snares of enemies; and of the
possession of those charms which had equally warmed
his mind and his passions. Dreaming, he slept; and
Watson Gray availed himself of his repose to snatch
a brief hour of oblivion from the same auspicious influence.
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CHAPTER VIII. GUILT, AND ITS VICTIM.
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The course of the surgeon, when he left the chamber
of the outlaw, naturally tended to the apartment of his
other patient. The indignation which he felt at the conduct
of Morton, in rejecting, in terms of such contempt,
his counsel to silence; expedited his movements, and,
muttering while he went, the discomfiture which he felt,
he found himself in the presence of Miss Middleton before
he had entirely smoothed his ruffled front for such
a meeting. But Mr. Hillhouse prided himself on his
possession of all those nice requisites which constitute,
par excellence, the ladies-man. Among these may be
reckoned a countenance which no unruly passions
could ever discompose. He started with an air of studied,
theatrical modesty, when, at the entrance of the chamber,
he saw the young lady;—passed his kerchief once
over his face, and the magic consequences of such a
proceeding, were instantly apparent. The wrinkles and
frowns had all disappeared, and sweet sentiment and
deliberate love alone appeared upon that territory which
they had unbecomingly usurped. The surgeon approached
trippingly, and in a half whisper to Flora,
communicated his apologies.
“I still tremble, Miss Middleton, for I had almost
ventured into your presence with an angry visage. The
truth is, I am sometimes susceptible of anger. My
patient in the opposite apartment proves to be unruly.
He has annoyed me. He rejects good counsel, and he
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who rejects counsel need not take physic. Counsel,
Miss Middleton, has been happily designated, the physic
of the soul, and can never be rejected—”
“Except when given as physic, sir,—but will you
look at this poor young woman; I am afraid you can
do but little for her. She grows worse every moment.”
“A-hem!—The limit to human art has not yet been
found, Miss Middleton. The patient has frequently
been rescued from the very fingers of death. My own
successes in this respect have been numerous and remarkable.
I remember once in Ceylon, some time in
the autumn of 1772, I had a case of this very sort, and
a young woman too. She fractured her skull by falling
from a window, in an effort to reach her lover. The
affair occasioned no little sensation at the time. The
parties were something more than respectable on all
sides; but an unconquerable aversion to her lover
which her father entertained, threatened to defeat their
desires. You need not be told, Miss Middleton, that
where a young woman loves, she will do any thing to
secure the object of her attachment. He was worthy of
her. He was an Irishman, his name Macartney,—and
certainly, for that day, had the most inimitable taste in
the arrangement of his cravat, of any man I ever knew.
He could make a pendant to it, a sort of n\œud Gordienne,
which I would defy the prettiest fingers in the
world to unravel. The knot appeared like a ball, a
single globe, from which hung two lappets, being the
open ends of the kerchief. Sometimes, with singular
ingenuity, he would alter the design so as to leave but
one lappet, and then, it might be likened to a comet,
with a tail,—such an one as I saw at Paris, in 1769. I
doubt if you were then quite old enough to have seen that
comet, but you may have heard of it. It had a most
prodigious tail—fully sixty degrees in length, as computed
by the astronomers.”
It was with a degree of disgust, almost amounting to
loathing, that Flora Middleton listened to the stuff of the
voluble exquisite, poured forth all the while that he pursued
his examination into the hurts of his patient. It
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seemed shocking that one could speak at such a moment,
on any subject but such as was essential to the
successful performance of the task in hand; but that he
should enlarge on such wretched follies, with so much
suffering before his eyes, seemed to her still more
shocking, strange, and unnatural. It will be remembered
that Flora Middleton was a country girl, to whom
the resources and employments of the conventional
world of fashion, were almost entirely unknown, except
from books; and if she heard any thing of such extravagancies
in them, they were very likely to be thrown
by, as too silly for perusal, and too idle for belief. The
plaintive moans and occasional ejaculations of the poor
girl offered the only interruption to the garrulity of the
surgeon, but did not seem to awaken any feeling. He
commented on this insensibility, by a quotation from
Shakspeare, which served for the time to divert him
entirely from the subject.
“`How use doth breed a habit in a man!' I do believe,
Miss Middleton, though I should think just as
much of her as before, and feel just as desirous of doing
her a service, that I could take off the leg of my grandmother
with as much composure and indifference, as
perform on the most indifferent stranger. Did you ever
have a tooth drawn, Miss Middleton?”
He urged this question with great gravity, but did not
wait for the answer.
“A painful operation to the patient, decidedly, and
the only surgical operation which I have any reluctance
to perform. My objection arose from a very rational
circumstance. When in my teens, and a student—a
time as you perceive not very remote, Miss Middleton,
though my worldly experience has been so extensive
and so rapid—I was called upon to extract a tooth from
the mouth of a young lady, the daughter of a singing-master
in Bath. She was very nervous, and gave me
a great deal of trouble to get her to submit. But I had
scarcely got my finger into her mouth,—being about to
use the lancet,—when—look what a mark!”—showing
his finger—“it will last me to my grave, and, as you
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see, disfigures terribly the entire member!—She closed
her jaw upon me, and—ah! I feel the thrill of horror
even now, which seemed to run through my whole
system. Nay, by my faith, would you think it,—not
content with taking hold, she seemed no way disposed
to let go again, and it was only by main force that she
was persuaded to recollect that my finger had no real
or natural connection with her incisors. Young ladies
are said to keep possession of their favourites with a
tenacity peculiar to themselves, but a mode like this,
Miss Middleton, you will readily admit, was neither
loving nor ladylike.”
As she looked and listened, Flora could scarce forbear
the exclamation of “unfeeling fool;” while the
reflection which has occurred to every mind which has
ever observed and thought, suggested to hers the strong
identity which exists between the extremely callous and
cold nature, and that in which levity seems a leading
characteristic. The extremes inevitably meet. The
bear can dance, and the monkey, which is one of the
most sportive, if not the most formidable, is one of the
most malignant of the wild tribes of the forest. A
frivolous people is apt to be a savage people, and the
most desperate Indian warriors prefer the looking-glass
worn about their necks to any other ornament. While
the surgeon was prating in this fashion he was extorting
groans from the poor girl whose hurts he examined
without seeming to hear their utterance; and the finger
which he presented for examination as that which had
so much suffered from the jaws of the lady of Bath, was
touched with the crimson hues from the fractured skull
which he had been feeling. Mr. Hillhouse was considered
a good surgeon in the British army—and, it
may be, that the very callosity which shocked the sensibilities
of Flora Middleton, would not only commend
him to the rough soldier, who acquires from his daily
practice, an habitual scorn of the more becoming humanities,
but was, indeed, one cause of his being an
excellent operator. His skill, however, promised to
avail nothing in behalf of his female patient; and when,
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at length, after a thousand episodes, Flora obtained from
him his final opinion, though it said nothing, it signified
much. The mournful presentiments of the poor girl,
expressed to her betrayer but a few days before, promised
to be soon realized. Her wounds, mental and
bodily, were mortal. Her mind was gone. Her body
was sinking fast. The seat of reason was usurped by
its worst foe; and delirium raved with unabashed front
and undisputed presence, over the abandoned empire of
thought. Wild and wretched, were the strange and
incoherent expressions which fell from her lips. Now
she spoke of her childhood—now of her father,—and
when she spoke of him her eyes would unclose and
shudderingly steal a hasty glance for a few moments
around the chamber—meeting the gaze of Flora Middleton,
they would suddenly turn aside, or fold themselves
up again, as if anxious to exclude a painful object
from their survey. But there was one name which,
like the keynote in an elaborate strain of artificial music,
sounds ever prelusive to the rest; and the keen ear
of Flora heard with surprise the frequent iteration, in
tones of the most touching tenderness and entreaty, of
the name of Edward. Never even did the listener conjecture
to whom this name applied. It was the name
of the father, perhaps the brother, the dear friend; but
never once did she fancy the true relation which made
it dear, and fatal as it was dear, to the unhappy victim.
Could she have guessed the truth,—could she have
dreamed, or in any way been led to a prescience of the
truth, how would that suffering, but proud heart, have
melted at the stern cruelty which its injustice was momently
doing to the faithful but absent lover. Her
meditations were those of the unsophisticated and puresouled
woman.
“I will not let her suffer,” she murmured to herself
while she sat beside the dying creature. “I will not
let her suffer, though, poor victim, she little fancies how
much suffering her presence brings to me. Her miserable
fall, and wretched fortunes, shall not make her
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hateful in my sight. God keep me from such cruel
feelings, and strengthen me against temptation. Let
me treat her kindly, and not remember to her detriment,
that Clarence Conway has been her destroyer. Oh,
Clarence, Clarence! You, of whom I thought such pure
and noble thoughts;—you, who seemed to me so like a
man in excellence, as man was when he spoke unabashed
in the presence of the angels—how could you
stoop to this baseness, and riot on the poor victim,
abusing the fond attachment which proved her only
weakness, and which, in the eye of him she loved,
should have been her chief security and strength.”
Had Flora Middleton lived more in the world, and in
the great cities thereof—she might have been less severe
in examining the supposed conduct of her lover. Her
soliloquy might have been softened, as she reflected
upon the numbers among her sex, vicious and artful,
who save the betrayer some of his toils, and are
caught sometimes in their artifices; but of this class
of persons she had no knowledge, and did not even
conjecture their existence. She took it for granted that
Clarence Conway was the one who was wholly guilty—
his victim was only weak through the strength of her
attachment. The warmth of her own regards for her
lover enabled her to form a correct idea of that over-powering
measure which had been the poor girl's destruction;
and thinking thus, she had no indulgence for
him, whom she regarded as one recklessly, and without
qualification, wicked. But the truth is, even Edward
Morton, the real wrong-doer, had not, in this case, deserved
entirely this reproach. There was some truth
in the sarcasm which he uttered to Mary Clarkson,
when he told her that her own vanity had had considerable
part in her overthrow. She felt the partial
truth of the accusation, and her own reproaches followed
on her lips. It would be doing injustice to the
outlaw, were we to describe him as indifferent to her
situation. There was still something human in his nature,—
some portion of his heart not utterly ossified by
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the selfishness which proved its chief characteristic. In
the long and earnest conversation which followed, between
him and his confidante in his chamber after the
exclusion of the surgeon, he had asked and received all
the information which could be given on the subject of
the events which had made her a victim to a like misfortune,
and in consequence of the same circumstances
as himself. He did not know the fact, nor could Watson
Gray inform him, that she received her hurts because
of the feeble attempt which she made to come to his
relief. But, all the circumstances led to this conviction,
and when the outlaw re-surveyed the ground over which
he had gone, and her unvarying devotedness through
the long and perilous period of strife, toil, and danger,
which had marked his footsteps!—when he remembered
how many had been her sacrifices, how firm had been
her faith,—the only one true, amid the many false, or
doubtful, and only secured by purchase;—when the
same train of thought reminded him, that, for all this
devotion, she had received few smiles, and no love,
from the very person for whom alone she smiled, and
who monopolized, without knowing how to value, all
the love of which she was capable;—it was then, possibly
for the first time in his life, that the cold and keen
reproaches of remorse touched his heart.
“I have done the poor creature wrong—I have not
valued her as she deserved!—See to her, Gray, for
God's sake, and let that fool of a surgeon, if he can do
any thing, not spare his efforts. If she survives I will
make amends to her. I will treat her more kindly;
for, never has poor creature been more faithful; and
I'm inclined to think that she must have been hurt in
some idle attempt to come to my succour. You say
you found her on the same spot?”
“Very nearly.”
“Surely, Clarence Conway could not have drawn
weapon upon her!”
“You forget. She was dressed in men's clothes,
and in the darkness of the evening.”
“Yes, yes,—but still a mere boy in appearance, and
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there never was a brighter moonlight. No body would
have used deadly weapon upon one whose form was so
diminutive and evidently feeble. She was sick, too,—
she told me so,—but I had heard her complain so often,
that I gave her no credit for sincerity; and sent her
back to watch those d—d plotting scoundrels in the
swamp. Would the fiends had them!”
We need not pursue this dialogue further. The exhaustion
of the outlaw left him temporarily oblivious on
the subject of the girl; but, towards evening, starting
up from a brief, uneasy slumber, his first inquiry was
into her condition. When told that her skull was fractured,
that she was raging with fever and delirium, the
outlaw sank back, shut his eyes, and, though awake,
lay in a rigid silence, which showed the still active presence
of those better feelings of which it was his misfortune
to possess but few, and those too feeble for
efficient and beneficial service. How small was their
effect, may be judged from the success of the means
employed by Watson Gray to divert his mind from the
gloomy fit into which he seemed to have fallen. That
vicious adherent seized the moment to inform him of the
steps he had taken to lay the wrong done her innocence
at the door of Clarence Conway, and to convey this
impression to Flora Middleton. The exultation of a
selfish hope came in to silence remorse, and the outlaw
opened his eyes to eulogize the prompt villany of his
confederate.
“A good idea that, and it can do poor Mary no harm
now; and how looks Flora since she heard it? Have
you seen her since?”
“Yes: she looks twice as tall, and ten times as
haughty as before.”
“Flora Middleton to the life! The Semiramis or
Zenobia of the Congaree. As proud as either of those
dark, designing dames of antiquity. She fancied that
you were pitying her whenever your eyes turned upon
her face, and after that her only effort was to make
herself seem as insensible and indifferent as if she never
had a heart. Ah! Gray, my good fellow, only get me on
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my legs again before Rawdon is compelled to take to his,
and if I do not carry the proud damsel off from all of
them, I deserve to lose all future stakes as well as all
the profits of the past. Keep that fool fellow of a surgeon
from probing me, simply that he may use his instrument
and fingers, and let him only do what you
think necessary or useful. I can't well believe that such
a civet-scented thing as that can possibly be of any use,
except to wind silk, or tend upon poodles; and would
sooner have your doctoring than that of the whole
tribe. Get me my limbs again, and the rest is easy.”
What was that rest? What were those hopes which
gave such a tone of exultation to the voice and language
of the wounded man? We need not anticipate.
The conjecture is only too easy. What should they be,
springing in such a rank soil, and born of such seed as
his criminal hands had planted? Dark, deep, and reckless,
was the determination of his soul; and wily, in the
highest degree, was the confederate to whose aid in
particular, its execution was to be entrusted. At this
moment it need only be said that, in the minds of the
conspirators, nothing appeared to baffle their desires
but the condition of their chief. All things seemed easy.
The fortune they implored, the fiend they served, the
appetitie which prompted, and the agents they employed,
all subservient, were all in waiting; and he who, of all,
was to be most gratified by their services,—he alone
was unable to make them available. Well might he
curse the folly which had brought him to his present
state, and denounce the feebleness which delayed the
last and crowning achievement on which his hopes and
desires were now set. His soul chafed with impatience.
He had no resources from thought and contemplation.
He could curse, but he could not pray; and curses, as
the Arabian proverb truly describes them, are like
chickens, that invariably come home to roost. They
brought neither peace nor profit to the sick bed of the
invalid, and they kept refreshing slumbers from his
pillow.
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CHAPTER IX. PHILOSOPHICAL DOUBTS AND INQUIRIES.
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The angry feelings which the conduct of the outlaw
had produced in the bosom of Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse,
had driven, for the time, another affair from his recollection
about which he was particularly desirous to
speak with Miss Middleton or her grandmother. A
ramble in the woods that same morning enabled him
to recover his temper and, with it, his recollection; and
when the dinner things were removed that day, he
fairly conducted the old lady to the sofa, placed himself
beside her, and with looks big with the sagacious
thought, and busy speculation, he propounded himself
as follows in a language new to him of sententious
inquiry.
“Mrs. Middleton—madam—pray oblige me by letting
me know what sort of a looking person was your grandfather?”
“My grandfather, sir—my grandfather!”
“Yes, madam, your grandfather—how did he look—
how did he dress—was he tall or short—stout or slender.
Did he wear breeches of blue homespun, a tattered
hunting shirt of the same colour and stuff; and was his
couteau de chasse as long as my arm?”
“My grandfather, sir! Why, what do you mean?”
“No harm, no offence, believe me, Mrs. Middleton—
on the contrary, my question leads to grave doubts,
and difficulties, and, possibly, dangers! No idle or
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impertinent curiosity occasions it. Philosophy is seriously
interested in your reply.”
“My grandfather, sir—why he has been dead these
hundred years! I do not think I ever saw him.”
“Dead a hundred years! Impossible! Eh! How
can that be?” demanded the surgeon in astonishment
scarcely less than that which the old lady herself had
manifested at the beginning;—“dead a hundred years?
Really, Mrs. Middleton—there must be some mistake.”
“Indeed, sir—then it is yours, not mine. My grandfather
has been dead more than a hundred years. He
died in France somewhere in 1680—or '81—”
“Oh he died in France, did he? You are right,
madam, there is a mistake, and it is mine. To be sure
it was not your grandfather about whom I wished to
know;—it was Miss Middleton's grandfather.”
“My husband, sir!” said the old lady bridling with
dignity, while her keen gray eyes flashed with all the
vivacity of girlhood, as she conjectured the utterance
of something impertinent from her companion. The
surgeon felt his dilemma.
“Your husband, Mrs. Middleton,” he stammered—
“Can it be? Miss Middleton's grandfather your husband?”
“And why not, sir, when I have the honour to be her
grandmother?”
“True, true, most true, madam, but—”
“It does not alter the case very materially, sir, so
far as you are interested. Your right is just as great
to inquire into the private history of her grandfather as
of mine. Pray, proceed in your questions, sir, if as you
think, so much depends upon it. We are retired country
people, it is true, Mr. Millhouse—”
“Hillhouse, madam—Augustus Hillhouse, of his majesty's—”
“Pardon me, sir—Mr. Hillhouse—I was simply about
to encourage you to ask your question by assuring you
that, though retired and rustic, we are still not utterly
insensible, on the banks of the Congaree, to the claims
of philosophy. I trust to see her schools established
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here before I die,[1] and may, possibly, have the pleasure
of hearing you, yourself, expounding from one or other
of her sacred chairs.”
The surgeon bowed low at the unexpected compliment
without perceiving the smile of irony by which it
was accompanied.
“Ah, madam, you do me too much honour. I am
but poorly fitted for the high station which you speak
of. It is true, I am not indifferently read;—I have seen
the world—a fair proportion of it at least;—and am
considered very generally as a man fond of serious and
severe investigations in the kindred temples of science
and of nature, but—”
“Oh, sir, I have no sort of doubt that you will do
well in any of the departments, and if ever we should
be so fortunate as to obtain our liberties again, I have
no doubt you will be thought of for some such situation.”
“Ahem!—ahem!”
The termination of the sentence, which intimated a
hope of British expulsion, was scarcely palatable to the
surgeon.
“But, sir, on the subject of Miss Middleton's grandfather—
my husband—the late General Middleton—
what would you please to know?”
“Ahem—why, madam, the case presents itself in an
aspect of increased difficulty. I had somehow confused
it at first, and fancied when I spoke that I was addressing
you on the subject of a very ancient relation. The
connection being so close—”
“Makes no sort of difference, sir, if your question
conveys nothing disrespectful.”
The reply of the old lady bewildered the surgeon yet
farther. He was not sure that something disrespectful
might not be conveyed to a very sensitive and jealous
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mind, in any form of the question, which was to solve
his difficulties. In this state of bewilderment, with
something of desperation in his air, he proposed another
inquiry, seemingly so foreign to the previous
topic that Mrs. Middleton began to think him insane as
well as silly.
“Mrs. Middleton, do you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts, sir!—a very singular question.”
“Exactly so, madam, but it is a part of the subject.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Yes, ma'am, and I should be really very grateful if
you would say whether you do or do not believe in
that supernatural presence—that spectral visitation—
that independent embodiment in shape of limbs, sinews
and substance of the immortal spirit—which is vulgarly
entitled an apparition, or ghost? Professionally, madam,
as a surgeon, I'm not prepared to look farther
than the physical organization for the governing powers
of the human form. A soul is a something that has
eluded hitherto all the aims of the anatomist, and the
only authority which exists for such an agent, seems
to me to be derived from testimonials, more or less
authenticated, of the presence and reappearance of those
whom we have considered dead, and no longer capable
of the uses and purposes, the feelings and the desires,
of life. Now, madam, something of my first inquiry
depends upon my last. Pray oblige me then, by saying
whether you do or do not believe in this marvellous anomaly.
Do you believe in ghosts or not?”
“Well, sir, to oblige you, though I am at a loss to
see the connection between the one question and the
other—”
“It's there—there is a connection, believe me.”
“Well, sir, under your assurance, or without it, I can
have no objection to say that I am very doubtful what
to believe on such a subject. So much has been said
on both sides—and I have heard so many wonderful
stories about such things, from persons of such excellent
credit, that—”
“Enough, enough, madam, I see you are not
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altogether incredulous. Now tell me, madam, did you ever
yourself see a ghost?”
“Never, sir.”
“Never!—nor any thing, shape, substance, or person,
that ever looked like one, or looked like nothing
else but one, or that you had reason to suppose was
one, or that resembled any departed friend, relative, tie,
connection, dependance—in short, did you never see
any thing that a suspicious mind might not have readily
taken for a ghost?”
“Never, sir, to my recollection.”
“Well, madam,” continued the surgeon, taking courage
from his own motion, “on your answer will depend the
very important doubt whether I, Augustus Hillhouse,
second surgeon in his majesty's 87th regiment of foot,
have not been favoured by the visitation of the late
General Middleton—”
“Sir!” exclaimed the old lady rising with a most
queenly air of dignity and pride.
“Yes, madam, that's it!” replied the surgeon, rising
also, and rubbing his hands together earnestly. “Here,
while I lay on this very sofa, this very morning, after
the breakfast was over, and Miss Middleton had gone—
here, alone, I was favoured by the sudden presence
of one who might have risen from the floor, and, as far
as I could see, sunk into it; who might have been—
nay, as I have heard, must have been;—but on this
head I would have your testimony, and for this reason
did I desire to learn from you in what costume it was
usually the custom for General Middleton to appear?
Oblige me, my dear madam, by a clear and particular
description of his dress, his weapons, his height, breadth,
general appearance, the length of his nose, and of his
hunting-knife—”
“Sir, this freedom—this scandalous freedom!” exclaimed
the venerable matron.
“Do not be offended, Mrs. Middleton. I am governed,
my dear madam, by no motives but those of the philosopher.
I would thank you, then—”
“Sir, I must leave you. You trespass, sir, beyond
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your privilege. The subject is a sacred one with the
widow. Let me hear no more of it.”
“But, my dear madam—one question only:—was he
a tall person, slender, rather scant of frame—such a
person as is vulgarly called raw-boned—”
“No more, Mr. Hillhouse, if you please.”
“But his dress, madam—and his nose.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“His knife—was it long, very long—long as my
arm?”
The matron bowed, as she was retiring, with a stern
glance of her gray eye, which would have confounded
any person but one so thoroughly absorbed in his philosophical
follies as to be utterly incapable of observation.
He pursued her to the foot of the stairs with a
degree of impetuous eagerness, which almost made the
old lady fancy that he purposely sought to offend and
annoy her—a conjecture which by no means served to
lessen the hauteur of her retiring movements.
“But, my dear madam, one word only”—implored
the surgeon in an agony of entreaty;—“touching his
costume—only say whether it was of blue homespun,
rather lightish in hue;—were his smallclothes rather
scantish, and of the same colour;—and his hunting
frock;—was it not a little tattered and torn about the
skirts, and on the shoulder?—and—
`She goes, and makes no sign!”'
was the sad quotation from Shakspeare, with which
he concluded, and which fitly described the inflexible
silence in which the matron effected her departure.
“Devilish strange animal is woman! Here now is a
question materially affecting the greatest mystery in
our spiritual nature; which a word of that old lady
might enable me to slove, and she will not speak that
word. And why? Clearly, she was quite as anxious
for the truth at the beginning as I was myself. But the
secret is, that her pride stood in the way. Pride is half
the time in the way of philosophy. Had her husband,
instead of appearing in the ordinary guise of one of the
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natives—which must be confessed to be a very wretched
taste—but put on scarlet breeches on his ghost—the
old woman would have been willing to acknowledge
him. But she was ashamed of a ghost—even though it
were her own husband—who should reappear in dingy
blue homespun. And she was right. What ghost
could hope to find faith, or respect, who paid so little
attention to his personal appearance? It seems to me,
if I should ever have any desire to `revisit the glimpses
of the moon,' and the favour were afforded me, I should
be at quite as much trouble in making up my toilet as
I am now. Nay, more, for the task would be accompanied
by increased difficulty. The complexion of a
ghost would require a very nice selection of shades in
costume. Whether my violet would not be the most
suitable? Really, the question increases in interest.
I shall certainly study it carefully. The delicacy of the
violet is an argument in its favour, but some deference
must be shown to the universal judgment of ages which
represents ghosts as commonly appearing in white. To
this, the case of Hamlet's father and General Middleton
furnish the only exceptions. I must consult with myself,
my pocket mirror, and the lovely Flora Middleton!”
This dialogue and these grave reflections resulted in
the temporary exhaustion of the surgeon. He yawned
listlessly, and once more threw himself upon the sofa
where he had been favoured with his ghostly visitation;
but, on this occasion, he took special care that
his face should front the entrance. Here he surrendered
himself for a while to those dreaming fancies with which
the self-complacent are fortunately enabled to recompense
themselves for the absence of better company;
and passing, with the rapidity of insect nature, from
flower to flower, his mind soon lost, in the hues which
it borrowed as it went, every trace of that subject to
which it had been seemingly devoted with so much
earnestness.
Meanwhile Mrs. Middleton joined her granddaughter
in the chamber of poor Mary Clarkson. It needed not
the voice of the surgeon to declare that she must die;—
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and all his professional jargon could not have persuaded
the spectator, who gazed upon her pale and wretched
features, to believe that she could by any possibility
survive. The eternal fiat had gone forth. The messenger
of mercy—for such, happily, was the angel of
death, to her—was on his way. She might sink in a
few hours, she might live as many days, but she was
evidently dying. But there was a strange life and
brightness in her eyes. The vitality of her glance was
heightened by delirium into intense spirituality. She
keenly surveyed the persons in attendance with a jealous
and suspicious glance, the cause of which they
could only ascribe to the mind's wandering. Her eyes
turned ever from them to the entrance of the apartment;
and once, when Flora Middleton went to place
an additional pillow beneath her head, she grasped her
hand convulsively, and murmured with the most piteous
accents—
“Take him not from me—not yet—not till I am dead,
and in the cold, cold grave. Why will you take him
from me? I never did you harm!”
Very much shocked, Flora shuddered, but replied:
“Of whom speak you, my poor girl?—what would
you have me do?”
“Of whom?—of him? Surely you know?—of Conway.
Take him not from me—not—not till I am in
the grave. Then!—oh!—then—it will not need then!
No! no!”
The interval of sense was brief, but how painful to
the listening maiden!
“Fear nothing!” said Flora somewhat proudly.
“God forbid that I should rob you of any of your
rights.”
“Oh! but you cannot help it—you cannot help it!”
cried the sufferer. “I know, I know what it is to love;—
and to suffer for it! But, will you not let me see
him;—let me go to him—or bid them bring him here
to me. I cannot die till I have seen him.”
“That cannot be, my poor girl, he is not here—he
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is gone. I trust that God will enable you to live to see
him.”
“He is gone! You mean that he is dead! Ha!—
can it be that? I did not come in time! I saw them
fight! I heard them swear and strike—hard—heavy
blows, with sharp steel. Oh God, that brothers should
fight, and seek to destroy each other! I called to them
to stop, but I saw their heavy blows, and when I ran
to part them—I fell, and such a pain. My poor, poor
head! He killed us both—the cruel brother—he killed
us both with his heavy blows.”
“My poor girl,” said Flora, “do not make yourself
miserable with this mistake. Believe what I tell you.
Mr. Clarence Conway is in no danger—he escaped.
The only sufferer is Mr. Edward Conway, who is hurt.
He lies in the opposite chamber.”
The words of the speaker were drowned in the
shrieks of the sufferer, now, once more, a maniac.
Successive screams of a mixed emotion—a something
of delight and agony in the utterance—followed the
communication of Flora Middleton, and were followed
by a desperate effort of the poor girl to rise from the
bed and rush from the apartment. It required all the
strength of an able-bodied female slave, who watched
with her young mistress in the apartment, to keep her
in the bed; and the restraint to which she was subjected
only served to increase her madness, and render her
screams more piercing and intolerable than ever. Her
wild, anguished words filled the intervals between each
successive scream. But these were no longer coherent.
When she became quieted at length, it was only through
the exhaustion of all the strength which sustained her
during the paroxysm. Strong aromatics and strengthening
liquors were employed to restore her to consciousness;
and the exquisite from below, startled from
his dreaming mood by the summons of the servant,
was sufficiently impressed by the painful character of
the spectacle he witnessed, to apply himself to the task
of restoring her, without offending the good taste of the
ladies by the exercise of his customary garrulity. She
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was brought back to life, and the keen scrutiny of
Flora Middleton discovered, as she fancied, that her
senses were also restored. There was an air of cunning
in the occasionally upturned glance of her half-shut
eye, which forced this conviction upon the spectator.
When Flora changed her position, the eye of the sufferer
followed her movements with an expression of curiosity,
which is one of the most natural forms of intelligence.
She had also become, on a sudden, excessively watchful.
Every sound that was heard from without aroused her
regards, and when she saw that she was noticed by
those around her, her own glance was suddenly averted
from the observer, with an air of natural confusion.
These were signs that warned Flora of the necessity of
giving her the most patient and scrupulous attention.
It was obvious to all that she could not survive that
night. The surgeon, rubbing his hands at nightfall,
gave his ultimatum to this effect; and yielded up his
charge as hopeless; and the gloomy feelings of Flora
Middleton were somewhat modified when she reflected
that death could not possibly be a misfortune to one to
whom life seemed to have borne only the aspects of
unmixed evil. What should she live for? More neglect—
more shame—more sorrow! The blow that forces
the victim to the dust, and mocks at his writhings
there. Mary Clarkson had surely endured enough of
this already. It could not be the prayer of friendship
which would desire her to live only for its sad continuance;
and to live at all, must be, in the case of that
hapless creature, to incur this agonizing penalty. But
Flora Middleton could still pray for the victim. For
giveness might be won for her errors, and, surely,
where the penalties of folly and of sin are already so
great in life, the mercy of Heaven will not be too rigorously
withheld. This was her hope, and it may well
be ours.
eaf366v2.n1[1] A hope which the venerable lady in question lived to realize.
The College of South Carolina, at Columbia, has been long in successful
operation, and has the good fortune to have sent forth some
of the best scholars and ablest statesmen in the Union. Its increasing
prosperity induces the confident assurance that it will long
continue a career of so much usefulness and good.—Editor.
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CHAPTER X. THE AVENGER BAFFLED.
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The screams of the maddened victim of his lust and
selfishness, had reached the ears of Edward Morton in
his chamber. They had startled him from slumbers,
which, no doubt, had their images of terror, such as
thronged about the couch of Richard, and sat heavy
upon his soul. The piercing agony of those shrieks
must have strangely tallied with his dreams, for he
started almost erect in his couch, his eyes wild and
staring, his hair moist and upright, his words broken,
thick, and incoherent. His attendant, Watson Gray,
who had been a faithful watcher beside his couch, ran
to him, and pressed him gently back upon the pillows,
using such language as he fancied might soothe to quiet
his nervous excitation; but, as the shrieks were continued,
and seemed to acquire greater volume with each
successive utterance, there was still an influence, beyond
his power of soothing, to keep the guilty and
wounded man in a state of agitation.
“What mean these hideous cries, Gray? was there
not some one besides yourself in my chamber before
they began? Did they take nobody hence—now, now—
but now?”
“No! you have been dreaming only. You are
feverish. Be quiet,—on your keeping quiet depends
every thing.”
“So it does; but can't you silence those noises? I
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should know those tones. Can it be—are they Mary's?
Is she dying?”
The question was put by the outlaw in low, husky
tones, which were scarcely audible. The answer was
necessarily uttered in the affirmative, though Gray was
reluctant to speak the truth, and would have readily
availed himself of a falsehood, had a plausible one that
moment suggested itself to his mind.
“They are operating upon her, perhaps?” continued
Morton; “that d—d fellow of a surgeon!—he cares
not what pain he gives her.”
“No, Captain, there is no operation necessary. The
doctor says it'll be all over with her soon. He's given
her hurts the last dressing that she'll ever need.”
“Ha! she will then die! She told me of this! I
remember; but I did not believe! I would to God she
might be saved, Gray! Can nothing still be done? See
the surgeon; let him do his best. I'm afraid you've let
her suffer.”
“No, every thing's been done. Old Mrs. Middleton
and Miss Flora have been nursing and watching her the
best part of the time themselves.”
“And there is then no hope? Poor Mary! Could
she be brought up again, I should be more kind to her,
Gray. I have been more of a savage to that poor,
loving creature, than to any other human being; and I
know not why, unless it was that she loved me better
than all others. What a strange nature is that of man—
mine, at least. How d—nably perverse has my
spirit been throughout;—actually, and always, at issue
with its own blessings. Ah! that shriek!—shut it out,
Gray—close the door—it goes like a sharp, keen arrow
to my brain!”
Under the momentary goadings of remorse, the outlaw
buried his face in the bed-clothes, and strove to exclude
from hearing the piercing utterance of that wo
which was born of his wickedness. But, for a time,
the effort was in vain. The heart-rending accents pursued
him, penetrated the thin barriers which would
have excluded them from the ears of the guilty man,
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and roused him finally to a state of excitement which
Watson Gray momentarily dreaded would drive him to
a condition of delirium little short of hers. But, suddenly,
the cries of terror ceased; so suddenly, that the
outlaw started with a shudder at the unexpected and
heavy silence.
“It is all over with her. She is dead. Go you and
see, Gray. Quickly, go, and tell me. Poor Mary! I
could have been more just to her had her claims been
less. I cannot believe that she is dead. No! no!—
not yet; though once I was wretch enough to which it.
Forgive me! God forgive me, for that wish!”
The voice of the outlaw subsided to a whisper. A
cold shudder passed through his frame. His eyes were
closed with terror. He fancied that the freed spirit of
the woman whom he supposed dead, hovered above
him, ere it took its final departure. Even the whispering
accents which followed from his lips broke forth in
spasmodic ejaculations.
“Forgive me, Mary; forgive! forgive! I should
have loved you better. I have been a wretch—a cold,
selfish, unfeeling wretch! I knew not your worth—
your value—and now! Ha! who is there? who?—ah,
Gray, is it you? Sit by me; take my hand in yours.
Well, she is gone—she sleeps.”
Gray had resumed his place by the bedside, while the
eyes of the trembling criminal were closed. His approach
startled the nervous man with a thrilling confirmation
of the partial supernatural fear which had
before possessed him.
“She sleeps,” said Gray, “but is not dead. Her
paroxysm has gone off; and, perhaps, she will only
waken when death comes on.”
“Ah! what a foolish terror possessed me but now.
I fancied that she was beside me!—I could have sworn
I heard her faintly whispering in my ears. What a
coward this weakness makes me.”
“Try to sleep, Captain. Remember how much depends
upon your soon getting well. We have a great
deal to do, you know.”
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“Ah, true; you are a cool, sensible fellow, Gray. I
will try to sleep, but those dreams—those hideous
dreams. Keep beside me, Gray,—do not leave me.”
The slight reference which Gray had made to his
worldly schemes and grosser passions, recalled the outlaw
to his habitual self. He turned his head upon the
pillow, while Gray took one of his hands quietly within
his own. Sitting thus beside him, it was not long before
he discovered that the outlaw had sunk into an
equal slumber; and releasing his hold, he laid himself
down at the foot of the bed, under the influence of a
natural exhaustion, which soon brought a deeper sleep
upon his senses than that which possessed those of his
superior.
Night meanwhile stole onward with noiseless footstep,
and a deep silence overspread the whole barony. The
sleep of the outlaw was long, deep and refreshing. It
indicated a favourable condition of his wounds, such as
Watson Gray had predicted. The poor victim in the
neighbouring chamber seemed to sleep also, but her repose
promised no such agreeable results. The lamp of
life was flickering with uncertain light. The oil of the
vessel was nearly exhausted. Flora Middleton approached
her about midnight, and so still was her seeming
sleep, so breathlessly fast did her slumbers appear,
so composed her features, and so rigid her position, that
the maiden was struck with the dread lest the last sad
change had already taken placed. But, as she stooped
over the face of the sleeper, her silken ringlets were
slightly shaken by the faint breathing from her halfclosed
lips, which still betrayed the presence of the reluctant
and lingering life. She appeared to sleep so
sweetly and soundly that Flora determined to snatch a
few moments of repose also. She needed such indulgence.
She had robbed herself of many hours of accustomed
sleep, in watching and waiting upon the wakeful
sufferings of her involuntary guest. Calling in the
servant, whose own slumbers never suffered impediment
or interruption in any situation, she resigned the
invalid to her care, giving her special instructions to
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keep a good watch, and to summon her instantly, when
any change in the patient was at hand. Mira, the negro
woman to whom this trust was given, was one of the
staid family servants, such as are to be found in every
ancient southern household, who form a necessary part
of the establishment, and are, substantially, members,
from long use and habit, of the family itself. The children
grow up under their watchful eyes, and learn to
love them as if they were mothers, or at least grandmothers,
maiden aunts or affectionate antique cousins,
who win their affections by bringing bon bons in their
pockets, and join them in all their noisy games. They
rebuke the rudeness of the young, follow their steps in
their errant progress; warn them of danger, and put
them to bed at night. Mira was one of these valuable
retainers, who had watched the childhood of Flora, and
received from the latter all the kindness which she certainly
deserved.
“Now, Mommer,” said Flora, at leaving her, “don't
go to sleep. You've slept all the evening, and can
surely keep wakeful till I come. Call me the moment
the poor girl wakens, or if you see any difference.”
Mira promised every thing, took her seat beside the
couch of the patient, and really set out with a serious
determination to keep her eyes open to the last. But
when did a negro ever resist that most persuasive, seductive,
and persevering of all influences in the South,
particularly in the balmy month of June? When did
sleep deign to solicit, that he was not only too happy to
embrace? Mira soon felt the deep and solemn stillness
of the scene. The events of the few days previous had
excited her along with the rest; and the exhaustion of
her faculties of reflection, which is always a rapid affair
in all the individuals of her race, necessarily made her
more than ever susceptible to sleep. To do her all justice,
however, she made the most strenuous efforts to
resist the drowsy influence. She began several grave
discussions with herself, but in an undertone, on the occurrences
of the week. She discussed the merits of
the sundry prominent persons she had seen,—Rawdon
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and the Conways,—not forgetting the assistant surgeon,
whom she resolved was either a prince or a “poor
buckrah” in his own country, but which—and a vast
interval lay between—she did not undertake to say.
But the lamp burned dimly in the hearth—the shadows
that flitted upon the walls, in correspondence with its
flickering light, increased the gloom—the patient beside
her was apparently sunk in the deepest slumber, and it
was in vain for the poor negro to contend with the magnetic
influence. Her head was gradually bent forward,
and, at length, lay upon the bedside. It was not long
after this when she slept quite as soundly as if this
blessing had never before been vouchsafed her.
When she slept the patient ceased to do so. With
that cunning which is said to mark most kinds of delirium,
she had feigned the slumbers which she was
never more to know. She perceived that she was
watched—she knew that she was restrained; and, sane
on one subject only, she had employed the little sense
that suffering had left her in deceiving her keepers.
From the moment when she was told that Edward
Morton occupied a neighbouring chamber, the only desire
which remained to her in life was to see him before
she died. For this had she raved in her paroxysm, but
they did not comprehend her; and the strong leading
desire of her mind had so far brought back her capacities
of thought and caution, as to enable her to effect
her object. When she saw Flora Middleton leave the
chamber, her hopes strengthened; and, when the negro
slept beside her, she rose from the couch, stealthily, and
with a singular strength, which could only be ascribed
to the fever in her system, and the intense desire—a
fever in itself—which filled her mind. With a deliberation
such as the somnambulist is supposed to exhibit,
and with very much the appearance of one, she lifted
the little lamp which was burning within the chimney,
and treading firmly, but with light footstep, passed out
of the apartment into the great passage-way of the
mansion, without disturbing the fast-sleeping negro who
had been set to watch beside her.
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Meanwhile, her miserable and scarcely more sane
father, was inhabiting the neighbouring woods, and
prowling about the premises of Briar Park, as the gaunt
wolf hovers for his prey at evening, around the camp
of the western squatter. The woods formed a convenient
and accustomed shelter, and but little was required
to satisfy his wants. He had but one large,
leading appetite remaining, and food was only desirable
as it might supply the necessary strength for the gratification
of that appetite. Animal food did not often
pass his lips—ardent spirits never. The stimulus derived
from the one desire of his soul was enough for his
sustenance. Roots, acorns, and such stray bounty as
could be stealthily furnished by the neighbouring farmer
or his slave, from the cornfield or the potato-patch,
had been, since the beginning of the Revolution, the uncertain
resource of all the “poor bodies that were out.”
As one of these, Clarkson now found it easy to obtain
the adequate supply of his creature wants, while in the
neighbourhood of Briar Park. He soon discovered that
he could approach the negro houses, the kitchen, and
finally, the mansion itself, without incurring much, if
any risk. The soldiers who had been left behind, nominally
to protect the ladies, but really as a safeguard
to the wounded outlaw, were careless upon their watch.
Though stationed carefully, and counselled earnestly by
Watson Gray, they saw no cause for apprehension; and
conjectured that the scout simply cried “wolf,” in order
to establish his own importance. He cautioned and
threatened them, for he knew the sort of persons he had
to deal with, but as soon as his back was turned, they
stole away to little nooks in the wood, where, over a
log, with a greasy pack of cards, they gambled away
their sixpences, and sometimes their garments, with all
the recklessness which marks the vulgar nature. Clarkson
soon found out their haunts, watched them as they
stole thither, and then traversed the plantation at his
leisure. In this manner he had ascertained all the secrets
that he deemed it necessary to know. As his
whole thought was addressed to the one object, so he
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neither asked for nor heard the information which concerned
any other. To know where Edward Conway
lay was the only knowledge which he desired; and this
information he gained from one of the house servants.
He had once penetrated to the door of the outlaw's
chamber, but, on this occasion, a timely glimpse of Watson
Gray and Mr. Hillhouse, warned him that the hour
of vengeance must still farther be delayed. That night,
however, of which we have spoken, seemed auspicious
to his object. The skies were cloudy, and the moon
obscured. A faint gray misty light pervaded the extent
of space. The woods looked more gloomy than ever
beneath it, and when the sentinels found that the mansion
had sunk into its usual evening quiet, they stole
away to an outhouse, and were soon swallowed up in
the absorbing interests of Jamaica rum and “old sledge.”
Clarkson looked in upon them as he went forward to the
house, but he took no interest in them or their proceedings,
when they were once out of his way. He penetrated
to the house without interruption, ascended the
stairs, and passed with impunity into the very chamber
of the outlaw. The lamp was nearly extinguished in
the chimney. A faint light was thrown around the
apartment, not sufficient to penetrate the gloom at the
remoter ends of it, and it had been particularly placed
in such a manner as to prevent it from playing upon the
suffering man. In consequence of this arrangement, the
greater part of the couch lay entirely in shadow; and
while Clarkson was looking about him in doubt which
way to proceed, he distinguished the person of Watson
Gray, lying almost at his feet upon the floor. A glance
at his face sufficed to show that he was not the man he
sought; and, passing around the body of the sleeper, he
cautiously approached the bed, and drawing the curtains
on one side, was aware, from the deep breathing, and
the occasional sigh which reached his ears, that the
man whom he had been so long in pursuit of was
lying before him. His heart had long been full of the
desire for vengeance, and his knife was ready in his
hand. It wanted but sufficient light to show him where
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to strike with fatal effect, and the blow would have been
given. He had but to feel for the breast of his enemy,
and the rest was easy. He was about to do so, when
the light in the apartment was suddenly strengthened.
He looked up with momentary apprehension. The opposite
curtain was drawn aside in the same moment,
and he beheld, with terror, what he believed to be the
apparition of his long-perished daughter. Certainly, no
spectre could have worn a more pallid or awful countenance—
no glance from eyes that had once been mortal,
could have shone with more supernatural lustre.
The light of delirium and fever was there—and the
wild, spiritual gleam, which looks out, in fitful spasms,
from the hollow sockets of the dying. Their glances
met in the same instant, and what a life of mutual wo,
and terror, and desolation, did they each convey! A
shriek from both was the result of that unlooked-for encounter.
The light dropped from the hands of the dying
girl, upon the bed, and was extinguished; the dagger
fell harmlessly from his, beside the bosom it was meant
to stab. Her hollow voice sounded in his ears, and the
words she spoke confirmed all his terrors. “My father!
Oh! my father!” was the exclamation forced from her
by the suddenly recovered memory of the painful past:
and as he heard it, he darted away, in headlong flight,
heedless of the body of Watson Gray, upon which, in
his terrors, he trampled, without a consciousness of
having done so. The spectral form of the girl darted
after him. He saw her white garments, as he bounded
down the stairflights, and the glimpse lent vigour to his
limbs. He heard her voice, faint and feeble, like the
moaning whisper of the dying breeze in autumn, imploring
him to stay, and it sounded more terribly in his
ears than the last trumpet. A painful consciousness of
having, by his cruelty, driven the poor girl to the desperate
deed of self-destruction, haunted his mind; and
her appearance seemed to him that of one armed with
all the terrors of the avenger. It will not be thought
wonderful by those who are at all conversant with the
nature of the human intellect, and with those Ithuriel
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touches that move it to and fro at will, to state that the
effect of her father's presence had suddenly restored his
daughter to her senses. At least, she knew that it was
her father whom she pursued—she knew that he had
spurned her from his presence, and present consciousness
led her to implore his forgiveness and to die. She
knew that the hand of death was upon her, but she desired
his forgiveness first. The knowledge of her situation
gave her the requisite strength for the pursuit,
and before her pathway could be traced, she had followed
his into the neighbouring forest.
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CHAPTER XI. THE FATHER AND HIS CHILD.
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Clarkson, with the instinct of the scout, sought shelter
in the woods from all pursuit, whether supernatural or
human. He fled with the speed of the hunted deer,
and had soon left far behind him the fainting form of
his shadowy pursuer. But of this he knew nothing.
He looked not once after him, upon leaving the house.
Buried in the woods, he was still pressing his way forward,
when a voice which, at another time, would have
been familiar and friendly in his ears, addressed him
and summoned him to stop. But, under the prevailing
apprehension of his heart, he fancied it the same voice
of terror which had risen from the grave to rebuke him,
and this conviction increased the earnestness of his
flight. A footstep as fleet as his own now joined in the
pursuit. He heard the quick tread behind, and finally
beside him, and desperate in the feeling that he was
overtaken, he turned wildly to confront his pursuer.
A hand of flesh and blood was laid upon his shoulder
at the same moment, and the voice of our old friend
John Bannister reassured him, and reconciled him to
delay.
“By Jings!” exclaimed the woodman, “if I didn't
know you to have the real grit in you, Jake Clarkson,
I would think you was getting to be rather timorsome
in your old age. What's the matter, man?—what's
flung you so?”
“Ah, John! Is that you?”—and the frightened man
grappled the hand of the new-comer with fingers that
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were cold and clammy with the kindred terrors of his
heart.
“I reckon it is. I suppose you thought by this time,
that Lord Rawdon and the Black Riders had made a
breakfast upon me, keeping a chip of me, here and
there, to stay their marching stomachs upon. But, you
see, there's more ways than one of slipping a halter,
when the horse can borrow a friend's finger to help his
teeth. The acorn ain't planted yet that's to make my
swinging tree. I'm here, old man, and out of their
clutches, I'm thinking, without losing any of my own
hide, and bringing with me a very good sample of
theirs. As keen a nag, Jake Clarkson, as ever was
taken from the Philistines lies in that 'ere bog—a fifty
guinea nag.—I've spoiled the Egyptians in my captivity.
Come and look at the critter.”
“Ah, John, I'm so glad to see you. Stand by me,—
and look!”
“Stand by you, and look! Why, what's to look
upon?—what's to hurt you? What's scared you? The
woods was never more quiet. I've been all round the
barony, and their guard is half drunk and half asleep
in an old log cabin between the stables and the negro
houses. They can do no hurt, I tell you.”
“Not them, John—you don't think I mind them?
But, hear you! I've seen her!” His voice sunk to a
hoarse whisper, and he looked behind him, over the
path he came, with undiminished terrors.
“Her? Who? Who's her?”
“Mary! Poor Mary! The child I killed!—The poor
child!”
“Ha!—She still lives then!”
“No! no!—her ghost. Her spirit! It walks! Oh!
John Bannister,—'twas a dreadful, dreadful sight. I
went to kill Ned Conway. He's lying there, wounded
in the house. I've been watching here in the woods,
ever since the British went. I went several times into
the house but couldn't get a chance at him till to-night.
To-night, I got to his room. It was so dark I couldn't
see how he lay in the bed; and when I was feeling for
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him, the curtain drawed up on one side, and then I saw
Mary—poor Mary—whiter than the driven snow, all in
a sudden blaze of light. Oh! how dreadful white she
looked! How awful bright her eyes shone at me. I
couldn't stand it; I couldn't look; and when she spoke
to me, I felt all over choking. Jist then, it suddenly
turned dark, and I run, and when I looked back she
was coming after me. She didn't seem to run or walk;
she seemed to come with the air; and to fly between
the trees—”
“What! you didn't see her after you left the house,
did you?”
“Yes! oh yes? She flew after me into the woods.”
The woodman struck his head with his palm, as,
readily conceiving the true grounds for Clarkson's terrors,
he thought of the wounded and dying girl in a
paroxysm of delirium, flying into the rugged forest at
midnight.
“Stay here, stay awhile, Jake, while I go!” said he.
“Don't go—don't leave me!” implored the old man.
“It's I that killed her, John, by my cruelty. I driv' her
away from the house, and she went mad and drowned
herself in the Congaree; and she haunts me for it.
She's here near us now, watching for you to go. Don't
go, John; don't leave me now. If you do, I'll run to the
river. I'll drown myself after her.”
Bannister found some difficulty in soothing the superstitious
terrors of the old man, but he at length succeeded
in doing so in sufficient degree to persuade him to remain
where he was, in waiting, till he went forward
towards the mansion.
“I'll whistle to you the old whistle,” said the woodman,
“as I'm coming back. But don't you be scared
at any thing you see. I'm sure there's no ghost that
ain't a nateral one. I've never known the story of a
ghost yet that it didn't turn out to be a curtain in the
wind, a white sheet hung out to dry, or mout be—sich
things will scare some people—a large moss-beard
hanging down upon a green oak's branches. If a man's
to be scared by a ghost, Jake Clarkson, I give him up
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for a scout, or even for a soldier. He won't do for the
woods. There's not an owl in an old tree that ain't
his master,—there's not a piece of rotten wood shining
in the bottom, that ain't a devil ready to run off with
him. The squirrel that jumps in the bush, and the lizard
that runs upon the dry leaves, is a little sort of `a
coming-to-catch-me,' for such a person; and, God help
him, if a pine-burr should drop on his head when he ain't
thinking. If his heart don't jump out of his mouth,
quicker than ever a green frog jumped out of a black
snake's hollow, then I'm no man to know any thing
about scouting. No, no! Jake Clarkson, t'wont do for
you that's been counted a strong man, who didn't fear
the devil nor the tories, to be taking fright at a something
that's more like a dream than any thing serious.
It's nothing but what's nateral that's scared you, I'm
thinking, and jist you keep quiet till I go back and see.
They can't scare me with their blue lights and burning
eyes. My mother was a woman, with the soul of a
man, that had the real grit in her. I was only scared
once in my life, and then she licked the scare out of me,
so complete that that one licking's lasted me agin any
scare that ever happened since.”
“But my child—my poor child—the child that I
killed, John Bannister;” said the father in reproachful
accents.
“Well, there's something in that, Jake Clarkson, I'm
willing to admit. When a man's done a wrong thing,
if any thing's right to scare him, it's that. But though
you was cross, and too cross, as I told you, to poor
Mary, yet it's not reasonable to think you killed her;
and I'll lay my life on it, if you saw Mary Clarkson to-night,
you saw the real Mary, and no make b'lieve—no
ghost! But I'll go and see, and if there's any truth to
be got at, trust me to pick it up somewhere along the
track. Keep you quiet here, and mind to answer my
whistle.”
The woodman hurried away, without wailing to answer
the inquiries of the unhappy father, whom the
words of the former had led to new ideas. The
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suggestion, thrown out by Bannister, that Mary Clarkson
might be yet alive, was intended by the scout to prepare
the mind of the former for a probable meeting between
himself and his child. He left him consequently
in a singular state of impatient agitation, which was far
more exhausting to the physical man, than would have
been the encounter of a dozen foes in battle; and, with
a feebleness which looked like one of the forms of paralysis,
and had its effects for a time, the old man sank
upon the ground at the foot of a tree, and groaned with
the very pain of imbecility.
Bannister, meanwhile, took his way back in the direction
of the mansion, and as nearly as possible along the
route upon which he supposed his companion to have
run. His judgment proved correct in this, as in most
particulars. He had barely emerged from the thicker
woods, and got upon the edge of the immediate enclosure
which circumscribed the area of the household,
when his eye was caught by a white heap which lay
within thirty yards of the woods. He approached it,
and found it to be the object of his search. The poor
girl was stretched upon the ground immovable. The
small degree of strength with which the momentary
paroxysm had inspired her, had passed away, and she
lay supine;—her eyes opened and watching the woods
to which her father had fled—and her hands stretched
outwards in the same direction. Death was upon her,
but the weight of his hand was not heavy, and his
sting did not seem to be felt. A slight moaning sound
escaped her lips, but it was rather the utterance of the
parting breath than of any sensation of pain which she
experienced. John Bannister knelt down beside her.
The stout man once more found himself a boy.
“This then,” was the thought which filled his brain—
“this then, is the sweet little girl whom I once loved so
much!”
She knew him. A faint smile covered her features,
and almost the last effort of her strength, enabled her
to point to the woods, and to exclaim—
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“My father! my father!—There! Bear me to him,
John.”
The hand fell suddenly, the voice was silent, the lips
were closed. A shiver shook the limbs of the strong
man.
“Mary! Mary!” he called huskily.
Her eyes unclosed. She was not dead. There was
still life, and there might be time to place her in the
arms of her father before it was utterly gone. A noise
in the direction of the mansion, and the appearance of
lights in the avenue, determined the prompt woodman.
He wound his arms tenderly about her, raised her to
his bosom, laid her head on his shoulder, and as if she
had been a mere infant in his grasp, darted forward into
the cover of the woods. The alarm had evidently been
given at the mansion, he heard the voices of the household,
and the sudden clamours of the half sober and half
sleeping soldiery. But he defied pursuit and search,
as, bounding off, in a well known route, he soon placed
his burden at the foot of her father.
“Here, Clarkson, here is your daughter. Here is
poor Mary. She was not drowned. She lives, Jake
Clarkson, but she has not long to live. She's going
fast. Be quick—look at her, and talk softly!”
Clarkson bounded to his feet, gazed with convulsive
tremors upon the pale, silent form before him, then, with
the shriek of a most miserable joy, he clasped her in his
arms. Her eyes opened upon him. He held her from
him that he might the better meet their gaze. She
smiled, threw herself forward upon his breast, and was
buried within his embrace. In a wild incoherent speech,
of mixed tenderness and reproach, he poured forth the
emotions of his heart—the pangs of years—the pleasures
of the moment—the chidings of his own cruelty,
and her misdeeds. But she answered nothing—she
heard nothing. Neither praise nor blame could touch
or penetrate the dull, cold ear of death. She was, at
length, at rest.
“Speak to me, dear Mary. Only tell me that you
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forgive me all, as John Bannister can tell you I have
forgiven you.”
“She will never speak again, Jacob. It's all over.
She's got rid of the pain, and the trouble, and the vexation
of this life; and I reckon she'll have no more in
the next; for God knows, jist as well as I, that she's
had a great deal more than her share.”
“You don't say she's dead?” said Clarkson huskily.
“Well, except for the pain of it, she's been dead a
long time, Jacob. But she don't hear you, I reckon,
and she don't feel your arms, though you hold her so
close to you. Give her to me, Jacob, that I may carry
her deeper into the bay. The lights from the house are
coming close, and they may find us here.”
“Let 'em come!—who cares? They won't want her
now she's dead?”
“No; but they may want us, Jacob.”
“Let them want, and let them seek! We're ready!
We'll fight, I reckon!” and his fingers were clutched
together convulsively as if the weapon were still within
their grasp.
“Yes, we'll fight,” said Bannister, “but not here, and
not till we put her out of the way. 'Twon't be right to
fight any body where she is—not in her presence, as I
may say.”
“True, true,” replied the other faintly, “but I'll
carry her, John.”
Bannister did not object, but led the way to the
thicket, while the father followed with his burden.
There, the woodman drew forth his matchbox and
struck a light, and the two sat down to survey the pale
spiritual features of one who had certainly held a deep
place in the affections of both. It was a curious survey.
Their place of retreat was one of those dense sombre
masses of the forest, where, even in midday, the whole-some
daylight never thoroughly came. The demi-obscure
alone—
“The little glooming light most like a shade,”
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declared the meridian hour; while at midnight the
place was dark as Erebus. The broad circumferences
of oaks, the lofty stretch of ever-moaning pines, gathered
close and solemnly around as if in secret council;
while vines and leaves, massed together in the intervals
above, effectually roofed in the spot with a dread cathedral
vastness and magnificence. The spot had been
freely used before by the outlyers, and more than one
comfortable bed of dried leaves might be discovered
under the oaks. On one of these the body of the girl
was laid. A few paces distant from her feet, in a depression
of the earth, John Bannister had gathered his
splinters and kindled a little fire, just sufficient to enable
them to behold one another, and perhaps make them
more than ever feel the deep and gloomy density of the
place. The adjuncts of the scene were all calculated
to make them feel its sadness. No fitter spot could have
been chosen for gloomy thoughts. None, which could
more completely harmonize with the pallid presence of
the dead. The head of the girl rested in the lap of the
father. John Bannister sat behind the old man. A
sense of delicacy made him reserved. He did not wish
to obtrude at such a moment. Years had elapsed since
the father had been persuaded that his child had been lost
to him, irrevocably, by death; and this conviction was
embittered by the further belief that his own violence
had driven her to a desperate end. In that conviction,
deep, and keen, and bitter, were the pangs of his soul;—
pangs which he could only blunt by the endeavour,
hitherto futile, of finding, and inflicting vengeance upon,
her betrayer. Dark had been his soul, darker its desires
and designs. At length he finds her alive, whom
he had fancied he had destroyed. He finds her living,
only to see her die. His thoughts may be conjectured,
not traced, nor described, as he watched the pale countenance,
still beautiful, which lay before him in the immovable
ice of death. He watched her long in silence.
Not a word was spoken by himself, and John Bannister
felt too sincerely, on his own account, for idle and unnecessary
remark. But the stifled nature at length
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broke its bonds. The heart of the father heaved with
the accumulating emotions. Deep groans burst from
his lips, and a sudden flood of relieving tears gushed
from his eyes. Bannister felt easier as he perceived the
change.
“All's for the best,” said he with a plain homespun
effort at consolation. “It's best that she's gone, Jake
Clarkson; and you see God spared her jest long enough
to bring you together that you might exchange pardon.
You was a little rough and she was a little rash, and
God, he knows, you've both had mighty bad roughing
for it ever since. Poor thing, she's gone to Heaven,
that's clear enough to me. I'm not dub'ous about it.
She's been a sinner like the best, but if she ha'n't sorry
for it from the bottom of her heart, then sinner never
was sorry. Poor Mary, if she hadn't looked a little too
high, she wouldn't ha' fallen so low. She'd ha' been an
honest man's wife; but what's the use to talk of that
now. It only makes one's eyes water the more.”
“It's good, John. It sort o' softens a man!”
“Not too much. But, of a truth, Jake, I once was
jist on the point of axing you and Mary! I was; for I
did love her, as I ha'n't seen woman to love from that
day to this;—and but for that—”
“That bloody villain! That thief—that murderer!
Ha! Ha!—But I will have him yet, John Bannister!
I was a fool to be frightened away, jist when I had my
hand at his throat, and nothing to stop me. There he
lay, still and ready. Ho! John, jist there! I think I
see him now! Stretched out, his eyes shut, his breast
open, and nobody looking on—”
“Stop, Jacob Clarkson, God was a-looking on all the
time—and Mary Clarkson was a-looking on, and what
sent her there jest at that moment? What but God!
And what did he send her there for, but to stop you
from doing a wrong thing. Look you, Jake Clarkson,
you know I don't often stop when fighting's going on.
I'm as quick to kill as the quickest dragoon in all
Tarleton's squad. That is, I'm quick to kill when it's
the time for killing. But there's a time for all things,
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and I ain't quick to kill the man that's a-sleeping, and
him too, so cut up already, that it's a chance if he ain't
got enough to bury him. I'm a-thinking, Jacob Clarkson,
that God has jest given you a good warning, that
you must do your killing in fair fight, and not by stealing
to a man's bedside when he's sleeping, and he
pretty well chopped up already; I reckon you'll be the
man to kill Ned Conway yet, if what he's got don't
finish him; and if it does, you're only to thank God for
taking an ugly business off your hands. When I look
upon Mary, there, it puts me out of the idea of killing
altogether. I'm sure I wish peace was everywhere.
Lord save us from a time like this, when a poor child
like that, runs into the way of hard blows and bloody
weapons. It makes my heart sort o' wither up within
me only to think of it.”
But Clarkson was not much impressed by the grave
opinions of his companion. He had always respected
the straightforward character and manly judgment of
the woodman; and there was something very plausible
to the superstitious mind, in the case presented at the
outset of the woodman's speech.
“Sure enough! sure enough!” said the old man;—
“How could she come, jest at the moment I was going
to kill him, if God didn't mean that I shouldn't do it
jest then. But if he gets well again, John Bannister—”
“Kill him then—I'm cl'ar for that! I'll kill him myself
then, if nobody comes before me with a better
right. You're got a sort of claim to the preference.”
We need not pursue the conference. One question
which went to the very heart of John Bannister, and
which he evaded, was uttered by the father, as in passing
his hands through the unbound portions of her hair,
he felt them clammy with her blood. The revelation of
her physical injuries was new to him.
“Oh, God, John Bannister! she bleeds! Her head
is hurt. Here! jest here! I didn't mind the bandage
before. She didn't die a nateral death. The cruel
villain has killed her. He's got tired of her and killed
her.”
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“Oh, no! no! Jacob!” exclaimed the other, with an
agitation of voice and manner which betrayed his secret
pangs. “No, I reckon not! He's not able to hurt
any body. I reckon—I'm sure—she got hurt by accident.
I'll answer for it, the man that struck Mary
Clarkson, would have sooner cut his right hand off
than ha' done such a thing. 'Twas accident, I'm sure
'twas accident!”—and with these words the poor fellow
went aside among the trees and wept like a child
as he thought over the cruel haste of his own fierce spirit
and too heavy hand.
“God forgive me, for not speaking out the truth,
which is a sort of lie-telling after all. But how could I
tell Jake Clarkson that 'twas the hand of John Bannister
that shed the blood of his child? It's woful enough to
feel it.”
To bury the dead from his sight became the last duty
of the father. John Bannister was for carrying the
body to the family vault of the Middleton's and laying
it there by dawn of day. But to this Clarkson instantly
dissented.
“No;” said he, “the Middletons are great people,
and the Clarksons are poor and mean. We never
mixed in life, and there's no reason we should mix in
death.”
“But you don't know Miss Flora, Jacob Clarkson.”
“I don't want to know.”
“She's so good. She'd be glad, I'm sure, if we was
to put her there. She's been tending poor Mary as if
she was her own sister.”
“I thank her. I believe she's good as you say, John.
But, somebody might come after her, and shut me out
of the vault when they please. They wouldn't like me
to go there to see Mary when I wish, and wouldn't let
'em put me beside her. No! no! we'll put her in the
ground beside the river. I know a place for her already,
and there's room for me. She was born by the Congaree,
and she'll sleep sweetly beside it. If you live
after me, John, put me there with her. It's a little
smooth hill that always looks fresh with grass, as if
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God smiled upon the spot and a good angel lighted
there in the night-time. Go, John, and try and find a
shovel in the fields somewhere. We've got no coffin,
but we'll wrap the child up in pine bark and moss, and
she won't feel it any colder. Go, and let me sit down
with her by ourselves. It's a long time, you know,
since I talked with her, and then I talked cross and
harsh. I'll say nothing to vex her now. Go, get the
shovel, if you can, and when you come back, we'll take
her, and I'll show you where to dig. By that time we'll
have day to help us.”
Bannister departed without a word, and left the
father with his dead. We will not intrude upon his
sorrows; but, when the whole history of the humble
pair is considered, no sight could be more mournful
than to behold the two—there, in that lonely and darksome
maze of forest,—at midnight,—the flickering fire-light
cast upon the pallid features, almost transparent,
of the fair, dead girl, while the father looked on, and
talked, and wept, as if his tears could be seen, and his
excuses and self-reproaches heard, by the poor child
that had loved so warmly, and had been so hardly dealt
with by all whom she had ever loved. Conway had
ruined her peace and happiness; her father had driven
her from her home; and he, who had never wilfully
meant, or said, her wrong, had inflicted the fatal blow
which had deprived her of life—perhaps, the stroke of
mercy and relief to a crushed and wounded spirit such
as hers! Truly, there was the hand of fate in this.
The fate that will surely follow the sad lapses of the
wilful heart! Hers was rather weak than wilful; but
weakness is more commonly the cause of vice than
wilfulness; and firmness is one of those moral lessons
without which there is little virtue.
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CHAPTER XII. AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS.
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Meanwhile, the alarm had been given at Briar Park,
and the whole house was in commotion. Watson Gray
was the first to stumble up, and into consciousness, upon
the flight of Mary Clarkson; simply because he had
been fortunate enough to feel the full force of the flying
footsteps of her father. But several moments had elapsed
after her departure, before the discovery of the fact was
made, and the pursuit, which was then offered, appears
to have taken a wrong direction. Certainly, they did not
find the place of her concealment, nor the traces of her
flight. Yet no pains were spared to do so. The circumstances
were mysterious and exciting;—to Flora
Middleton, particularly so. She reproached herself,
though, certainly without justice, for having left the poor
girl in the custody of a drowsy servant; and her self-childings
were by no means lessened when the minds of
all at the barony appeared to settle down in the belief
that, in her delirium, the poor girl had wandered off to
the river banks and cast herself into its waters. Thus,
a second time, was the innocent Congaree made to bear
the reproach of participating in, and promoting, the destruction
of the same unhappy life. In the chamber of
the outlaw, the feelings, if less solemn and tender, were
surely not less grave and serious. To Watson Gray,
the mere death of the poor victim of his confederate,
would have been of very small importance. Perhaps,
indeed, he would have felt that it was a benefit—a large
step gained towards the more perfect freedom of his
principal. But there were some circumstances that
compelled his apprehensions. Who had been in the
chamber? What heavy feet were they that trampled upon
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him, and why was that strange and formidable knife
resting beside the person of the outlaw? That somebody,
from the apartment of Mary Clarkson, had been in
that of Edward Conway, was soon apparent from the
discovery of the little lamp which the former had carried,
and which had fallen from her hands upon the couch of
the latter, in the moment when she saw her father's face.
This had been recognised by the servants, and the fact
made known in the confusion of the search. But, though
Gray felt certain that Mary had been in the room, he was
equally certain that there had been another also. It was
possible that, in her delirium, the poor girl may have
carried the knife as well as the light, and that she may
have meditated the death of her betrayer—all that was
natural enough; but Gray felt sure that a heavier foot
had trampled upon his neck and breast. Naturally of a
suspicious temper, his fears were confirmed, when, issuing
from the house at the first alarm, he found his
guards either withdrawn, or straggling towards their posts
in almost helpless inebriety. Their condition led him to
recall the story of the surgeon. The description which
the latter gave of the stranger who had penetrated to the
breakfast-room—his garments of blue homespun, and the
huge knife which he carried,—tended, in considerable
degree, to enlighten him on the subject. He called the
attention of the surgeon to the knife which had been
found on the bed, and the latter so far confirmed the
identity of that with the one which the supposed ghost
was seen to carry, as to say that the one was equally
large of size with the other; but the former was incomparably
more bright. He handled, with exceeding caution,
the dark and dingy instrument, and re-delivered it,
with fingers that seemed glad to be relieved from the
unpleasant contact. Seeing the surprise of the scout at
such seeming apprehension, he began a long discourse
about contagion, infection, and the instinctive dread which
he had of all cutaneous disorders; to all of which Gray
turned a deaf ear, and a wandering eye. The outlaw
had been wakened by the unavoidable noise of the search,
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and had heard with some surprise and interest the circumstances
which were detailed to him by Gray.
“How strange!” he exclaimed. “Do you know I
had the sweetest sleep, in which I dreamed that Mary
and myself were walking over the old rice-dam on the
Santee, and I began to feel for her just as I felt then,
when I first knew her, and she seemed twice as lovely,
and was twice as intelligent. How strange!”
Gray had judiciously suppressed some of the circumstances
connected with the events of the evening. He
had concealed the knife entirely, and forbore stating to
him, as well as to every body else, every thing which
related to the supposed intrusion of some stranger into
the household.
“You have found her, Gray?” said the outlaw, when
the former returned from the search.
“No! she is nowhere in the grounds.”
“Indeed! could she have wandered to the river?”
“That is what they all think.”
“But you?”
“I know not what to think.”
“Why should you not think with them?”
“I should, but she did not seem to me to have strength
enough for that. The river is a mile off; and she was
evidently sinking fast when I saw her this evening.”
“Where then do you think her?”
“Somewhere at hand. In some outhouse, or some
hole or corner,—or, possibly, in some ditch, or close nest
of bushes, where we can't find her by night.”
“Good God! and she has probably perished there,
and thus!”
Gray was silent, and the outlaw felt the returning
pangs of that remorse which most probably would have
remained unfelt, except during the present period of his
own inability.
“Poor, poor Mary. I would, Gray, that I could live
over some things—some moments, of the past!”
“Do not let it afflict you so much. It can't be helped,
and these things are common enough!”
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“Yes, yes! But such a catastrophe! You have been
looking for her?”
“Yes, for the last two hours.”
“But you will go again. You must, Gray!”
“With the daylight, I intend to do so.”
“That's well. See to her for God's sake, Gray, and
if she lives, let her last moments be easy. If all's over,
see her carefully buried.. It's an ugly business. Would
I were free of that! I know not any blood that I would
sooner wish to wash from my hands than hers.”
“That should be the wish of Clarence Conway, not
yours;” said Gray, taking the literal sense of the outlaw's
expression.
“Ah, Gray, the blow, the mere blow, is a small matter.
If I were free from the rest, I think nothing more
would trouble me. The last drop ran the cup over, but
who filled it to the brim? who drugged it with misery?
who made the poor wretch drink it, persuading her that
it was sweet and pure? Ah, Gray, I fear I have been a
bad fellow, and if there were another world hereafter—a
world of punishments and rewards!”—
“Your situation would be then changed, perhaps;” was
the brutal sneer of Gray, “and every privilege which you
had in this life, would then be given up to her. Perhaps,
you'd better sleep, captain; sickness and want of
sleep are not good helps to a reasonable way of thinking.”
“Gray, I suspect you're a worse fellow than myself,”
responded the outlaw with a laugh. “Ten to one the
women have more to complain of at your hands than
they ever had at mine.”
“I don't know. Perhaps. But I think not. The
little I know of them makes me fancy that they're a sort
of plaything for grown people. As long as they
amuse, well and good, and when they cease to do so,
the sooner you get rid of them the better. When I was
a young man, I thought differently. That is, I didn't
think at all. I had a faith in love. I had a similar faith
in sweetmeats and sugar-plums. I liked girls and confectionary;
and—perhaps you never knew the fact
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before—I married one young woman, not very much unlike
your Mary Clarkson.”
“The devil you did!” exclaimed the outlaw.
“The devil I did marry!” returned the other gravely.
“You speak the very words of truth and soberness.
She proved worse than a devil to me. I trusted her like
a fool as I was, and she abused me. She ran off with
my best horse, in company with an Indian trader, whom
I took into my cabin, fed and physicked. He seized the
first opportunity, after he got well, to empty my house,
and relieve it of some of its troubles. But I didn't see
the matter in it's true light. I wasn't thankful! I gave
chase, and got my horse back—that was every thing,
perhaps, just after they had left Augusta.”
“And you let the woman go, eh?”
“I left her with him, where I found them, and they
liked the spot so well, that I think any curious body that
would seek, might find them there to this day. I have
some reason to believe that she has been more quiet
with him than she ever was with me. I don't believe
they ever quarrelled, and when she was my wife we
were at it constantly.”
“You're a famous fellow, Gray!” exclaimed the outlaw,
as he listened to a narrative of crime which was only
remarkable, perhaps, from the coolness with which the
chief actor related it.”
“No, captain, not famous. To be famous is about the
last thing that I desire; and I'm thinking, you don't
much care about it. But you'd better sleep now. Take
all the rest you can, and don't mind any thing you hear.
You'll want all your strength and sense, as soon as you
can get it, if you wish to get what you aim at.”
“No doubt,—I'll do as you counsel. But see after
the poor girl by daylight.”
“Yes, yes!—we'll take all the care that's needful;”
was the response. To stifle the remorse of his superior,
Gray had taken a way of his own, and one that was
most successful. The cold sneer is, of all other modes,
the most effectual in influencing the mind which does
not receive its laws from well-grounded principles. How
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many good purposes have been parried by a sneer! How
many clever minds have faltered in a noble aim by the
sarcasm of the witling and the worldling! How difficult
is it for the young to withstand the curling lip, and the
malignant half smile of the audacious and the vain.
Gray knew his man, and, in his narration, he had probably
shown a degree of contumelious indifference to the
character of woman, and the ties of love, which he did
not altogether feel. It served his turn, and this was all
that he desired of any agent at any time. He turned
from gazing on the outlaw, with such a smile as showed,
however he might be disposed to toil in his behalf, he
was still able to perceive, and to despise, what seemed to
him to be the weaknesses of the latter. Leaving the
chamber, he descended to the area in front of the dwelling,
and drew together, without noise, the file of soldiers
that had been left with him by Rawdon. These were
now tolerably sobered, and having taken pains to see
that their arms were in good condition, for it may be said
here that the smallest part of Gray's purpose and care
was to find the girl whom it was his avowed object to
seek,—he led them forth into the adjoining thicket about
an hour before the dawn of day. Of the reputation of
Gray as a woodsman we have been already more than
once informed, and the suspicions which he entertained
were such as to make him address all his capacity to the
contemplated search. His little squad were cautioned,
with respect to every movement; and divided into three
parties of four men each, were sent forward to certain
points, with the view to a corresponding advance of all,
at the same moment, upon such portions of the woods as
seemed most likely to harbour an enemy. Spreading
themselves so as to cover the greatest extent of surface,
yet not be so remote from each other as to prevent co-operation,
they went forward under the circumspect conduct
of their leader, with sure steps, and eyes that left no
suspicious spot unexamined on their route.
The day was just begun. The sun rising through
the dim vapoury haze that usually hangs about him
at the beginning of his pathway in early summer,
fell with faint beauty upon a gentle headland that jutted
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out upon the Congaree, and compelled its currents to
turn aside from the direct route, making a sweep around
it, most like the curve of a crescent. Some thirty steps
in the back ground was a clump of massive trees, the
principal of which were oak and hickory. They grew
around one eminent pine that stood, alone, of all its
species, as it was alone in its height and majesty. At
the foot of this tree, and under the cathedral shelter of
the oaks, John Bannister was busy in throwing out the
earth for the spot chosen by Clarkson for his daughter's
grave. The father sat at a little distance in the back
ground, his child's head lying in his lap. The labours of
Bannister had been severe, and he would not suffer the
old man to assist him. The earth was rigid, and the innumerable
roots of the contiguous trees traversed, in
every direction, the spot chosen for the grave. Fortunately
the stout woodsman had secured an axe as well as
a shovel, and the vigour of his arm at length succeeded
in the necessary excavation. To remedy, as far as he
might, the want of a coffin, the worthy fellow had
stripped the rails from the neighbouring fences, and he
now proceeded to line, with them, the bottom and sides
of the grave. These were in turn lined with pine bark
and green moss, and the couch of death was spread with
as much care and tenderness, under the cheerless circumstances,
as if wealth had brought its best offerings, and
labour had yielded its most ingenious toils in compliance
with the requisitions of worldly vanity. Bannister was
yet in the grave making these dispositions, when Watson
Gray, with his soldiers, advanced upon the party. To
old Clarkson the task had been assigned of keeping
watch. It was physically impossible that Bannister
should do so while deep buried and toiling in the earth.
The old man was too much absorbed in contemplating
the pale features of his child, and too full of the strife
within his heart, to heed the dangers from without; and
so cautious had been the approach of Gray and his party,
that they were upon the sufferer before he could rise from
his feet or make the slightest effort to relieve himself
from his burthen. It was fortunate for Bannister that,
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being in the grave and stooping at the time, he was below
the surface of the earth, and remained unseen at the
time when Clarkson was taken. But, hearing strange
voices, he immediately conjectured the approach of enemies,
and cautiously peering above the grave, beheld at a
glance the danger which threatened him. He saw
Watson Gray, conspicuous, and standing directly above
the person of Clarkson, whose daughter's head still lay
in his lap. One of his hands was pressed upon her
bosom, as if he felt some apprehension that she would
be taken from him. On either hand of Gray he beheld
a group of soldiers, and a glance, still further, to the
right and left, showed that they were so placed as to
present themselves on every side between him and the
forest. His flight seemed entirely cut off. But the
coolness and courage of the woodman did not leave him
in the emergency. He had already resolved upon his
course, and rising rapidly to the surface, he became
visible to his enemies. The voice of Watson Gray was
heard at the same instant, calling to him to surrender.
“Good quarter, Supple Jack!—be quiet and take it.
You can't get off. You're surrounded.”
The tone of exultation in which the rival scout addressed
him, made it a point of honour with Bannister to
reject his offer, even if he had had no reason to suppose
that the assurance of safety meant nothing. He
well knew, in those days, what the value of such an
assurance was; for Tarleton, Rawdon, and Cornwallis,
had long since shown themselves singularly reckless of
all pledges made to the poor bodies who were out in the
rebellion of '76.
“Make terms when you've got me, Watson Gray;”
was the scornful answer of the scout. “The only quarters
I ax for is my own, and I'll save them when I've
got 'em.”
“Run, and I'll shoot!” cried Gray threateningly.
“Look, my men are all round you.”
“I reckon then I'll find 'em in the bottom of the Congaree;”
was the fearless answer, as the scout leapt for
the river bank with the speed of an antelope.
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“Shoot!” cried Gray—“Shoot him as he runs!
Fire! Fire!”
The vollies rang on every side, but the fugitive remained
erect. He had reached the river bank. He
seemed unhurt. His enemies pressed forward in pursuit;
and clapping his open palms together above his
head, he plunged boldly into the stream, and disappeared
from sight. Bannister could swim like an otter, and
with head under water almost as long. But once he rose
to breathe, and his enemies, who waited for his re-appearance
with muskets cocked, now threw away their
fire in the haste with which they strove to take advantage
of his rising. When he next became visible, he
was on the opposite shore, and bade them defiance. A
bitter laugh answered to their shout as he turned away
slowly and reluctantly, and disappeared in the distant
thickets.
Gray had lost his prey a second time, and he turned,
with no good humour, to the prisoner with whom he had
been more successful.
“Who are you—what's your name?”
“Jacob Clarkson!”
“Ha! you are then the father of this girl?”
“Yes!” was the sad reply of the old man, as his head
sank upon his breast.
“Do you know this knife?” demanded Gray, showing
the knife which had been found at the bedside of Morton.
“It is mine.”
“Where did you lose, or leave it.”
“I know not. I dropped it somewhere last night.”
“Where—at the house of Mrs. Middleton?”
“It may be!—I was there!”
“You were in the chamber of Captain Morton!”
“Not that I know on,” was the reply.
“Beware! You cannot deceive me. You stood beside
his bed. You went there to murder him. Confess
the truth:—did you not?”
“No!” cried the old man, starting to his feet. “I did
go there to murder a man, but God forbid it. I couldn't,
though he was lying there before me. She come
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between. She made me stop, or I'd ha' killed him in another
moment. But it was Edward Conway that I would
have killed. I know nothing about Captain Morton.”
“Ha! I see it. Hither, Sergeant Bozman. Tie this
fellow's hands behind him.”
“Hands off!” cried the old man, with a sudden show
of fight—“Hands off, I tell you! I must first put her in
the ground.”
“Give yourself no trouble about that. We'll see it
done;” said Gray.
“I must see it too;” said the old man resolutely.
The resolution he expressed would have been idle
enough had Gray been disposed to enforce his wishes;
but a few moments' reflection induced him, as no evil
consequence could possibly ensue from the indulgence,
to yield in this respect to the prisoner.
“The old rascal!” he exclaimed—“Let him stay.
It's perhaps only natural that he should wish to see it;
and as they have got the grave ready, put her in at
once.”
“Stay!” said the father, as they were about to lift the
body. “Stay!—only for a minute!” and while the
soldiers, more indulgent perhaps than their leader, gave
back at his solicitation, the father sank to the ground beside
her, and the tones of his muttered farewell, mingled
with his prayer, though undistinguishable, were yet
audible to the bystanders.
“Now, I'm ready;” said he, rising to his feet. “Lay
her down, and you may tie me as soon after as you
please.”
The burial was shortly over. No other prayer was
said. Old Clarkson watched the sullen ceremonial to its
completion, and was finally, without struggle—or sign
of discontent, borne away a prisoner by his inflexible
captor.
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CHAPTER XIII. GLIMPSES OF COMING EVENTS.
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The outlaw did not hear of Mary Clarkson's death
without some emotion; but the duration of his remorse
was short. He soon shook himself free from its annoyances,
and in a week more it was forgotten. Of the arrest
of old Clarkson, his own previous danger from the
hands of the latter, and several other details, connected
with his proceedings, Watson Gray did not suffer his
principal to know any thing. His main object was to
get his patient up and on his legs again, foreseeing that
a time was approaching, when a sick bed could be no
security for either of them in a region to be so shortly
winnowed with the sword of an enemy. His scouts occasionally
arrived bringing him reports of the condition
of the country: of the prospects of Rawdon's army, and
of the several smaller bodies under Greene, Sumter,
Marion, and Pickens. These reports counselled him to
make all speed. He did not press the outlaw with these
facts for fear that their tendency might be to increase his
anxiety, and discourage rather than promote his cure.
But his own anxious efforts were given, without stint or
interruption, to every measure by which his improvement
might be effected. No nurse could have been more devoted,
no physician more circumspect, no guardian more
watchful. The late attempts of Clarkson had given him
a mean opinion of the regulars which had been left to
take care of the barony, and to watch them was the most
irksome, yet necessary duty, which he had undertaken.
But he went to his tasks cheerfully, and, with this spirit,
a strong man may almost achieve any thing.
The tidings which were sometimes permitted to reach
the ears of Flora Middleton, were of no inconsiderable
interest to that maiden. She heard frequently of Clarence
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Conway, and always favourably. Now he was harassing
the tories on the upper Saluda, and now driving them
before him into the meshes of Pickens among the Unacaya
mountains. The last tidings in respect to him
which reached her ears, were also made known to Watson
Gray by one of his runners; and were of more particular
importance to both of them than they were then
fully aware of. It was reported that a severe fight had
taken place between Conway's Blues and the Black
Riders. The latter were beguiled into an ambush which
Conway had devised, after the ordinary Indian fashion,
in the form of a triangle, in which twenty-three of the
Black Riders were sabred, and the rest dispersed. Gray
did not greatly regret this disaster. He was soon to be
free of the connection, and, perhaps, he conceived this
mode of getting rid of them, to be quite as eligible, and,
certainly, as effectual as any other.
“That fellow, Stockton, with his sly second, Darcy,
are the only chaps that might trouble us. They suspect
us, they know something, perhaps, and if Conway has
only cut them up along with the twenty-three, we shall
count him as good an ally as the best.”
Such was his only reflection as he communicated this
news to the outlaw.
“Ay,” replied the latter, “but why was there no
lucky bullet to reward the conquerer. That hopeful
brother of mine seems to own a charmed life, indeed.
I know that he goes into the thick of it always, yet he
seldom gets even his whiskers singed. The devil takes
care of him surely. He has proper friends in that
quarter.”
“We needn't care for him, Captain, so long as Rawdon
lies between us. If you were only up, now, and able,
we could whip off the lady, and every hair of a negro,
and take shipping before they could say Jack Robinson,
or guess what we are driving at.”
“Ay, if I were only up!” groaned the outlaw writhing
upon his couch. “But that `if' is the all and every
thing.”
“But you are better. You are much stronger. I
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think this last week has done wonders for you; and, but
for the weakness, and the gashes in your face—”
The speaker paused without finishing the sentence.
“Very comely, no doubt: they will strike a lady
favourably, eh? Do you not think they improve my
looks wonderfully?”
There was something of bitterness in the affected indifference
with which the outlaw made this comment.
The other made no reply, and did not appear to heed
the tone of complaint.
“Give me the glass, Gray,” continued the outlaw.
He was obeyed; the mirror was put into his hands,
and he subjected his visage to a long scrutiny.
“Nothing so shocking after all. My mouth is something
enlarged, but that will improve my musical ability.
I shall be the better able to sing `Hail Britannia,' in his
Majesty's Island of Jamaica, or the `Still vex'd Bernadotte.
' Besides, for the look of the thing, what need
I care? I shall be no longer in the market; and my wife
is in duty bound to think me comely. Eh, what say you,
Gray?”
“Yes, surely; and Miss Middleton don't seem to be
one to care much about a body's looks.”
“Don't you believe it, Gray. She's a woman like the
rest; and they go by looks. Smooth flowing locks, big,
bushy whiskers, and a sharp, death-defying face will do
much among a regiment of women. I've known many
a sensible woman—sensible I mean for the sex—seek a
fool simply because he was an ass so monstrous as to be
unapproachable by any other, and was, therefore, the
fashion. The ugliness, in such a case, makes no difference.
But this is the only exception. You must be
monstrous or you must be handsome; and the more
monstrous—the more likely to be successful. There is
something in a title too, I grant you. Now were I a
lord or baronet—a count or marquis, you might slash my
cheeks with half a score more of such gashes as these,
and they would, in no degree, affect my fortune with the
fair. In that is my hope. I must buy a title as soon as
I have my prize, and then all objections will disappear.
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Still, I could have wished that that d—d spiteful brother
of mine had subjected me to no such necessity. He
might have slashed hip or thigh, and gratified himself
quite as much in those quarters.”
“Let us carry out the project, and you have your
revenge!”
“Ay, and there's consolation in that for more points
than these. But hear you nothing yet from below?
What from Pete? If the boats fail us at the proper time,
we shall be in an ugly fix.”
“They will not fail us. Every thing now depends
on you. If you can stir when the time comes—”
“Stir—I can stir now. I mean to try my limbs before
the week's out, for, as the fair Flora forbears to come
and see me, I shall certainly make an effort to go and
see her. Has the poison touched, think you? Does she
feel it—does she believe it?” The outlaw referred to
the slander which Gray had insinuated against Clarence
Conway.
“No doubt. She's so proud that there's no telling
where it hurts her, and she'll never tell herself; but I know
from the flashing of her eye, after I said what I did about
Colonel Conway and Mary Clarkson, that she believed
and felt it. Besides, captain, I must tell you, that she's
asked after you more kindly and more frequently of late.
She always asks.”
“Ha! that's a good sign; well?”
“I said you were more unhappy than sick. That
you'd get over the body hurts, I had no doubt. But
then, I told her what an awful thing to fight with one's
brother, and how much you felt that!”
“Ha! Well, and then?”
“She sighed, but said nothing more, and soon after
went out of the room.”
“Good seed, well planted. I shall cultivate the plant
carefully. I fancy I can manage that.”
“Psha!—Here's the surgeon;” said Gray, interrupting
him with a whisper, as Mr. Hillhouse appeared at
the entrance.
The surgeon had forgotten or forgiven the slight to
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which his patient had previously subjected him. He
was not a person to remember any circumstance which
might be likely to disparage him in his own esteem.
Besides, his head was now running upon a project which
made him disposed to smile upon all mankind. We will
allow him to explain his own fancies.
“Mr. Conway, good morning. I trust you feel better.
Nay, I see you do. Your eyes show it, and your colour
is strengthening. Suffer me to examine your
pulse.”
“I feel better, sir, stronger. I trust to get fairly out
of my lair in a week. I shall make a desperate attempt
to do so.”
“You are better, sir, but do nothing rashly. A week
may produce great results. There are but seven days in
a week, Mr. Conway—but a poor seven days—yet how
many events—how many fates—how many deeds of
good and evil, lie in that space of time. Ah! I have
reason to say this from the bottom of my heart. A week
here, sir, at this barony, has changed the whole aspect of
my life.” A sigh followed this speech.
“Indeed! And how so, pray!”
“You see in me, Mr. Conway, a man who has lived
a great deal in a short space of time. In the language
of the ancient poet,—Ovid, it is—my life is to be told by
events, and not by lingering years. It is a book crowded.
I have passed through all the vicissitudes of a long life
in Europe, India, and America; I have ate and drank,
marched and fought, played the man of pleasure and the
man of business,—stood in my friend's grave, and often
at the edge of my own;—saved life, taken life; and practised,
suffered and enjoyed, all things, and thoughts, and
performances, which are usually only to be known to
various men in various situations. But, sir, one humbling
accident,—the trying event, which usually occurs to
every other man at an early period of his life, has
hitherto, by the special favour of a benign providence,
been withheld from mine!”
“Ah, sir, and what may that be?” demanded the
outlaw.
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“I have never loved, sir, till now. Never known the
pang, and the prostration; the hope and the fear; the
doubt and the desire; 'till the fates cast me upon the
banks of the Congaree! Melancholy conviction! that
he who has survived the charms of Europe and India—
who has passed through the temptations of the noble
and the beautiful, the wealthy and the vain, of those beguiling
regions,—should here be overtaken and overcome
by the enemy in the wild woods of America.”
“Indeed! It is indeed a most dreadful catastrophe!
Gray, hand the doctor a chair, a glass of water, and if
you have any Jamaica,—”
“No, no!—I thank you, no!—I will take the chair
only.”
“And pray, sir,” said the outlaw with a mock interest
in the subject—“when did you suffer from the first
attack, and who do you suspect of bewitching you?”
“Suspect of bewitching me!—a good phrase that!—
I like it. My suspicions, sir, as well as yours, should
naturally be strong that I am the victim of a sort of
witchcraft; for, how else should a man fall so suddenly
and strangely in a strange land, who has stood unshaken
so long.”
“Very true! a very natural reflection, sir. But you
have not said who you suspect of this cruel business.”
“Ah, sir, who but the fair damsel of this very house.
What woman is there like unto her in all the land.”
“Ha! Is it possible!”
“Possible!—why not possible?” demanded the surgeon.
“Is she not young, and fair, and rich in goods
and chattels, and who so likely to practise sorcery?”
“True, true!—but doctor, are you aware that you are
not the only victim? She has practised with perhaps
greater success on others.”
“Indeed! Tell me, I pray you, sir!”
“Nay, I can only speak from hearsay. My friend
here, Mr. Gray, can tell you more on the subject. The
story goes,—but I must refer you to him. Gray, take a
ramble with Mr. Hillhouse, and see if you cannot match
his witchcraft case with one or more, much worse, if
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possible, than his own. Let him see that he does not
lack for sympathy.”
Gray took the hint, and the surgeon readily accepted
the invitation to a walk, in which the former continued
to give to his companion a very succinct account of the
duel between the brothers, and the engagement supposed
to be existing between Clarence and Flora. The artful
confederate of the outlaw, taking it for granted that a
person so supremely vain and silly as the surgeon, might
be made to believe any thing, and could scarcely keep
secret that which he heard, adapted his material in such
a way as to make it appear that the fight between the
brothers arose in consequence of the cruel treatment
which Mary Clarkson had received at the hands of the
younger. A purely magnanimous motive led the elder
brother into the difficulty.
“Now, Mr. Conway, your patient, as soon as he
heard that Colonel Conway was courting Miss Middleton,
pursued him to reproach him for his breach of promise
to the poor creature. The proud stomach of Colonel
Conway couldn't bear that, and he drew upon Mr. Conway
and wounded him in the face before he could put
himself in preparation. The poor girl who had been
following the colonel, everywhere, in boy's clothes,
ran between them, and got her death, there's no telling
by whose hands. And so the case stands, at present.
Mr. Conway, your patient, of course wouldn't speak
against his brother; and I s'pose, the marriage will go
on between him and Miss Flora, unless—she may
have changed her mind since you're come to the barony.”
“Ah! ha!” said the surgeon. “You've enlightened
me very much, Mr. Watson Gray. I'm greatly your
debtor. You are a man of sense. I thank you, sir,—
I thank you very much. Suppose we return to the
mansion. I am anxious to change these garments.”
“Change them, sir! What, your dress?” The
blunt mind of Gray couldn't perceive the association of
ideas taking place in the brain of his companion.
“Yes, I wish to put on a dove-coloured suit. The
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dress which I now wear, does not suit the day, the circumstances,
nor my present feelings.”
“What, sir!” demanded Gray in feigned astonishment.
“Have you got a change for every day in the
week? I have but one change in all.”
The surgeon turned upon the speaker with a look
which plainly said,
“Impertinent fellow, to venture upon such an offensive
comparison.”
He contented himself, however, with remarking,—
“The wants of men, my good friend, differ according
to the rural natures, moods, and changes of mind by
which they are governed. I have no doubt that two
suits will be ample enough for your purposes; but for
me, I have always striven to make my costume correspond
with the particular feeling which affects me. My
feelings are classed under different heads and orders,
which have their subdivisions in turn, according to the
degree, quality and strength of my several sensibilities.
Of the first orders, there are two—pleasure and pain;
under these heads come cheerfulness and sadness; these
in turn have their degrees and qualities—under the first
is hope, under the second, fear,—then there are doubts
and desires which follow these; and after all, I have
omitted many still nicer divisions which I doubt if you
could well appreciate. I have not spoken of love and
hate—nor indeed, of any of the more positive and emphatic
passions, but for all of which I have been long
provided with a suitable colour and costume.”
“You don't mean to say that you're got a change
suitable for every one of these?” said the woodman with
some astonishment.
“You inquire, Mr. Gray, with the tone of one who
will not be likely to believe any assurance. Oblige me
by witnessing for yourself. I had arranged to examine
my wardrobe this very noon, as a sort of mental occupation,
with which I relieve the tedium of repose, and
bad weather, and unpleasant anticipations. Do me the
favour to assist me in this examination. We may probably
gather from it some useful lessons, and I will
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endeavour to explain, what's at present very imperfectly
understood, the singular propriety of my principles.
You shall be able, when you have heard my explanation,
to know from the dress I wear, what particular
condition I am in that day. A man's costume, if properly
classed, is a sort of pulse for his temper. This
morning, when I rose, under the influence of one set of
moods, I put on a meditation costume. I am in a brown
dress you see. That shows that when I put it on, I was
in what is vulgarly called a `brown study.' Circumstances,
the grounds of which you cannot, perhaps, conjecture,
prompt me to go back and change it for one of a
dove colour. You may perhaps comprehend the meaning
of this hereafter.”
“I reckon it's something about love, that dove colour,”
said Gray bluntly. “Dove and love, always go
together.”
“Ah, you are quick. You are naturally an intelligent
person, I suspect. You will comprehend sooner than I
expected, but come and see—come and see.”
“This fool will do us excellent service,” said the outlaw,
when, at his return, Watson Gray recounted the
events of the interview. “He will go to Flora Middleton
in his dove-coloured small-clothes, and find some way of
letting her know what a scamp Clarence Conway is, and
what a martyr I have been to the cause of innocence
betrayed. You did not let him guess that I had a
hankering after Flora myself.”
“Surely not: I just let him know enough of the truth
to lie about. He'll do mischief with it.”
“And mischief is our good—it works for us. Let him
kill Clarence Conway in her esteem, and he, certainly,
is not the thing to be afraid of. But did you really count
his breeches?”
“No, God help me!—I shook myself free from him
as soon as I could. I'd as soon pry among the petticoats
of my grandmothers. But he had an enormous
quantity. I reckon he's used up all his pay, ever since
he began, in this sort of childishness.”
The conjectures of the outlaw, as respects the course
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of the exquisite, were soon realized. But a few days
had elapsed when he availed himself of an opportunity
to pursue Flora as he saw her taking her way through
the grounds in the direction of the river. His toilet,
however, was not completed when he caught a glimpse
of her person through the window; and the task of
completing it, always one of considerable pains and duration,
enabled her to get considerably the start of him.
She had passed the sentinels, who were sauntering at
their stations, and had reached the lonely vault where
her ancestors reposed. The solemn shadows of the
wood by which it was encircled pleased her fancy; and
the united murmurs of the pine tops and the waters of
the Congaree, as they hurried on at a little distance below,
beguiled her thoughts into the sweet abodes of
youthful meditation. Flora Middleton was, as we have
endeavoured to show, a maiden of deeper character and
firmer qualities, than usually distinguish her age; perhaps,
indeed, these characteristics are not often possessed
in equal degree among her sex. Firmness of character
usually implies a large share of cheerfulness and elasticity;
and these also were attributes of her mind. Her
life, so far, had been free from much trial. She had
seldom been doomed to suffering. Now, for almost the
first time, the shadows of the heart gathered around
her, making her feet to falter, and bringing the tears
into her eyes. The supposed infidelity of Clarence
Conway had touched her deeply—more deeply than
even she had at first apprehended. When she first heard
the accusation against him, and saw the wretched condition
of the poor girl whom she believed to be destroyed
by his profligacy, she said, in the fervour of virtuous indignation
which prevailed in her mind,—“I will shake
him off for ever, and forget that I ever knew him!” But
the resolution was more easily taken than kept. Each
subsequent hour had increased the difficulties of such a
resolution; and in the seeming death of her hopes alone,
she discovered how entirely her heart had found its life
in their preservation. When she believed the object of
her attachment to be worthless,—then, and not till then,
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did she feel how miserable its loss would make her heart.
Perhaps, but for the very firmness of character of which
we have spoken, she would neither have made, nor
maintained, such a resolution. How many are the dependent
hearts among her sex, who doubt, distrust, fear,
falter,—and—accept! Who dare not reject the unworthy
because they cannot forbear to love. Flora Middleton
felt the pain of the sacrifice the more deeply, in consequence
of the conviction which her principles forced upon
her that it must yet be made. Could she have faltered
with her pride and her principles, she would not have
found the pain so keen. But she was resolute. “No!
no!” she murmured to herself, as all the arguments of
love were arranged before her by the affections—“No!
no! though it kills me to say the words, yet I will say
them. Clarence Conway, we are sundered,—separated,
for ever! I might have borne much, and witnessed
much, and feared much, but not this! This crime is too
much for the most devoted love to bear!”
She was suddenly startled from her meditations by a
slight whistle at a little distance. This was followed by
a voice.
“Hist!” was the gentle summons that demanded her
attention from the thicket on the river banks, as she
turned in the direction of the grounds. Her first feminine
instinct prompted her to fly; but the masculine resolution
of her mind emboldened her, and she advanced
towards the spot from whence the summons proceeded.
As she approached, a head, and then the shoulders of a
man, were elevated to the surface, as if from the bed of
the river; and a closer approximation proved the stranger
to be an old acquaintance.
“John Bannister!” exclaimed the maiden.
“Yes, Miss Flora, the very man, what's left of
him.”
“What's left of him, John Bannister. Why, what's
the matter? are you hurt?”
“No, no, Miss Flora, I say what's left of me, only,
because, you see, I don't feel as if I was altogether a
perfect man, when I have to dodge and shirk about, not
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able to find my friends, and always in a sort of scatteration
of limbs for fear that my enemies will find me. I
am pretty well to do in health at this present, thanks be
to God for all his mercies, though, when you saw me
last, I reckon you thought I was in a bad fix. But I give
'em the slip handsomely, and used their own legs in
coming off.”
“How was it, Bannister?—But, come up. You must
be standing rather uncomfortably there?”
“Pretty well off, thank you. There's a dug-out
under me, and as I've only a word or two to say, I
needn't git up any higher to say it.”
“Well, as you please; but how did you make your
escape from the British, John?”
“Ah! that's a long story, Miss Flora, and there's no
needcessity for telling it any how. Some other time
when the war's over, and every man can be brave a bit,
without danger, I'll let you know the sarcumstances.
But jest now, what I come for is to give you warning.
You've got a sly rascal as ever lived in your house, at
this present, that never yet was in any one place so long
without doing mischief—one Watson Gray—”
“Why, he's attending on Mr. Conway.”
“It's a pair on 'em, I tell you. That Watson Gray's
after mischief, and it's a mischief that has you in it. But
don't be scared. I want to let you know that there's
one friend always at your sarvice, and nigh enough to
have a hand in any business that consarns his friends.
If any thing happens, do you see, jest you hang a slip of
white stuff—any old rag of a dress, or handkerchief,—
on this bluff here, jest where you see me standing, and
I'll see it before you're gone far, or I'm no scout fit for
the Congaree. If there's danger to you, there's help too;
and so far as the help of a good rifle and a strong arm
can go,—and I may say Miss Flora without familiarity—
a good friend—dang my buttons, if you shan't have it.”
“But, John,—from what quarter is this danger to
come? What is it—how will it come?”
“Ah, that's the danger. You might as well ax in
what shape Satan will come next. But the d—l's in
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your house, that's enough. Be careful when he flies he
don't carry off much more than he brought in. May be,
you'll see a man to-morrow or the next day, coming to
Watson Gray; he's about my heft, but jest with one half
the number of arms. He's a stout chap, poor fellow, to
be cut short in that way. Now,—you can trust him.
If he says to you—`come;'—do you come! If he says
`stay,' then do you stay; for he's honest, and though he
seems to be working for Watson Gray, he's working
handsomely agen him. You can trust him. He's our
man. I convarted him to a good onderstanding of the
truth, but I had to make every turn of it clear to him before
he'd believe. We had two good argyments, but I
throw'd him the last time, and he's been sensible to the
truth ever since. 'Twas him that helped me out of the
British clutches t'other day. But we won't talk of that.
Only you jest believe him, and hang out the white flag,
here, under the bluff, if ever you need a friend's sarvice.”
“You confound and confuse me only, John Bannister,
by what you have said. I believe that you mean me
well, and that you think there is some danger; and I
am willing to trust you;—but, I don't like this half confidence.
Speak out plainly. What am I to fear? I
am a woman, it's true, but I am not a coward. I think
I can hear the very worst, and think about it with tolerable
courage afterwards; nay, assist somewhat perhaps,
in your deliberations.”
“Lord love you, Miss Flora, if I was to tell you the
little, small, sneaking signs, that makes a scout know
when he's on trail of an inimy, you'd mount-be only
laugh. You wouldn't believe, and you couldn't onderstand.
No! no! jest you keep quiet and watch for the
smoke. As soon as you see the smoke, you'll know
there's a fire onder it; which is as much as to say, jest
when you see any thing onderhand going on—scouts
running this way, and scouts running that, and Watson
Gray at the bottom of all and busy, then you may know
brimstone's going to burn, and maybe gunpowder.
Keep a sharp eye on that same Watson Gray.
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Suspicion him afore all. He's a cunning sarpent that knows
how to hide under a green bush, and look like the yallow
flow'r that b'longs to it.”
“You said something about Mr. Conway—Mr. Edward
Conway, John?”
“He's another sarpent. But—”
The head of the scout sank below the bank. He
had disappeared, as it were, in the bottom of the river;
and while Flora Middleton trembled for apprehension,
lest he had sunk into the stream, she was relieved by
the accents of a voice at some little distance behind her,
as of one approaching from the house. She turned to
encounter Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse in his dove-coloured
underclothes.
CHAPTER XIV. THE RETURN OF THE “BLACK RIDERS. ”
The reader is already familiar with the business of the
surgeon, and has probably conjectured the sort of answer
which he received from the heiress of Middleton Barony.
His dove-coloured garments, and rose-colour address,
availed him little; though, it may be added, such was the
fortunate self-complaisance of the suitor, that, when he
retired from the field, he was still in considerable doubt
of the nature of the answer which he had received. It
was still a question in his mind whether he had been
refused or not. According to his usual modes of thinking,
his doubts were reasonable enough. He had taken
more than ordinary pains to perfect himself in the form
of application which he intended to use. His fine sayings
had been conned with great circumspection, and got
by rote with the persevering perfectness of a schoolboy
or a parrot. He had prepared himself to say a hundred
handsome phrases. The colours of the rainbow and the
various odours of the flowers, had been made to mingle
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in a delicate adaptation to his particular parts of speech,
in all the best graces of that Euphuism of which, among
his own clique, he had been usually recognised as the
perfect master. He knew that Lady Belle would have
turned up her eyes to heaven, in new-born ecstasies, had
he but spoken his pretty speeches to her; and those of
Lady Grace would have been filled with tears of a similar
delight. How could he bring himself to believe that they
had been thrown away on the unpractised auditories of
the maid of Congaree? The more he asked himself this
question, the more difficult became his belief, and by the
time that he reached his chamber, he was convinced that,
at the most, he had only suffered an evasion,—such an
evasion as dandies are apt to practise upon their tailors,
when they avoid, without refusing, payment;—such an
evasion as a cunning damsel might practise upon her
lover, lest a too sudden concession might cheapen the
value of her charms. So consoling was this new conviction,
that he determined, in discarding his dove-coloured
small-clothes, not to put on his “Night-shade,”—so
he called his “Despondency” or “Night-dress;” but to
select a dark orange-tinted garment—his “Pleasant-sadness”—
as more certainly expressive of mingled hope
and doubt, than any other colour. The serious examination
which took place in his mind, and of his wardrobe,
before his choice was determined, served, beneficially, to
sustain his sensibilities under the shock which they had
necessarily suffered. That evening he was pleasingly
pensive, and his eloquence was agreeably enlivened by
an occasional and long-drawn sigh.
Flora Middleton did not suffer this “Mosca” to afflict
her thoughts. Naturally of a serious and earnest character,
she had other sources of disquietude which effectually
banished so light an object from her contemplation;
and nothing could so completely have mystified the surgeon,
as the calm, unmoved, and utterly unaffected
manner with which she made the usual inquiries at the
evening table.
“Does your coffee suit you, Mr. Hillhouse. Is it
sweet enough?”
“Would all things were equally so, Miss Middleton.
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We might dispense with the sweet in the coffee, could
we escape from the bitter of life.”
“I should think, Sir, that you had not been compelled
to drink much of it; or you have swallowed the draught
with wonderful resignation.”
“Alas!—have I not!” and he shook his smooth, sleek
locks mournfully, from side to side, as if nobody had
ever known such a long continued case of heartache as
his own. But Flora did not laugh. She was in no
mood for it; and though the frequent niaiseries of the
surgeon might have provoked her unbounded merriment
at another time, her heart was too full of her own doubts
and difficulties not to deprive her, most effectually, of
any such disposition now. The next day she was somewhat
startled at the sudden arrival of a man at the barony,
whom she instantly recognised as the person meant by
John Bannister when he spoke to her the day before.
His frame was like that of Bannister, and he was deficient
in one of his arms. She fancied, too, that he
watched her with a good deal of interest, as he passed
her on the staircase, making his way to the apartment of
the invalid, and his attendant, Gray. It was evident that
Bannister had some intimate knowledge of what was
going on among her inmates, and this was another reason
why her own anxieties should increase, as she remembered
the warnings to watchfulness which the worthy
scout had given her. She was well disposed to confide
in him. Strange to say, though she knew him chiefly
as the friend of Clarence Conway, and had every present
reason to believe in the faithlessness and unworthiness of
the latter, her confidence in, and esteem for, John Bannister,
remained entirely unimpaired. The wonder was
that Conway should have so entirely secured the affections
of such a creature. This wonder struck Flora
Middleton, but she had heard of such instances, and it
does not seem unnatural that there should be still some
one, or more, who, in the general belief in our unworthiness,
should still doubt and linger on, and love to the
very last. We are all unwilling to be disappointed in
our friends, not because they are so, but because it is
our judgment which has made them so. Bewildered,
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and with a heavy heart, that seemed ominous of approaching
evil, Flora retired to her chamber with an
aching head, while our old acquaintance, Isaac Muggs,
the landlord, was kept in busy consultation with the
outlaw and his confidant. We pass over all such portions
of the conference as do not promise to assist us in our
narrative; and the reader may fancy for himself the long
ejaculations which the landlord made at finding his old
associate and captain reduced to his present condition;—
ejaculations which were increased in length and lugubriousness
in due proportion with the treachery which Muggs
meditated, and of which he had already been guilty.
“Enough, enough of your sorrow, good Isaac,” said
the outlaw, with some impatience: “these will do for
a time when we have more leisure, and as little need of
them. Give me good news in as few words as possible.
Your good wishes I can readily understand without your
speaking them.”
Muggs professed his readiness to answer—and Watson
Gray conducted the inquiry; Morton, assisting only at
moments, when moved by a particular anxiety upon
some particular point.
“Did you meet Brydone before you separated from
Rawdon's army?”
“Yes: he joined us at Ninety-Six.”
“He told you the plan.”
“Yes.”
“You are willing? You've got the boats?”
“I can get them.”
“When—in what time?”
“Well, in four days, I reckon, if need be.”
“Are you sure?”
“I reckon, I may say so. I'm pretty sarten.”
Here Morton turned upon the couch, and half raised
himself from it.
“Look you, Muggs, you speak with only half a heart.
You seem scared at something. What's the matter with
you, man, are you not willing.”
“Yes, cap'in, I'm willing. I'll do all that you ax
me.”
“That is, you'll get the boats in readiness, here, at
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the landing, within four days; but, are you willing to
fly yourself. You are not fool enough to fancy that the
rebels will let you remain here when the army's gone, to
enjoy what you've despoiled them of.”
“No great deal, cap'in, I reckon.”
“Ay, but there is, Muggs! You cannot deceive me,
though you may the rest. I know your gains, and a
word of mine would send them flying much more rapidly
than they were even brought together. Do not provoke
me, man, to speak that word.”
“Well, cap'in, I don't want to provoke you. Don't I
tell you that I'll do all you wish.”
“Ay, but you seem d—d lukewarm about it, Muggs;
and you have not said whether you are willing to join
our fortunes or not. Now, you join us, heart and soul,
body and substance, one and all, or we cut loose from
you at once. You are in our power, Muggs, and we
can destroy you at a moment's warning. But it's neither
our policy nor wish to do so. You can help us materially,
and we are willing to help you in return. Bounty
lands await you in the West Indies. You will live with
old friends and neighbours, and with your guineas—”
“Mighty few of them, I reckon, cap'in,” said Muggs.
“Few or many, you can only save them by flight.
Are you ready? Beware how you answer! Beware!
You must go with us entirely, or not at all.”
An acute observer might have seen, while the outlaw
was speaking, an expression of resistance in the face of
the landlord, which did not argue the utmost deference
for the speaker, and seemed to threaten an outbreak of
defiance. But if Muggs felt any such mood, he adopted
the wiser policy of suppressing it for the present.
“'Swounds, cap'in,” he exclaimed, with more earnestness
than he had before shown in the interview—“You
talk as if you was dub'ous of me,—as if I worn't your
best friend from the beginning. I'm willing to go with
you, I'm sure, wherever you think it safest; but you're
mistaken if you think I've got so much to lose, and so
much to carry away. Mighty little it would be, if the
rebels did find every guinea and shilling in my keeping.”
“Pshaw, Muggs, you cannot blind me with that
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nonsense. Be your guineas few or many, it is enough that
you know where to carry them, and how to keep them
in safety. And now, what of Rawdon? Where did you
leave him?”
“At Ninety-Six.”
“He had beaten Greene?”
“Run him only.”
“Well: what next. Does Rawdon leave a garrison
at Ninety-Six?”
“I reckon not. There was some talk that he means
to sarve it as he sarved Camden. Burn the town, and
tear up the stockade.”
“As I thought.”
“Was the troop still with him?”
“No: they were gone after Conway, somewhere above
upon the Eunoree.”
“May they find him, and batter out each other's brains
at the meeting;” was the pious and fraternal wish of the
outlaw. “And now, Muggs,” he continued, “the
sooner you take your departure the better. Get your
boats ready, yourself, and guineas, and be at the landing
here, at midnight, four days hence.”
“So soon!” said Gray. “Do you think, captain, you'll
be able by that time?”
“Ay! able for any thing. I must be able. This
flight of Rawdon will deprive me of my ability to stay.”
“But he has not fled yet?”
“No: but he will fly and must. He is preparing for
it now, and I have for some time past been aware of the
approaching necessity. He must not descend the country
before I do, that is certain; and if I can descend the
Santee in boats, I can endure a wagon the rest of the
way, to the head of Cooper river. The rest is easy.
The important object is to secure faithful boatmen, and
with you, Muggs, and a few others, upon whom I can
rely, I have no doubts, and no apprehensions.”
The landlord was dismissed upon his secret mission.
Watson Gray conducted him to the banks of the river,
where lay the identical boat in which our friend John
Bannister had approached the shore in seeking the interview
with Flora Middleton. It was huddled up in
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the green sedges and bushes at the edge of the river
swamp, and thus concealed from the eyes of the passing
spectator. Before parting, Gray gave his final instructions
to the landlord, in which he contemplated every
matter essential to the journey, and, perhaps, conducted
the affair with less offence to the feelings of the latter
than had been the case on the part of the outlaw.
Scarcely had Watson Gray gone from sight, before Bannister
emerged from the swamp thicket and joined the
other.
“He's a cute chap, that same Watson Gray, as ever
beat about a thicket without getting into the paws of a
black bear at rutting season. I'm athinking if the man
was decent honest, I'd sooner have him in a troop of
mine, than any man I knows on. He's a raal keener for
a sarch. I'd reckon now, Isaac Muggs, from the way
he slobber'd you over in talking, that he was a meaning
to swallow you when all was done.”
“I reckon that's his meaning, Supple Jack,—I'm
dub'ous that's what both he and the cap'in are a conjuring.”
“And I'm thinking, Muggs, that he was a trying to
ease off something that he said to you before, which went
agin the grain, and made the teeth grit.”
“Twa'nt him that said it—'twas the cap'in!”
“A pair on 'em—both sarpents,—mou't-be, different
kinds of sarpent; but the bite of a rattle or a viper, is,
after all, the bite of a sarpent; and it don't matter much
which a man dies of, when both can kill. But what
made the captain graze agin your feelings?”
“Why, he's a-trying to make a scare of me about
staying here, when he's gone. He says there's no
safety for me among the rebels.”
“I reckon, Isaac Muggs, there's an easy answer for all
that. You've jest got to p'int to me, and say, “that' ere
man convarted me by strong argyment, and I reckon nobody'll
be so bold as to touch you after that.”
“He threatened me too,—and I to be the first to advise
him to make long tracks from the troop!”
“I'm mighty sorry you ever give him such advice,
Isaac,” said Bannister, rebukingly.
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“Yes: but though he made b'lieve that he was angry
and all that, now, to-night, he tells me how he's been
getting ready a long time for a start.”
“I b'lieve him! Indeed, I knows as much! Well, I'm
willing that he should get away, Isaac Muggs, without
any hurt to hair or hide. For, though he desarves
hanging and quartering as much as ever man desarved it,
yet he's come of the same blood, half-way, with Clarence
Conway; and for his sake, I'm willing to let Ned Conway
get clear of the hanging. I shouldn't be so mighty
anxious to help him out of the way of a bullet, for that's
the business of a soldier, to die by shot or steel, and it
don't disgrace him, though it's hurtful to his feelings.
I'd help to find the boat for him myself, and send him on
his way, if he was content to git off with his own hide
in safety. But when he's after his villany to the last—
when I know that he wants to carry off another Congaree
gal, and, this time, agin her will—”
“I'm a-thinking, Supple, that you're clear mistaken in
that. Neither him nor Gray said a word about it.”
“Not to you, Isaac. They'd ha' been but small sodgers
if they had. No! no! They know'd better. They
know'd that twan't the way to get their business done, to
make it more difficult. They were rather dub'ous of
you, you say yourself, jest to carry off the captain.
Would it ha' made it any easier to tell you that they
wanted you to help to carry off the young woman from
her friends and family; and, as I'm thinking, to stop also
in their way down and clean the plantation of his father's
widow, of all it's niggers? No! no! Isaac! They know
how to play the game better than that. They tell you
they play for high and low, only; but watch them well,
or they'll make Jack too, and try mighty hard to count.
But, the game's in our hands now, Isaac: at least, I'm
a-thinking so. As for you and your guineas,—I don't
ax you how many you've got—but jest you do as I tell
you, and I'll answer for their safety. We'll get the boats
and the hands between us, and we'll have 'em all ready
when the time comes, and if the gal is to be whipped
off, it won't make it less pleasant to us to have the
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handling of her. Do you cross the river now, and be
sure and put the boat high up in the creek. I'll keep on
this side though. I have a leetle matter of business
here.”
“You're mighty venturesome, Supple.”
“It's a sort o' natur', Isaac. I was always so. A
leetle dance on the very edge of the dangerous place,
is a sort of strong drink to me, and makes my blood
warm and agreeable. I'll jest scout about the woods
here and see who's waking and who's sleeping; and
who's a-tween sleeping and waking like myself.”
The first attentions of Jack Bannister were paid to the
sleeping. He watched the progress of his comrade, until
his little barge had disappeared from sight in the distance,
then made his way with the intensity of a natural affection,
to the lonely spot where his hands had dug the
grave for Mary Clarkson, and where her body had been
laid. Here he paused a few moments in silent meditation,
then proceeded to the dense thicket to which, on the
night when she fled from the barony, he bore her inanimate
person. When he reached the spot, he kindled his
light, and drew from a hollow tree a hatchet and rude
saw which had been formed from an old sabre, the teeth
of which had been made by hacking it upon some harder
edge than its own. He then produced from another place
of concealment sundry pieces of timber, upon which he
had already spent some labour, and to which his labour
was again addressed. Gradually, a long, slender, and
not unpleasingly wrought shaft of white wood appeared
beneath his hands, into which he mortised the arms of a
cross, with a degree of neatness, and symmetry, which
would have done no discredit to the toils of a better
artist, under the more certain guidance of the daylight.
This little memento, he was evidently preparing, in
silence and seclusion, and with that solemnity which belongs
to the pure and earnest affection for the lonely
grave which he had just visited. With a fond toil, which
withheld no care, and spared no effort, he now addressed
himself—his more heavy task being finished—to a portion
of his work which, perhaps, was the most fatiguing
of his labour. This was to cut into the wood the simple
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initials of the poor girl for whom the memorial was intended.
Our worthy woodman was no architect, and
the rude Gothic letters which his knife dug into the wood,
may perhaps have awakened, subsequently, the frequent
smile of the irreverent traveller, as he himself murmured
while at this work—
“It's a precious small chance for l'arning that Jack
Bannister ever got upon the Congaree; but it's the best
that I can do for poor Mary, and I'd ha' been willing to
give her the best of me from the beginning. But twa'nt
ordered so by Providence, and there's no use for further
talk about it. If I hadn't used a man's we'pon upon her,
I'd be a-mighty deal more easy now, but God knows,
'twan't meant for her—'twan't any how from the heart—
and 'twas nateral that a man should strike, hard and
quick, when he finds another jumping out upon him from
the bush. Who'd ha' thought to find a gal in man's
clothes, jest then too, in the thick of the fighting? But
the Lord's over all, and he does it for the best. It's done,
but there's a many more to come. I'll put a mark that
they can make out, though the printing mayn't be so stiff
and fine. There's a mighty ugly lean about that `M.,'
jest as if 'twas a-tumbling for'a'd upon the `C:' and I
thought I had run pretty even; but there's no mending it
now. It must stand.”
From his horn, he filled with powder the lines which
he had cut in the wood, and then ignited it. The blackened
traces made the simple inscription sufficiently distinct,
and the good fellow, shouldering his rude monument,
bore it to the grave, and drove it down at the head
of the inmate. He had not well finished this work,
before he fancied that he heard foreign sounds mingling
suddenly with the murmurs of the Congaree, as it plied
its incessant way below. He listened, and the murmurs
deepened. He went forward, cautiously, through the
wood, and it was not long before he discerned the advance
of a body of men, all well mounted, whom, upon a
nearer approach, he discerned to be the Black Riders.
John Bannister was not a man to be alarmed easily; but
he retreated, and stole into the cover of a bay, the thicket
of which he knew was not penetrable by cavalry. Here,
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he crouched in silence, and the formidable band of outlaws
slowly wound along in silence, through the forest,
and on the very edge of the thicket in which he lay concealed.
A new care filled his bosom, as he beheld their
progress in the direction of the barony. He had no
means of contending with such a force, and where was
Clarence Conway? Feeling for his commander, and
sympathizing with his affections, the first thought of
Bannister had reference to the new dangers which beset
the path of Flora Middleton. He was surprised, however,
to perceive that the banditti came to a halt but a
little distance from him. They alighted, the words of
command were passed in whispers, and in ten minutes
they prepared to bivouac.
CHAPTER XV. MESHES.
“Well, it's mighty strange, I'm thinking, that they
don't go for'a'd. They're as cautious and scary, now,
as if the whole of Sumter's rigiment was at the Park.
They're after some new mischief, that's more in want
of a night covering than any they've ever done before.
Well, we'll see! There's Watson Gray with his corporal
guard at the house; and here's the Black Riders
here; and if the two git together, it's precious little that
John Bannister can do, with the help of Isaac Muggs,
and he with one hand only. If I could work poor Jake
Clarkson out of their fingers, he'd make a third, and no
small help he'd give us in a straight for'a'd, up and
down fight. But, I'm dub'ous he stands a bad chance
in the grip of Watson Gray. If I could git round now
to the barony, and show reason to Miss Flora, to slip off
to the river, I wouldn't wait for Ned Conway to stir; but
I'd hide her away in the Congaree, where the swamp-fox,
himself, couldn't find her. But then there's no
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hope of that. There's a sort of strange thinking among
young women, that's never had a husband, as if it
wouldn't be so decent and dilicate, to trust a single man
under such sarcumstances; which is mighty foolish!
But something must be done, and John Bannister must
be in the way of doing it. Lord love us!—if he would
only send Clarence now, with fifty of his troop, among
these bloody black reffygees!”
The course of John Bannister's thoughts may be traced
in the above soliloquy. The good fellow felt the difficulties
of his own position, though, it is clear, that apprehension
for himself was the last subject in his mind; the
only one which awakened no anxiety, and called forth
little consideration. To rescue Flora Middleton was his
sole object. He knew the desires of Edward Conway
for that maiden, and naturally concluded that the arrival
of his troop would give him the power to accomplish his
wishes, even by violence, if necessary. It was therefore
a reasonable occasion for surprise and conjecture, when
he found the outlaws taking their halt and supper on the
skirts of the barony, and in profound silence and secresy;
where nothing lay in the way to prevent or retard their
reunion with their captain. He little knew the character
and extent of those malign influences, which prevailed
among that wild and savage body, unfavourable to their
ancient leader.
It was with increasing concern and interest that Bannister,
in following and watching the movements of the
outlaws, found them about to throw a line of sentinels
between the grounds of the barony and the river landing.
This measure denoted certain suspicions which they entertained,
as he fancied, of the practices in which he had
been recently engaged; and it became necessary that he
should find means to apprise his comrade, Muggs, on
the other side of the Congaree, of the danger that awaited
any undue exposure of his person in his future crossings
to and fro.
“A long swim!”—muttered the faithful scout, with a
slight shiver, as he surveyed the river;—“and rather a
cold swim, too, at midnight; but I'll have to do it. If I
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don't they'll riddle poor Isaac's belly with bullets, when
he's thinking of nothing worse to put in it than his
breakfast. But I must dodge about the house first and
see what's a-going on in that quarter. It seems strange
to me that they shouldn't have made themselves known
to their captain! What's to be afraid of? But rogues
is always a myster'ous and dub'ous sort of things.
A rascal never goes straight to his business. If he has
to shake hands with you he does it with a sort of twist,
and a twirl, and sometimes a squint, that looks every
which way but the right one. Now, it's reasonable that
a good scout should shy off, and dodge, and make himself
as squat and small, under a bush, as he naterally
can, and as a big body will let him;—but when the
game's a straight for'a'd one; when there's no dangers
nor inimy, and only one's own affairs to see after—it's
a sign of a rogue all over that he shirks. It shows that
he shirks from the love of the thing and not because it's
a needcessity.”
John Bannister did not suffer his moral philosophy to
keep him inactive. He was one of those who philosophize
yet go forward—a race of which the world has
comparatively few. In obedience to his determination,
as expressed above, he stole through ways, which had
been sufficiently traversed by his feet to be familiar,
which led him, without detection, to the grounds immediately
about the mansion. At the front door of the
dwelling, which was closed, he saw one sentinel on
duty. But he yawned, emphatically and loud, more
than once while the scout was watching him; and by
his listless movements seemed evidently weary enough
of his watch to leave it to itself at the first seasonable
summons. The most perfect military subordination was
not preserved by him as he paced to and fro along the
court. He sang, and whistled, and soliloquized; and,
not unfrequently, relieved the dull measured step of the
sentinel, by the indulgence of such a gavotte, as a beef-eating
British soldier of the “prince's own” might be
supposed capable of displaying in that period of buckram
movement.
“He'd hop higher and dance a mighty sight better,”
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murmured John Bannister as he beheld the “signor of
the night” in this grave exercise, “if he was only on
the `liberty' side of the question. He gits a shilling a
day, and a full belly; but he ain't got the light heart
after all. Give me a supper of acorns, b'iled or unb'iled,
in the Santee swamp, before all his hot bread, if so be,
the cause I'm a-fighting for can't give me better heart to
dance than that. Lord! he can no more shake a leg
with the Congaree Blues than he can sight a rifle.”
Contenting himself with this comparison, and the brief
survey which had induced it, he turned away, and traversing
the settlement, came to the out-house in which,
once before, he had seen the guard busy in their gaming
practices. A light glimmering through the log chinks
apprised him of the presence there of occupants; and,
approaching cautiously, and peeping through an aperture
in the rear of the mud structure, he was struck with the
sight of an object, to him, of very painful interest. This
was Jake Clarkson, very securely fastened with ropes,
which confined both his hands and feet. The old man
leaned rather than sat, against the wall of one section of
the building. A dull composure, which seemed that of
mortal apathy, overspread the poor fellow's countenance.
His eyes were half closed, his mouth drawn down, and
open, and the listlessness of death, if not its entire unconsciousness,
prevailed in the expression of all his features.
Four of the soldiers were present in the apartment;
two of them stretched at length upon the floor,
seemingly asleep; and the other two, busy to themselves,
playing languidly at their favourite game, which they
relieved by a dialogue carried on sufficiently loud to
enable Bannister to learn its purport. From this he
gathered enough to know that the improvement of Edward
Conway was such as to promise them a change,
for which they pined,—from the dull monotonous recurrence
of the same unexciting duties, to the adventures
of the march, and all those circumstances of perpetual
change, which compensate the rover for all the privations
which he must necessarily undergo in leaving his early
homestead. But the eyes and thoughts of Bannister were
fixed on the prisoner only. The pressure of
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surrounding foes only made him the more anxious to gather and
secure his friends, and thinking of poor Mary—was also
calculated to make him eagerly desirous to restore her
father. This desire grew more keen and irresistible the
more he watched and reflected, and it was with some
difficulty that he restrained his lips from the impetuous
assertion of his determination to release him from his
bonds or perish. This resolve, though not expressed
aloud, was still the occasion of a brief soliloquy.
“Dang my buttons, if I don't try it. If there's time
it can be done, and there's no harm in trying. A rifle in
Jake's hands is a something that acts as well as speaks;
and if so be, we're to have trouble, a bullet from a twisted
bore is a mighty good argyment in clearing the track for
the truth. It's a sort of axe-stroke, leading the way for
the grubbing-hoe.”
Ten minutes after, and Jake Clarkson was roused
from his stupor by the slight prick of a sharp instrument
from behind him. The nervous sensibility of the old
man had been pretty well blunted by time, trial, and
misfortune; and he neither started nor showed the
slightest symptom of excitement. But his eyes grew
brighter, his mind was brought back to the world in
which his body lingered still; and a lively apprehension
was awakened within him, lest the gambling soldiers
should see, or hear, the hand that he now felt was busy
in the effort to extricate him from his bonds. He did
not dare to stir or look; but he was already conscious
that the couteau de chasse of the woodman, fastened to
a long stick, had been thrust through the crevices of the
logs, and was busily plied in sawing asunder the cords
that fastened his arms. These had been tied behind the
prisoner, and he prudently kept them in that position
even though, in a few moments after, he felt that their
ligatures had yielded to the knife. The workman ceased
from without. His task, so far as it could be effected
by him, seemed to be ended; but the feet of the prisoner
were still secured. The friendly assistant seemed to
have disappeared. A full half hour elapsed and he heard
nothing. The soldiers still kept at their game, and the
prisoner, exhausted with the excitement of his new
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hope, leaned once more against the wall. In doing so he
again felt the sharp prick of the knife-point. Cautiously,
but with nerves that now trembled for the first time, he
availed himself of one of his freed hands to possess himself
of the instrument, which now, separated from the
handle, had been left, by the scout, for the farther benefit
of the prisoner. He clutched it with a strange delight.
The momentary impulse almost moved him to spring to
his feet, and bound upon the guard with the most murderous
determination. But the prudence of his friend's
course from without, was not wasted upon him. He
quietly secured the knife behind him, placed his hands
in the same position in which his cords had previously
secured them, and, with new hopes in his bosom, prepared
to wait the proper moment when he might safely
proceed to finish the work of his emancipation.
Satisfied that he had done all that he could, at the
time, for the rescue of Clarkson, the scout took his way
back to the river, the banks of which he ascended a few
hundred yards, and then, without reluctance, committed
himself to the stream. Half-way across, the rocks
afforded him a momentary resting-place, from which he
surveyed, with a mournful satisfaction, the white cross
which his hands, but a little while before, had reared
upon the grave of Mary Clarkson. It stood conspicuous
in sight for several miles along the river. The still
hours of the night were speeding on; and the murmur
of the river began to be coupled with the sudden notes
of birds, along its banks, anticipating the approach of the
morning. A sense of weariness for the first time began
to fill the frame of the woodman, and it needed a strong
and resolute effort to prevent himself from yielding to
sleep upon the slippery black rock which gave him a
temporary resting-place in the bosom of the stream.
Plunging off anew, he reached the opposite banks,
fatigued but not dispirited; and soon transferred the
duties of the watch to his comrade. To the landlord he
briefly communicated the events of the evening, and bestowed
upon him the necessary caution.
Meanwhile, a spirit equally anxious and busy, pervaded
the breasts of some few in the encampment of the
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Black Riders. The watches had been set, the guards
duly placed, and the sentinels, being made to form a
complete cordon around the barony, Lieutenant Stockton,
acting as captain, went aside, in consultation with his apt
coadjutor, Ensign Darcy. The tone and language of the
former were, now, much more elevated, more confident
and exulting, than usual. The realization of his desires
was at hand. He had met the approbation of Lord
Rawdon, in the conduct which he had displayed in the
management of his troop, during the late march, and
nothing seemed wanting to his wishes, but that his
immediate superior should be no longer in his way. But
to supersede him was not easy, since the personal
grounds of hostility which Stockton felt could not be
expressed to their mutual superior; and these were such
as to lead the former to desire something beyond the
mere command of the troop which he had in charge.
It was necessary not merely to degrade but to destroy
his principal. The humiliating secret which Edward
Morton possessed, to his detriment, was equally an
occasion for his hate and fear; and all his arts had been
exercised to find some pretext for putting out of his way
a person whose continued life threatened him with constant
and humiliating exposure. Circumstances had co-operated
with the desires of the conspirators. The secret
of Edward Morton had been betrayed. It was known
that he desired to escape from the troop;—that he was
planning a secret flight to the city;—that he had already
sent off considerable treasure; and, that he awaited nothing
but a partial recovery of his strength, and the arrival
of certain boats which had been pledged to him by
the landlord, Muggs, to put his project in execution. In
this proceeding, he had violated the laws of the confederacy—
the fearful oath which bound the outlaws together;—
an oath taken in blood; and the violation of which
incurred all the penalties of blood. No wonder that
Stockton exulted. His proceedings were now all legitimate.
His hate had a justifiable sanction, according to
the tenets of his victim, equally with himself. It was
the law of the troop. It was now indeed his duty to
prosecute to the death the traitor who would surrender
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all of them to destruction; and the only remaining
security left to Morton was the rigid trial to which his
band was sworn. The bloody doom which his treachery
incurred, was to be inflicted only after the fullest proofs
that it was justly merited. In this lay his only hope of
safety, and this hope rested upon a slender foundation.
One of his special and most trusted agents had been
brought over by the machinations of Darcy, and had betrayed
him. He had involved another of the band in his
developements, and this other had confessed. Two witnesses
concurring against him and the proof was held to
be conclusive; and of these two witnesses Stockton was
secure. But other considerations were involved in the
deliberations of the parties. Edward Morton they knew
to be a desperate man. Watson Gray was a man to be
feared as well as hated. These were in possession of a
strong brick dwelling, with probably a dozen musketeers
under arms, and commanded by Rawdon to obey them
in every particular. It was no part of the policy of
Stockton to come to blows under such circumstances.
Some artifice was necessary to effect his objects. To get
the soldiers out of the way, to baffle Gray, and secure
possession of Edward Morton, was the design which
they had resolved upon, and this required considerable
management, and excessive caution in their approach.
Besides, one of their witnesses was absent on a scout,
and to declare their purpose until he was present to
maintain it by his oath would have been rash and imprudent.
It was also their object to capture the landlord,
Muggs, whose proposed agency in securing the boats for
the flight of Edward Morton was known to the conspirators
through the individual who had first betrayed his
employer to his enemies. Hence the watch which had
been set upon the river-landing, and which had compelled
Bannister to swim the stream that night. These matters
formed the subjects of deliberation between the two conspirators.
Their successes, so far, made them sanguine
of the future; and the rich rewards which it promised
them, made them equally joyful. The treasures of their
captain were to be equally divided between themselves,
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and we find them accordingly quite as busy in counting,
as in securing their chickens.
“Pete Flagg has charge of the negroes, over two hundred
already, and there are those from the place of his
stepmother, which he planned to take off with him in
these boats of Muggs. I know where to go for his
guineas—ay, to lay my hands upon the vault; but we
must get the memorandum acknowledgment which I
reckon he has about him, from John Wagner, who keeps
his money. There must be three thousand guineas at
the least.
“We share equally,” said Stockton, with eager eyes.
“That of course is understood.”
“Yes: but there should be a private paper between
us,” said Darcy.
“What need? we know each other.”
“Ay, but the best friends cannot be too cautious.
I have drawn out a little memorandum which we can
both sign to-morrow.”
“Agreed; I'm willing. But no witnesses, Darcy—
that would ruin all.”
“Yes—that's the d—l. Let the troop once know
what we eount upon—and our chance would be as bad,
or even worse than his. We should hang with him!”
“Him we have! Him we have! I would Brydone
were here. I long for the moment to wind up our long
account of hate. It will be the sweetest moment of my
life when I command them to drag him to the tree.”
“Be patient—don't let your hate risk our gains. We
can get nothing by working rashly. These eight or ten
soldiers that he has here would make desperate fight.
That scoundrel, Gray, must have suspected us when he
asked Rawdon for them.”
“Well, well—he'll have his turn also.”
“I doubt we'll have to fix him along with the captain.
He's a bird out of the same nest.”
“I shall be willing. I have no love for him.”
“Did you tell Brydone when to meet you here?”
“Yes!—that's all arranged!”
“By that time we ought to have possession of the
captain.”
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“Ay, then, or never! We must have him and all
things in readiness by the time Brydone comes. Are
you sure of the men? Is there none doubtful?”
“None!—There's a few milk-hearted fellows only,
but they're of the scary sort. They'll offer no opposition
when they find so many against them.”
“Be sure of them also, if you can. I'd even give
something to make all sure. There must be no bungling
at the last moment. If there is, and he has any chance
to talk, he is so d—d artful of tongue, that he'd work
courage in the most cowardly heart. I fear him still.”
“I do not. I know them, and I know him,” replied
the subordinate. “His day is done. He hasn't the same
power over them that he had of old, and the late profits
have enlightened them considerably on the subject of
your better management.”
“Yes—those guineas were good arguments, I think.”
“Famous!—but the better is to be shown. His treachery
is the best. Let them but know conclusively that
his purpose was to give them up, break the law, and
leave them—perhaps, betray them first into Sumter's
clutches—and there will be but one voice among them,
and that will be, `death to the traitor!”'
“So be it. To-morrow night we have him, and with
the rise of another sun he dies.”
“Yes, if Brydone come in time for the trial.”
“Brydone or not, Darcy—he dies.”
CHAPTER XVI. BAGATELLE BEFORE BUSINESS.
This will suffice to show the policy of the confederates.
Their plans of treachery were nearly complete,
and they were weaving them with the silent industry
and circumspection of the spider, who already sees and
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has chosen his victim. Little did Edward Morton fancy,
at this moment, the web that environed, and the dangers
which threatened him. He, himself, was busy in his
own plans of similar treachery. His wounds were healing
fast, his strength returning, and, with his strength
came back the old passions of evil, which had heretofore
inflamed his heart to its own debasement. The mournful
fate of the poor Mary Clarkson had already passed
from his thought, and almost from his memory; and, if
remembered at all, it was only in connection with the
new feeling of freedom which he felt in her absence.
Her death he now regarded as a sort of providential interference,
by which he was relieved of a burden at the
auspicious moment when it must have become more
burdensome than ever. Circumstances seemed to favour
him on every hand, and the influence of mind upon
matter was never more favourably shown than in the
improvement of his health and strength, under the
agreeable sensations which he experienced from a review
of all the promising circumstances which seemed
to await his recovery. In a few days, his barque, richly
freighted, was to bear him away to a region of security
and peace; in which, free from all the harassing dangers
which had so long attended his progress, he was to enjoy
the fruit of his toils, and taste the luxuries of a
fresh and long desired delight. He would shake himself
free from his old connections—a wish long since
entertained; he would fly with the woman whom he
loved, from the foes whom he feared and hated, to the
peace for which he had yearned, and to that affluence
which a mercenary appetite for gain had already accumulated
in abundance. No wonder that, revelling in
these convictions, he laughed and sung at intervals, as
Watson Gray and himself discussed their mutual plans,
and glowing expectations. The skies never seemed to
look down more propitiously bright than upon their
joint wishes and performances; and even Watson Gray,
habitually stern and composed in his bearing and demeanour,
condescended to join in his principal's merriment,
and to minister to his mirthful mood, by a relation
of such of the particulars of the surgeon's wooing as
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had come to his knowledge. We have seen the share
which Gray had in promoting the objects of Hillhouse.
He knew, of course, that Flora Middleton would scorn
such a suitor. He had already beheld the indifference—
to call a thing by its most harmless epithet—with
which she regarded him; and he, as well as the outlaw,
knew enough of human, or rather, woman nature, to
be sure that the result of his application would only be
amusing and unsuccessful. Gray recounted, for the
benefit of his superior, the preparatory toils which Hillhouse
had undergone at his toilet,—partly in his presence,—
in determining upon the colours of his suit, the
style and pattern of his dress, and the manner, audacious
or subdued, in which he should make his first approaches.
In choosing his costume, he seemed disposed to realize
the pictorial satire, with which the ancient artists used
to describe the self-perplexity of the Englishman in putting
on his clothes.
“I am an Englishman, and naked I stand here,
Musing in my mind what garment I shall wear;
Now I shall wear this, and now I shall wear that,
And now I shall wear—I cannot tell what!”
The reader is aware that the dove-coloured suit was
triumphant; but he does not so well know the peculiar
air which marked the carriage of the suitor. Watson
Gray had seen him depart, and had beheld him on his
return. We know that by the time Hillhouse got back,
he had fairly convinced himself that the unqualified rejection
of Flora Middleton had been, in reality, nothing
more than that ordinary evasion of the sex, of which
none of them are wholly ignorant, and with which they
simply mean to heighten the value of their subsequent
concessions. Thus assured, his countenance wore nothing
of discomfiture in its expression. Nay, so perfectly
triumphant did it seem, that Gray, who could not
altogether believe that the world possessed any instance
of such thorough self-esteem, began to tremble lest Flora,
with that weakness of the sex which makes them miracles
of caprice, upon occasion, had, in her unhappy
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moments, been over-persuaded and had yielded. Staggered
for an instant by this apprehension, he was left but
a little while in doubt. When Hillhouse gave the tenor
of her answer, Gray laughed outright, and hurried away
to share the pleasure with his superior. The surgeon
followed him to the chamber of the outlaw, as soon as he
had succeeded in adopting the symbol of a fitting sentiment
for the new change which he contemplated in his
garments; and without intending any such favour, he
delighted the invalid, by a candid revelation of the events
which had just taken place, and which he deemed to be
so favourable to his desires.
“May you always be so fortunate,” was the generous
wish of the outlaw, as the surgeon concluded his narrative.
“Thank you. You are too good. I doubt not I shall
be. But, in truth, is it not wonderful that a country girl—
a mere rustic, as she is—should be able to practise
those arts which belong only to fashionable life?”
“An instinct—an instinct, my dear sir.”
“Well, 'pon my affections, I think so.”
“They're all alike, Mr. Hillhouse;—high and low,
rich and poor, city-bred and country-bred—they all know
how to baffle the ardent, and stimulate by baffling.”
“It will somewhat reconcile me to the event,” said the
surgeon. “I had my apprehensions about it. I should
have felt the awkwardness of bringing into the upper
circles the unsophisticated damsel of the woods, such as
she seemed to be at first; but now—”
“The instinct will save you any annoyance; but even
were it otherwise, Mr. Hillhouse, how charming would
it have been to have shown her in the fine world as the
beautiful savage from Congaree!”
“'Gad, yes! I never thought of that!”
“An aboriginal princess!”
“Like Powkerhorontas! Ay! I have heard of that princess.
She was a Virginian princess,—my old friend,
Sir Marmaduke Mincing, told me all her history: how
she had fought her father, and rescued the Captain—
what was his name? But no matter, it was something
very low and vulgar. She married him; and Sir
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Marmaduke, who had seen her, said she had really a very
human countenance, and quite like a woman; but”—
lifting his hands in horror—“her feet! They were
monstrous. They were four feet rather than two! Ha!
ha!—four feet—do you take me with you, Capt. Conway?
Four feet rather than two!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Gray; and Conway also
echoed the laughter of the surgeon, but it was rather at
himself than his wit.
“But the feet of your princess here, Miss Middleton,
are really very good, and rather small feet, Mr. Hillhouse.
They will occasion no fright!”
“Ah, true, quite respectable as feet—quite respectable!
She will do; and your idea, sir, that she would be so
distingué, appearing in the character of la belle savage,
reconciles all objections wonderfully. I think much better
of the young creature than before. I do, really.”
“No doubt you should; but Mr. Hillhouse—not to
interrupt the pleasantness of your dreams—let me remark
that war and love do not enjoy the same camping
ground long, as they do not often employ the same
weapons. The one is very apt to scare away the other.
You, sir, have little time to lose. Are you aware that
Lord Rawdon is on his full retreat?”
“Retreat—from what?”
“The enemy: he has been compelled to evacuate
Ninety-Six.”
“Evacuate! what an unpleasant word!”
“You'll find it so, unless you proceed in your attack
with increased vigour. You will soon be compelled to
evacuate Briar Park, leaving la belle savage to the care
of other savages not so beautiful, yet not less dangerous.”
“You discompose my nerves, Capt. Conway. May
I learn if all this be true—be certain?”
“Too true: ask Mr. Gray. He brings me the intelligence.
He has just received it.”
“Sure as a gun,” said Gray.
“And with quite as startling a report;” continued the
outlaw. “What you do will need to be done quickly.
You must press the siege.”
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“Night and day,” added Watson Gray.
“You can't stop for regular approaches;” continued
Morton. “Remember you have nothing but field works
to contend with,—”
“And, for—” added the surgeon, rubbing his hands
with a gentle eagerness.
“Sap and storm at the same moment, Mr. Hillhouse.
You must go through and over the works both; or expect
to raise the siege very shortly. I doubt if you have
three days left you. Rawdon will be on his way for the
Eutaw before that time.”
“My dear friend! you rejoice while you alarm me.
I will not suffer any delay. But haste is so vulgar.”
“Except in flight.”
“Ah! even there; one cannot dispose his garments
well, and the face is flushed, and the manner is flurried.
But there are cases of necessity—”
“Imperative necessity!”
“Yes! when we have to dispense with ordinary rules
of conduct.”
“All active movements are of this sort, whether they
contemplate flight or assault. Your affair combines
both. You must make your attack shortly, for your retreat
must soon follow.”
“True, most true!”
“And how honourable is it to carry off a prisoner even
in flight.”
“It softens the necessity—it takes the shame from defeat.”
“It redeems it;” said the outlaw, “and such a prisoner
too! Ah! Mr. Hillhouse, you are certainly a man
to be envied.”
“My dear Captain, you do most certainly flatter me.
But I was born under a fortunate star. I have been thus
fortunate always, and particularly among the sex. Trust
me to relate to you some curious successes which I have
had. But I must leave you now. Forgive me that I am
thus abrupt. But I go in obedience to your counsel. I
go to prepare for the war. By the way, those metaphors
of yours were well carried on. I shall endeavour to
recall them at the first leisure; those, in which you spoke
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of the prosecution of my present purpose, by sap and
storm, and so forth. I suspect, Captain, that you too
have been rather a fortunate person, in your own way,
among the women. But, your field has not been a difficult
one. Women are very accessible in America, though
I certainly do not agree with my old friend, but present
enemy, the Marquis de Chastellux,[2] who says that a
Frenchman may do any thing with the women of your
country.”
“Does he say that? the scoundrel!” exclaimed the
outlaw, with a burst of provincial indignation.
“Now,” continued the surgeon, “had he said Englishman
for Frenchman, there would have been some reason
in it; though it isn't every Englishman either, of whom
such a thing might be said.”
The outlaw and his comrade both looked serious. The
reply of the former was made with some effort at composure,
and the “wreathed smile” upon his lips was the
result of some struggle with his sterner passions.
“No, sir, the instances are not frequent, I suspect.
But the opinion may naturally be entertained in its full
extent by one who has been, and is destined to be, so
uniformly successful everywhere.”
“Thank you, Captain,—you are too flattering,—but I
have had my successes,—I have, heaven knows!”—with
an air of profound humility, as he bowed himself out of
the apartment. “Heaven knows, I have had successes
which might well turn the heads of wiser men than myself.”
“The ape!—the monstrous ape!” exclaimed Morton,
“was there ever such an ape!”
“A long-eared ass;” muttered his more rude companion;
“a long-eared ass, if ever there was one! If Miss
Flora don't pull his ears, it won't be because she don't
see 'em.”
“No! It's devilish strange that such a fellow should
preserve his follies amidst all his changes, and while
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pursuing a life, which, more than any other would be
likely to lop off the affectations and conceits of boyhood.”
“Well, I reckon,” said Gray, “he's just like a great
many others, who know they can't pass for wise men,
and are determined to pass any how. A fool would
rather you'd see him as a fool than not see him at all.”
“Egad!” exclaimed Morton, with all the enthusiasm
of a new idea, “Egad! I think I'll see this fellow at his
follies. I'll make an effort, Gray, to get down stairs this
very afternoon.”
“Don't think of such a thing;” said Gray.
“Ay, but I will! I feel strong enough for it, and a
change of objects will do me good. I long to feast my
eyes also, upon the charms of the fair Flora. Zounds!
had it been Clarence Conway, who lay sick and wounded
in her dwelling, what a difference! She'd have deigned
him a glance before this! She'd have sat beside his bed,
and her hand would have been in his, and she would
have played with his hair, and her long locks would
have floated upon his cheek! Damnation! that fortune
should thus smile upon one, and blast the other always!
Thus has it been from our cradle. By heavens, Gray, I
tell you, that man—boy and man—ay, when he was but
a brat of an infant,—a squeaking, squalling, unconscious
brat of an infant,—this jilting Jezebel, called fortune,
showered her gold and jewels about him even then, and
has clung to him ever since, with a constancy hardly
ever known to any of her sex. All around seemed to
toil in his behalf; every thing tended to his benefit; ay,
even when I toiled in his despite, I have been compelled
to curse the vain labour which redounded only to his good;
while I—”
“You've had your good fortune, too, Captain!” said
Gray, condolingly.
“Have I!” cried the other, dashing the mirror, upon
which he had looked at that moment, into fragments at
his feet; “have I, indeed? I must read it in these gashes
then! Ha! must I? No, Gray; my good fortune is
yet to come!”
“Don't distrust fortune, Captain. I'm thinking she's
been your friend quite as much as his. She's helped
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him in some things, perhaps, but how is he any the better
for them. As for Miss Flora doing for him what she
wouldn't do for you, that's all in my eye. I reckon that
she looks on him now a little blacker than she ever
looked, or ever will look, on you. Well, what next?
After all his fortunate gettings, where is he? and after all
your misfortunes, where are you? Why, he's just on
the brink of losing every thing, and you are just that nigh
to getting all that he loses, and perhaps a great deal more.”
“Would it were now!—would I were sure. But,
Gray, I have my fears, my doubts. Should that fellow
fail us with his boats.”
“Don't you fear. He will not fail.”
“And Flora! God! could I be sure of that!”
“And what's to hinder? The one answers for the
other.”
“Ay, not much to hinder, if we use violence. Main
force may carry her off, and shall, unless she yields
readily; but I tell you, Gray, I'd give half that I'm worth—
half of all my spoils—but to be spared this one necessity.”
“What, Captain, you're not getting mealy-mouthed in
the business. Your conscience ain't troubling you, sure?”
“No! It's not that I have any scruples; but the
blessing of a willing prize, Gray! That, that is every
thing!”
“Lord knows,” rejoined the other with a yawn, “you
had a willing prize enough in Mary Clarkson.”
“Speak not of her, Gray;” said the other in half-faltering
accents—“not now! not now!”
“She was a willing prize, and one you were willing
enough to get rid of. Give me the prize that don't consent
in a hurry—that gives me some trouble to overcome.
I wouldn't give a shilling for a wagon-load of that fruit
that drops into the mouth the moment it opens for it.”
“Nor I. Nor is that what I mean, Gray;—but I will
see Flora this very evening. I will get down to the supper
table. I am strong enough for it; and I will see for
myself how she manages this silly witling. The truth is,
Gray, I'm not altogether satisfied that she will feel that
corn for the fellow that we feel. We judge of a man
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according to his own manliness; but this is not the mode
of judging among women. They look at the streamers
of the ship, and her gaudy paint; while men look to see
if her timbers are good; if she follows the helm, if she is
taut, and trim, and steady upon the wave. I believe that
where it depends upon a woman's heart, where her affections
are firmly enlisted, she will be true to the death,
and in spite of death; but, when the matter is referable
only to the judgment, I lose all confidence in her. She
is then to be watched narrowly, and guided cautiously,
and kept from the breakers, among which she otherwise
would be sure to run. Now Flora Middleton is a woman
whose mind will take a large share in her affections.
She'll hardly suffer her feelings to get entirely beyond
the control of her judgment; and it may be advisable
that I should assist at her next conference with this gudgeon,
in order to help him somewhat in the exposure of
his more ridiculous qualities.”
“It don't need, Captain. I reckon she's seen 'em all
for herself, long before this. You'd better not go down.
Better keep all your strength for the time when you'll
need it all.”
“What! man! Do you think I could fail then? Impossible!
No! no! Gray. You're getting quite too
timid to be a safe counsellor, and I'm resolved to have a
glance at Flora Middleton this evening, though I die for
it. I think the sight of her will give me new strength
and spirit. Besides, man, it is time that I should try my
experiment upon her. If you are right,—if she believes
that Clarence Conway has been doing those evil deeds
which I need not acknowledge, and has dismissed him
for ever from her regards, then this is the very time to
urge my claims and be successful. Personally, there is
very little difference to the eye between us; and these
d—d scars! Ha! didn't you let her know that they
were got fighting with Clarence in defence of injured innocence,
and all that! If so, they will not seem so very
uncomely. There is yet another circumstance, Gray: I
flatter myself that the contrast between myself and her
present suitor, the surgeon, even in his dove-coloured
breeches, will hardly be against me. Is not that
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something—are not all these things something? If I can persuade
her, we diminish some of our labour, and several
of our difficulties; and that must be tried first. I must
play the lover as well as I can, before I play the conqueror.
I must woo my bride, before I resort to the last
mode of winning her.”
“You'd better keep your bed two days longer.”
“Pshaw! get me some proper clothes. I wish I had
the pick of the surgeon's wardrobe, for, of a truth, Gray,
I have but little choice of my own. I suspect my small
clothes are of all colours, with the blood and dust of that
last brush; but, no matter about the stains here and
there; if you can only get me tolerably trim. I should
rather be as unlike my popinjay rival as possible, on such
an occasion.”
The outlaw kept his resolution, in spite of all the exhortations
of his comrade; and, that evening, surprised
the family, and the surgeon, Hillhouse, not the least, by
his sudden entry into the salle à manger.
eaf366v2.n2[2] For what the Marquis does say, see his “Travels in North
America,” New York edition, p. 260.
CHAPTER XVII. A VISION.
Edward Morton, could he have always kept his
blood in abeyance, would have made a first rate politician.
He had superior cunning, but he had, at the same time,
too much earnestness. He yielded himself quite too
much up to his subject. He could not tamper and trifle
with it. His impetuosity defeated his caution; and, in
every respect in which he failed, he could reproach himself
only as the true cause of his failure. The stuff which
he had expressed in conversation with Watson Gray,
about the influence of fortune, did not deceive himself.
He knew better, whenever he permitted himself to think
gravely, and speak honestly; but men get into a habit of
deceiving themselves while seeking to deceive others;
and fortune has always been compelled to bear the
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whining reproaches of mankind whenever their own wits
go a-blundering. Pride makes them unwilling to admit
the fault to be in themselves, and fortune is a good-natured
damsel, who seldom resents the imputations cast upon
her. They clamour accordingly, and without fear, at
her expense; and grow familiar with the language of
unprofitable and unintended declamation. It scarcely
needs that we should remark how unfrequently they
make acknowledgments of her bounty. When successful,
it is their own excellent art, audacious courage, admirable
skill, and manly accomplishment, that achieves the conquest,
and the smile which denotes their satisfaction with
all the world, betrays first the gratifying conviction that
they themselves are good against all the world.
Edward Morton was by no means ignorant of his own
defect of character. He knew his impetuosity of blood,
and he feared it. It was necessary to guard particularly
against that in all his intercourse with Flora Middleton.
Of this he had previous experience. He knew her
acuteness of intellect. The very simplicity of her own
character, and the directness and almost masculine frankness
of her temper, made it somewhat difficult to elude
her analysis. Besides, she already suspected him. This
he knew. He had every reason to suppose, in addition,
that the late close intercourse between herself and
Clarence Conway, however brief, had enabled the latter
to afford her some information of the true state of their
mutual feelings and interests. But, in due proportion
with the small amount of knowledge which he possessed,
was the reasonable apprehension which he entertained of
the extent of what she knew. She might know much or
little. He had every reason to fancy that she knew all;
and his chief hope lay in the fruitful falsehoods which his
wily coadjutor had taken occasion to plant within her
mind. If those falsehoods had taken root—if they
flourished—perhaps the difficulty would not be great to
make her doubt all the assertions of his brother.
“If she believes him this villain,—well! She will
believe more. She will believe that he has slandered me—
nothing can be more natural,—and if one task be well
performed, it will not be hard to effect the other. But I
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must be wary. She is as keen-eyed as a hungry eagle—
looks far and deep. One hasty word—one incautious
look,—and her sharp wit detects the error, and all must
be begun anew. I must be cool now, or never. With
every thing at stake, I must school my blood into subjection,
if I have not already lost enough to make the
pains-taking unnecessary.”
Such were his thoughts, and such the hopes, upon
which he founded his new purposes of deception. The
surprise of all parties was great, and openly expressed,
as he suddenly entered the supper-room. But the outlaw
saw with pleasure that the surprise of the ladies did not
seem coupled with any coldness or dissatisfaction. It
has not been necessary for us to say, before, that Mrs.
Middleton had visited the invalid in his chamber. She
had done all the duties of hospitality and humanity. He
had accordingly no cause of complaint. He could have
no reason to expect the like attendance from the young
lady; and the gentle courtesy of the latter would have
convinced one even more suspicious than Morton, that
she had no hostile feeling whatsoever, at work against
him. The inquiries of both were kind and considerate.
He was requested to occupy the sofa entirely, and to
place himself at ease upon it; a permission which had the
effect of transferring the reluctant person of the surgeon
to a contiguous chair. The deportment of this person
had been productive of far more surprise to the ladies, than
the appearance of the outlaw. Flora Middleton had informed
her grandmother of the suit which she had rejected,
and it was, therefore, greatly to the wonder of the
one, and the consternation of the other, that they were
compelled to witness, in his deportment, the language of
confident assurance;—of a success, and exultation, as
unequivocal as ever betrayed themselves in the action of
a triumphant lover. His smirkings were not to be mistaken;
and the old lady looked to the young one, and
the young one returned the glance with equal vexation
and bewilderment. The arrival of Morton had the effect
of bringing some relief to the females of the party,
and possibly to diminish, in some degree, the
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impertinent self-complaisance of the surgeon. For this, the
ladies were grateful to the outlaw; and hence, perhaps,
the greater benignity of the reception which they bestowed
upon the latter. But there was quite enough of
pleasure manifest in the visage of Hillhouse, even after
the coming of Morton; and when the first courtesies
which followed his entrance were fairly ended, he took
occasion to say something on the subject to this happy
person.
“Really, Mr. Hillhouse, I am surprised at the unusual
degree of happiness which your countenance exhibits this
evening. What is it makes you so peculiarly happy.
Have you good news from the army. Is his lordship
about to relieve you. Do you think of Charleston and
the next Meschianza?”
The surgeon simpered, smiled anew, and looked with
most provoking empressement at Flora Middleton. Before
he could frame the intricate and exquisite reply
which he was meditating, that young lady availed herself
of the occasion, to prove, as well she might, that she was
no willing party to the peculiar happiness which his
countenance expressed.
“I thank you for that question, Mr. Conway,—I was
about to make the same inquiry; for, really, I never saw
a gentleman put on so suddenly the appearance of so
much joy. I fancied that Mr. Hillhouse must have had
a fairy gift, as, you know, happens to us all in childhood;
and then again, I doubted, for there are reasons against
such a notion. But, in truth, I knew not what to think,
unless it be that it is surely no earthly joy which has
produced, or could produce, so complete an expression
of delight in the human face. I declare, Mr. Hillhouse,
I should be glad for mamma's sake,—if for the sake of no
one else, to know what it is that makes you so supremely
happy. There's nothing pleases old people so much,
you know, as the innocent pleasures of young ones.”
“Ah, Miss Flora, do you then ask? It is, indeed, no
earthly joy which has made me happy.”
“You are then really happy?” said Conway.
“Really, and in truth, I may say so. A dream—”
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“What! and is it a dream only? Well, I thought as
much;” exclaimed Flora.
“Nay, Miss Middleton, life itself, for that matter, is a
sort of dream. But, in ordinary speech, mine is not a
dream. I have had a vision—”
“A vision!” exclaimed Conway.
“A vision, sir!” said the old lady, putting on her
spectacles, and looking around the room.
“A vision! Do you see it now, Mr. Hillhouse.
Where? What is it like?” The demand of Flora was
made with all the girlish eagerness of one who really
believed in the prophetic faculty of the present seer.
“Yes, what is it like, Mr. Hillhouse,” asked the outlaw,
“I am very curious to hear! a vision!”
“Like!” exclaimed the surgeon, “Like! Like an opening
of heaven upon me. A sudden revelation of delight,
and the shape within is that of—a woman!”
“Dear me!—only a woman!” exclaimed Morton,
affectedly.
“Only a woman, sir!” cried the surgeon with an air
of profoundest gallantry;—“and what lovelier object can
one see in this visible creation—upon the earth or in the
sky—”
“Or the waters under the earth.”
“Nay, I'm not so deep in the world, Mr. Conway,”
said the surgeon; “but when you ejaculate in wonder,
sir, because my vision of unspeakable delight takes the
shape of a young and beautiful woman—”
“What's the colour of her eyes—and hair, Mr. Hillhouse?”
was the interruption of Conway. “Give us
now a just description, that we may judge for ourselves
what sort of a taste you have in matters of beauty.”
Hillhouse looked to Flora Middleton with an inquiring
expression, which said, as plainly as a look could say—
“Shall I?” The scorn and vexation of the maiden's
countenance, at this mute, but obvious interrogation, was
equally plain, but indescribable. She rose from her chair,
as if about to leave the room, but the sudden, and hurried
words of Edward Morton arrested her, with a new occasion
for wonder, more legitimate than that which the
surgeon entertained.
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“By heavens, Mr. Hillhouse, I too have a vision, and
one far less lovely, I think, than yours. Pray, look to
that door if you please. There was a strange visage at
it but a moment ago. Look! Look!—a man, not a
woman; and one not from Heaven, though in may
be,—”
Before the surgeon could reach the door, or Morton
could finish the sentence, a dark figure entered the room,
confronted the party, and taking from his face a black
mask, with which it was covered, displayed to the
anxious gaze of the outlaw his own late lieutenant,
and always bitter enemy, Lieutenant Stockton. The
latter had heard what Morton said, and concluded his
speech, perhaps, in the most fitting manner.
“From hell, you would say, would you! and you are
right, sir. I came from hell, and I am come for you.
You are prepared for travel, I trust!”
The behaviour of Morton was equally fearless and dignified.
He had a game to play in the eyes of Flora, and
a difficult part to act in more eyes than hers. His agitation
had not been concealed, at the first sudden exhibition
which Stockton had made of his hostile visage at the
entrance;—but when the person of the intruder was no
longer doubtful, his firmness came back to him, and no
man, on the verge of a precipice, could have looked down
with more indifference than he, upon its awful abysses.
He raised himself with composure from the sofa, and
directing the eyes of Stockton to the ladies, camly remarked,—
“Whatever you may be, and whatever your purpose,
as a man, remember where you are, and be civil to the
ladies.”
He was answered by a grin, of mingled exultation and
malice.
“Ay! Ay! I will remember. Don't suppose I shall
ever forget them, or yourself, or even that pink-looking
gentleman in the corner, who smells so sweetly, and
looks so frightened. Ha! Ha!—Did you ever know the
devil to forget any of his flock. Ladies, you know me,
or you should. You will know me soon enough. I am
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old Nick, himself, be sure of that, though I go by several
names. My most innocent one is perhaps the most
familiar to you. I am the captain of the Black Riders.
Do you deny that?” he demanded at the close, turning
full upon Edward Morton.
It did not need that the latter should answer this
inquiry, for the alarm which this bold annunciation produced,
prevented his words from being heard by any ears
but those of the intruder.
“You may be the devil, himself, for any thing I know,
or care.”
“Indeed! you are bold. But we shall see. You will
find me a worse person to deal with perhaps. You are
my prisoner. Remember that.”
“I know not that!” exclaimed Morton, rising with
evident pain from the sofa, upon which he had sunk but
a minute before, and looking the defiance which he had
no means to enforce. His attitude was, however, threatening;
and, drawing a pistol from his belt, the intruder
levelled it full at the head of his superior. The eye of
Morton did not shrink. His gaze was undaunted. Not
a muscle of his face was discomposed. At that instant
Watson Gray suddenly entered the apartment, strode
between them, and confronted Stockton with a weapon
like his own. At the same time he thrust another into
the hands of Morton.
“There are two to play at this game, Stockton,” was
the cool remark of Gray. “Ladies, leave the room, if
you please. We need no witnesses; and you, sir, unless
you can kill as well as cure, you may as well follow the
ladies.”
This was addressed to the surgeon.
“I have no weapon;” was his answer.
“Pshaw! look to the fireplace. A brave man never
wants a weapon.”
Hillhouse possessed himself of the poker with sufficient
resolution; but he evidently looked with great dissatisfaction
upon the prospect before him, of soiling his dovecolored
suit in an unexpected melée. Meanwhile, the
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ladies had disappeared, and the only social influence
which might have prevented bloodshed was necessarily
removed in their departure.
CHAPTER XVIII. A PARLEY.
“What does all this mean, Stockton?” demanded
Gray.
“What you see. The meaning's plain enough, Watson
Gray,” was the insolent reply.
“Ay, I see well enough that you are disposed to murder
your superior; but on what pretence? How will
you answer to Lord Rawdon for this insubordination—
this mutiny, for it is no less. Captain Morton has the
commission of Sir Henry Clinton. He is your commander.”
“Yes, but he is the property of the troop also.”
“Well, what then. Suppose we allow that.”
“That is enough. He is a traitor to them.”
“Ha!—a traitor!”
“Yes!—a base, dishonest traitor.”
“How! In what way is he a traitor?”
“He is sworn to be true to them.”
“Well, if to be mangled in their battles is to be true to
them, he certainly has been true a long time.”
“But he is a traitor at last. He has sold them, and is
about to desert them.”
“This is a mere fetch, Stockton. There is no ground
for such pretence. You are the enemy of Captain Morton.
We all know that of old. You are contriving it
against him to destroy him. Beware! You know me
quite as well as I know you. I tell you, that if you go
one inch on either hand from the right, your neck
stretches on the gallows in the sight of all Charlestown.”
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“'Pshaw! Watson Gray! You don't hope to frighten
me at this time of day with your ugly words. I know
what I'm about. Captain Morton is a traitor to the troop,
and we'll prove it. He is false to his oath, and will be
made to answer all its penalties.”
“That's well enough but what gives you the right,
till the thing's proved, to lift pistol to his head.”
“The thing's proved already.”
“What! without a trial?”
“We've two witnesses against him.”
“Where are they? We'll hear them, not you. You
are a little too fast.”
“You shall hear both. You shall hear me too. I am
now the captain of the troop. They have made me so
by their free voices. He is nothing now, but one, under
suspicion, and waits for his sentence.”
“Look you! Stockton!—I'm better used to acting
than talking. I know you of old, and I see you're bent
to kill your captain, whether or no! You're hungering to
step into his shoes: but the moment you pull trigger on
him, that moment I pull trigger on you. There's two to
one. Take your chance now for life; for I'm getting
angry.”
“Two to one, indeed! Look at the windows man,
and you'll see twenty to one!” was the triumphant response
of Stockton. Gray looked as he was bidden, so
did the surgeon Hillhouse, but Morton kept his eyes
fixed upon those of his lieutenant.
“Well, do you see?—are you satisfied? There is no
chance for you,” said the latter.
“I see only what I expected to see;” was the answer
of Gray. “I did not look to see you venture here without
good backing. I knew you too well for that. These
twenty men are enough to eat us up. But before you
can get help from them, we'll make mince meat of you.
You are a fool if you think otherwise.”
Stockton looked upon his destined victim, with equal
rage and disappointment.
“What! you refuse then to surrender him to me?”
“We do!”
“Well, we shall see what we can do with a few more
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pistols,” replied the ruffian, and with these words he
prepared to leave the room. But Gray placed himself
between him and the entrance.
“Stay,” said he, “not so fast. You've got into the
canebrake with the bear. You must ask permission when
you want to leave it.”
“What! do you mean to keep me?”
“Yes! you shall be a hostage for the rest. We must
have terms between us, Richard Stockton, before we let
you off.”
“What terms?” demanded the other angrily.
“Where's our guard?”
“Fastened up in the log house, where they're all
drunk.”
“They must be released; and you must answer to
Lord Rawdon for making his soldiers drunk and incapable,
while on duty at a British military post.”
“Who says I made them drunk?”
“I say so.”
“You cannot prove it.”
“You shall see. If I can prove that one of your
troopers did it, it will be necessary for you to show that
you did not employ that trooper in doing it.”
“Watson Gray, I will have satisfaction from you for
this!”
“All in good time, Stockton. You don't suppose that
I'm likely to dodge from a difficulty with you or any
man. But it's useless to ride your high horse across my
path. By the Eternal, man, I'll tilt you into the ditch in
the twinkle of a musquito.”
“You talk boldly; but let me tell you that you're not
altogether safe from this charge against Morton. You're
suspected too of treason to the troop.”
“Tsha, tsha, tsha!—Catch old birds with chaff!
Look you, Stockton; don't you suppose you can carry
this matter as you please, either by scare or shot. We're
up to you any how. Now look you; if you think that
either Captain Morton or myself want's to escape from
trial, you're mistaken. But we'll have a fair trial or none
at all.”
“Well, won't we give him a fair trial?”
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“No: not if you begin it with the pistol.”
“I only want to make him a prisoner.”
“Well, you shan't have your wishes in that—not
while I can stand ready with such a muzzle as this close
upon yours. Now, hear me. Give orders to Ensign
Darcy, whose little eyes I see dancing at that glass there,
and who's at the bottom of all your mischief—give him
orders to let our men loose from the loghouse, and send
them here; and, in the mean time, let him draw his own
men off from the house. When that's done, we'll come
to terms about the trial.”
“Agreed;” said the other, and he made a new movement
as if to take his departure, but the wily Gray was
still on the alert.
“No! no!—my good fellow!—You must stay as a
hostage, lieutenant, 'till the matter's all arranged. You
can speak to Darcy from where you stand; through the
pane as well as if your arm was round his neck.”
The vexation of Stockton may be imagined. He
strove vainly to suppress it. He was compelled to submit.
Darcy was summoned, and would have entered
with his men following him, but Watson Gray's prompt
accents warned him, that, if he came not alone, he would
bring down on the head of his confederate the bullets of
himself and Morton. Sharing the chagrin of his superior,
Darcy, accordingly, made his appearance alone, and
received his instructions. When he had drawn off his
followers and disappeared himself, Gray persuaded Morton
to retire to his chamber with the assistance of the
surgeon. This measure had, perhaps, become absolutely
necessary to the former. The efforts which he
had made to sustain himself, as well in the interview
with the ladies, as in that unexpected one which followed
it;—and the excitement which the latter necessarily occasioned,
had nearly exhausted him. Nothing but the
moral stimulus derived from his mind, its hate, scorn,
defiance—sustained him so far from fainting on the spot;
and this support did not support him much longer. He
did faint when he reached his apartment.
“And now, Stockton,” said Gray, when they were
alone together—“what's all this d—d nonsense stuff
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about Captain Morton's treachery and mine? Out with
it, man, that we may know the game.”
“No nonsense stuff, I assure you. The proof is
strong enough against him, and brushes your skirts
also.”
“Proof indeed. You see, I don't stop to let you
know, lieutenant, that I look upon you as a man that will
contrive, if you can, against the captain. I know that
you hate him—you can't deny it,—though it's the
strangest thing to me why you should hate a man who
has never given you any cause for hate, and has always
treated you well and kindly.”
“Indeed! Do you really think so!” exclaimed the
other bitterly. “Well, I shall understand, that, to knock
a man over with the butt of your pistol, and send him
afterwards under guard to prison, with a recommendation
for the halberds, is a way to treat well and kindly.
“Pshaw! Is that all!”
“All! ay, and enough too!”
“My good fellow, you ought to be grateful that he
didn't set you a swinging from the first tree. I heard of
that affair, and was sorry for it; but you deserved all
you got and something more. He might have hung you
without trial, or shot you down where you stood. You
were in absolute mutiny!”
“We'll say no more about that, Watson Gray. He's
had his chance, and I'll have mine. So far from it being
nonsense stuff which is against him, the proof is clear of
his treachery.”
“Well, prove it, and he must stand his fate. All he
asks and all that I ask, is a fair trial. But what is the
sort of treachery that he's been doing?”
“Making arrangements to fly and leave the troop in
the lurch. Getting boats to carry off the plate and negroes
from Middleton Barony and other places, without
letting the troop come to a share. You can't deny that's
death by our laws—rope and bullet!”
“Granted: but, again, I ask you, where's the proof!”
“Brydone!—Ha! you start do you? You didn't
expect that?”
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“Start!—a man may well start at hearing of such a
falsehood from the lips of a fellow like Brydone, who
was always counted one of the truest fellows we ever
had.”
“Yes; you didn't think he'd desert you, eh?”
“Desert!—Look you, Stockton, I don't believe that
Brydone ever said such a word. Did you hear him
yourself?”
“Yes—I did.”
“Where is he? Bring him before me.”
“Time enough. He's not here with us at present.
But he'll be here sooner than you wish.”
“Ah!”—and the scout paused, while his brow gathered
into deep, dark folds which indicated the pressure of accumulating
thoughts. He suddenly recovered his madness,
and turning, with a quiet smile upon his more blunt
companion, he proceeded:—
“Stockton, I see your game. I need not tell you that I
am now convinced that you have no such proof, and that
Brydone never told you any thing hurtful to the captain.
If so, didn't you know he was to have a fair trial?—
Why didn't you bring your only witness? and did not
you also know, that, by the laws, no one could be found
guilty but by two witnesses. Now, you only speak of
one—”
“Ay, ay! but there's another, Watson Gray. Don't
suppose I got so far ahead of common sense in this business
as to stumble in that matter. No! no! I hate Ned
Morton too much—too thoroughly and bitterly—to leave
my desire of revenge to a doubtful chance. The whole
matter was cut and dry before we came down from
`Ninety-Six.' We have two witnesses of his guilt.”
“Well, who's the other?” asked Gray with seeming
indifference.
“Isaac Muggs!”
“What Isaac, the one-armed! But you don't call
him a man, surely—he's only part of a man!”
“You don't mean to stand for such an argument as
that?” demanded Stockton gravely.
“Oh, no!” responded the other with a laugh. “Let
him go for what he's worth. But—”—here his
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indifference of manner seemed to increase as, yawning, he
inquired—
“But when are these witnesses to be here? When
may we confront them?”
“Sooner than you wish;” was the reply. “We look
for Brydone to-morrow, by the dawn; and as for Isaac
Muggs, we expect to catch him very soon after, if not
before. We hope to be in readiness along the river
banks, to see whether he brings up the boats which are
fit to carry such a valuable cargo, as you've got ready
here to put in them.”
“Ah!—so you're got the Congaree under guard, have
you?” demanded the other with the same seeming indifference
of manner.
“It will be somewhat difficult for him to find you
without finding us;” replied Stockton with a chuckling
sort of triumph.
“So much for Isaac, then. I suppose he brings
Brydone along with him?” was the carelessly expressed
inquiry of Gray.
“No! no! He will be more certain to arrive, and
comes more willingly. Rawdon despatched him below
with a letter to Colonel Stewart, at Fairlawn, and he will
be here too soon for your liking. He comes by the
road. Do not think we ventured upon this business
without preparation. We made nice calculations and
timed every thing to the proper moment. Brydone
sleeps to-night at Martin's tavern, so we may expect him
here by sunrise. We'll be ready, at all events, for the
trial by twelve o'clock to-morrow. At least we can take
his testimony and wait for Muggs. But I calculate on
both before that time.”
Watson Gray seemed for a moment lost in thought.
His dark bushy brows were bent down almost to the
concealment of his eyes.
“It seems to worry you!” said Stockton with a sneer.
“Worry me! No! no! Stockton, you're only worrying
yourself. I was thinking of a very different matter,”
replied the other with a good-natured smile.
“Well, do you say that you'll be ready for the trial
then?”
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“We're ready now.—Ready always for fair play.
But you must draw off your troop.”
“Very well! I have no objections to that, for I can
draw 'em on again at a moment's warning. If you don't
keep faith you'll sweat for it. I'm agreed to any thing
that don't prevent the trial. Where shall it be—
Here?”
“Here! Oh, no! To have your sixty men rushing
upon us at close muzzle-quarters! No, no! We'll
have it in the woods, near the river, where my half-score
of muskets may be covered by the trees and be
something of a match for your troop. Besides, the women,
you know!”
“Well, I'm willing. There's a clayey bluff just above,
facing the river-bend. There's something of an opening,
and I reckon it's a sort of graveyard. I see a new
grave there and a cross upon it. Let the trial be there.”
“A new grave and a cross upon it!” mused the other.—
“That must be Mary Clarkson's grave, but the cross!—
Ah! perhaps Miss Flora had that done. She's a good
girl!—Well, I'm agreed. Let it be there—just at the
turning of the sun at noon.”
“Keep your word Gray, and the worst enemy of Ned
Mortan—”
“Yourself!”
“The same!—His worst enemy can ask nothing
more. If we don't convict him,—”
“You'll swallow the Congaree!”
“You may laugh now, but I doubt if you will to-morrow;
and I know that Ned Morton will be in no
humour to laugh, unless he does so because he likes
dancing in air much better than most people.”
“Well, well, Stockton;—we shall soon see enough.
To-morrow's never a far day off, and here comes Darcy
to relieve you. But as for your hanging Ned Morton,
why, man, your own troop will hardly suffer it.”
“Ha! will they not? Is that your hope?” said Stockton
with an exulting sneer.
“Perhaps!” replied the other with a smile.
The entrance of Darcy arrested the conference.
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CHAPTER XIX. A WITNESS SILENCED.
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The business of the two had reached its close before
the return of Darcy with the British guard which he had
released. Some other matters were adjusted between
them, and Lieutenant Stockton was, at length, permitted
to depart; while Watson Gray, at the same moment,
received from Darcy the still half drunken soldiery. It
may be supposed that neither Stockton nor Darcy was
altogether so well satisfied with the result of their expedition.
The game was fairly in their hands; but the
precipitation of Stockton, arising from a too great feeling
of security and a desire to exult over his threatened
victim, led to that exposure of his own person of which
Watson Gray so readily availed himself. The reproaches
of the subordinate were not spared.
“But it comes to the same thing,” said Stockton.
“He is still ours. He is pledged to appear at the trial.”
“Ay, but suppose he does not come?”
“Then the delay follows, and no worse evil. We
have men enough surely to pull the old house about his
ears.”
“With the loss of half of them! A dear bargain,”
replied the dissatisfied lieutenant.
“Not so bad either. We can starve them out in three
days. But there's no fear that Gray will not keep his
word. They will come to the trial. They flatter themselves
that we shall see nothing of Isaac Muggs, whom
they've sent away, and I told them of no other witness
than Brydone. I said nothing of that skulk, Joe Tanner.
He and Brydone are enough, and knowing the absence
of Muggs, they'll come boldly on the ground, and walk
headlong into the trap we've set for them.”
“It's well you've had that caution, Stockton; for, of
a truth, you have so far played your cards most rashly.
We've got desperate men to deal with, and that Watson
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Gray has a head that's equal to any other half dozen in
my acquaintance. There was another matter that your
proceeding spoiled.”
“What was that?”
“The gutting of the house.”
“Oh! that follows of course.”
“A bird in the hand, you know. They may have
time now to hide the valuables.”
“It will be a close hole that our boys can't creep into.
Where they've gone we can follow. But there's no
doubt, Darcy, that I've given up one chance which befriended
us. It's only putting off for to-morrow what
might have been done to-day. Our appetite will be only
so much the keener for the delay. Did you see Miss
Middleton?”
“Ay—did I not!” replied Darcy. “Look you, Stockton,
I stipulate for her. You must not think to swallow
all—rank, revenge, riches—and still yearn for beauty.
She must go to my share of the booty.”
“Yours! Pooh, Darcy, what should give you an
amorous tooth? Don't think of it, my good fellow.
I've set my mind upon her. It's a part of my revenge.
She's the game that's turned Ned Morton's head—it was
to disgrace him before her that made me blunder—and
unless I show him that she too is at my mercy, my
triumph will be only half complete.”
Darcy muttered something about the “lion's share,”
and his muttering reminded Stockton that he was too
valuable an assistant to be trifled with.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “let us not squabble about
a woman. I don't care a shilling about her. But she's
common stock, you know. It must be according to the
will of the troop.”
We forbear listening to other heads of their private
arrangements. They proceeded to rejoin their men and
to see about the disposition of their sentinels, in secrecy,
along the banks of the river, wherever they thought it
probable that a boat would effect a landing. They did
not bestow a very close watch along the land side, or in
the immediate neighbourhood of the house, for they well
knew that Morton could not escape, in his present
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condition of feebleness, by any but a water conveyance.
He was their chief object, and they regarded his fate as
now unavoidable.
The safety of the landlord, Muggs, it has been already
seen, was secured by the persevering and sleepless efforts
of his new comrade, John Bannister. When the latter
had swam the river, and joined him on the other side,
the two laid themselves quietly down to sleep in a place
of security, having resolved to get up at an early hour,
before dawn, and, urging their boat up stream with united
paddles, keep on the same side of the river until they
could, without detection, cross to that on which the
enemy lay. Their aim was to reach a point above the
usual landing places of the barony, and out of the reach,
accordingly, of the line of sentinels, each of which John
Bannister had beheld where he was placed. The worthy
scout was resolved to do all that he might, at any risk,
for the safety of Flora; and for her rescue from the ruthless
villains by whom her house was surrounded. He
did not conjecture the state of affairs between the former
captain of the Black Riders and his troop; and did not
fancy that there was any cause of apprehension for the
fate of Edward Conway, though such a conviction would
have given him but little uneasiness. At the appointed
hour he awakened his companion, struck a light, reloaded
his rifle, the flint of which he carefully examined;
and, having put himself and Muggs in as good condition
for a conflict as possible, he shoved his canoe up the
stream. The work was hard, but they achieved it. They
plied their paddles vigorously, until they were enabled,
with the help of the current, to round the jutting headland
where slept the remains of Mary Clarkson. They
had scarcely pulled into shore when they were startled
by the sudden rising of a human figure from the earth,
out of the bosom of which, and almost at their feet, he
seemed to emerge. Bannister pushed back from the
shore, but the friendly voice of Jake Clarkson reassured
him. He had effected his escape, in the general drunkenness
of the soldiery, though how that had been brought
about the could tell but little. Those who had drugged
their cups had evidently confounded him with the rest,
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for they furnished him with a portion of the potent beverage
also. Of this he drank nothing, and the consequence
of his sobriety was his successful effort to escape. In the
darkness he had been enabled to feel his way to the spot
where his daughter slept. He could give no farther explanation;
nor did Bannister annoy him on the subject.
He was content with the acquisition of a stout fellow,
whose aim was deadly, and who had contrived to secure
his rifle from loss in all his several mischances. That
he still carried upon his arm, and Bannister contented
himself with instructing him to get it in readiness.
“See to the flint and priming, daddy Jake, for the
time's a-coming when I wouldn't have you miss fire for
the best pole-boat on the Congaree.”
If there was toil among these honest fellows, and
among the outlaws in the neighbourhood of whose camp
they were hovering, there was toil and anxiety also in
the dwelling, to which, though with different feelings,
the eyes of both these parties were directed. Sleepless
and prayerful were the hours which the fair ladies of the
mansion passed after that wild and fearful interruption
which they experienced in the progress of the evening
meal. But, in the chamber of Edward Morton, a more
stern and immovable sentiment of apprehension prevailed
to increase the gloom of his midnight watch, and to
darken the aspects of the two who sat there in solemn
conference. Watson Gray, though he naturally strove
to infuse a feeling of confidence into the mind of his
superior, could not, nevertheless, entirely divest his
thoughts of the sombre tinge which they necessarily
took from his feelings, in considering the events which
the coming day was to bring forth. There was something
excessively humbling to a man like Edward Morton
in the idea of ever being tried for treachery by those
whom he had so often led;—and to be placed for judgment
before one whom he so heartily despised as Stockton,
was no small part of the annoyance. The assurances
which Watson Gray gave him did not touch this part of
his disquietude. The simple conviction of his ultimate
release could not materially lessen the pang which he
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felt at what he conceived to be the disgrace of such a
situation.
“Life or death, Gray,” he said, “is after all a trifling
matter. I have the one here;” touching the hilt of a
dirk which he had just placed within his bosom, “or
here,” and his fingers rested on the handle of the pistol
which lay beside him on the bed. “Either of these will
secure me from the indignity which this base scoundrel
would delight to fasten upon me; and, as for life, I believe
I love it no more than any other soldier who knows
the condition of the game he plays and the value of the
stake he lays down. But, to be hauled up and called to
answer to such a scamp, for such a crime, is, really, a
most shocking necessity. Can't we mend the matter no
way? Can't we tamper with some of the men? There
are a few whom you could manage. There's Butts, both
the Maybins, Joe Sutton, Peters, and half a dozen more
that were always devoted to me, though, perhaps, among
the more timid of the herd. If you could manage these;
if you could persuade them to join us here, with your
bull-head British allies, we should be able to make fight,
and finish the copartnership in that manlier way. By
Heaven, I'm stirred up with the notion! You must try
it! I shall be strong enough for any thing when the
time comes; and I feel, that in actual conflict with that
villain Stockton, I could not help but hew him to pieces.
Bring us to this point, Gray! Work, work, man, if you
love me! If your wits sleep, wake them. Now or
never! Let them save me from this d—nable situation
and bitter shame.”
The confederate shook his head despondingly.
“No doubt if we could get at these fellows, or any
half dozen in the troop, they might be bought over or
persuaded in some way to desert to us;—but, do you
not see that the difficulty is in getting at them? Were I
to venture among them I should be served just as I served
Stockton to-night. I should be hampered hand and foot,
with no such chance of making terms of escape as he
had. No, captain, I see no way to avoid the trial. You
must make up your mind to that. But, I don't see that
you will have any thing more to apprehend. Muggs is
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out of the way, and won't be back for three days. He's
safe. One witness is not enough, and as for Brydone—”
“D—n him! D—n him! The double-dyed traitor!
And he was paid so well too!”
“That was the mistake, I'm thinking. He got too
much for that last business. He considered it the last
job you'd ever give him, and he immediately cast about
for a new employer. He's got him, but I do not think
he'll keep him long.”
“May they cut each other's throats!” was the devout
prayer of the outlaw, to which Gray responded with a
deliberate
“Amen!”
What was farther said, between the two, that night,
was of the same temper and concerned the same business.
Their hopes and fears, plans and purposes, so far as
Watson Gray deemed it essential that his principal
should know them, underwent, as it was natural they
should, a prolonged examination. But Gray felt that the
outlaw would need all his strength for whatever events
might follow, and determined, therefore, upon leaving
him to repose. Besides, he had some schemes working
in his mind, which he did not declare to his principal,
and which it was necessary that he should discuss entirely
to himself. He had already taken care that his
score of men, by this time quite sobered, should be
strictly cautioned on the subject of their watch for the
night, and so placed, within the dwelling, as to baffle any
attempt at surprise or assault from without. The soldiers
did not now need much exhortation to vigilance. They
had already had some taste of the fruits of their misbehaviour,
as in their beastly incapability of resentment,
the outlaws had amused themselves with a rough pastime
at their expense, in which cuffs and kicks were the most
gentle courtesies to which the victims were subjected.
This done, Gray summoned the surgeon, Hillhouse, to a
brief conference, and assigned to him certain duties of
the watch also. Though a frivolous, foolish person, he
was temperate, and the chief object of Gray was to keep
the soldiers from any excess during an absence which, it
seems, he meditated, but which he did not declare to
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them. It was only necessary to intimate to Mr. Hillhouse
what havoc the Black Riders would make, if they
could once lay hands upon his variegated wardrobe, to
secure all the future vigilance of that gentleman. All
matters being arranged to his satisfaction, he stole forth
at midnight from the mansion, none knowing and none
suspecting his departure; and, with the practised arts of
a veteran scout, he contrived to take from the stables the
fleetest horse which they contained. Him he led, as
quietly as he could, into the woods which lay to the
west, and remote equally from the encampment and sentinels
of the Black Riders. Their watch was maintained,
with strictness, only on the river side; and, uninterrupted,
Gray soon succeeded in placing himself in full cover of
the forests, and out of the neighbourhood of the enemy's
sentinels. He kept within the cover of the woods only
so long as sufficed for safety; then, hurrying into the
main road, he pursued his way down the country, at a
rapid canter.
The object of Watson Gray, in part, may be conjectured,
by a recurrence to that portion of the dialogue
which he had with Stockton, in which the latter accounted
for the absence of Brydone, the most important witness,
whom he could array against the fidelity of Captain Morton.
He determined to go forth, meet Brydone, and bribe,
or dissuade him from his meditated treachery. He had,
if the reader will remember, wormed out of the less
acute and subtle Stockton, the cause of Brydone's absence;
the route which he would take, and the probable
time of his arrival in the morning. To keep him back
from the approaching trial he believed to be more important
than he allowed to appear to Morton. He knew that
their enemies would not be able to secure the testimony
of Muggs, the landlord, within the allotted time; even if
they succeeded, finally, in securing his person;—and he
did not doubt that Stockton was prepared with some
other witness, of whom he said nothing, in order the
more effectually to delude the defendant into the field.
This was, indeed, the case, as we have already seen from
the conference between Stockton and his more subtle
confederate, Darcy.
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“At all events,” solioquized the scout, “at all events,
it will be the safe policy to keep Brydone out of the way.
I must send him on another journey. He sleeps at Martin's
tavern. Let me see:—Martin's is but fourteen
miles. He can ride that at a dog-trot in three hours. He
will probably start at daylight, and calculate to take his
breakfast at the barony. That is Stockton's calculation.
I must baffle them. Brydone must put off eating that
breakfast.”
Watson Gray did not continue his horse at the same
pace at which he started. He drew up, after the first
five miles, and suffered him to trot and walk alternately.
He had not gone more than seven, when day broke upon
the forests, and the keen eyes of the scout were then set
to their best uses, as he surveyed the road upon which
he travelled. By the time the sun rose he had gone
quite as far as he intended. It was not a part of his
policy to be seen at Martin's tavern; or seen at all, by
any one, who might reveal the fact hereafter that he had
gone upon the same road over which Brydone was expected.
No man was better able to foresee, and provide
against all contingencies, than Watson Gray. His every
step was the result of a close calculation of its probable
effects for good and evil. He quietly turned into the
woods, when he had reached a thicket which promised
him sufficient concealment for his purposes. Here he
re-examined his pistols, which were loaded, each, with a
brace of bullets. He stirred the priming with his finger,
rasped the flints slightly with the horn handle of his
knife, and adjusted the weapons in his belt for convenient
use. He did not dismount from his saddle, but took care
to place himself in such a position, on the upper edge of
the thicket, as to remain unseen from below; while, at
the same time, the path was so unobstructed from above
as to permit him to emerge suddenly, without obstruction
from the undergrowth, at any moment, into the main
track. In this position he was compelled to wait something
longer than he had expected. But Watson Gray,
in the way of business, was as patient as the grave. He
was never troubled with that fidgety peevishness which
afflicts small people, and puts them into a fever, unless
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the winds rise from the right quarter at the very moment
when they are desired to blow. He could wait, not only
without complaint or querulousness; but, he prepared
himself to wait, just as certainly as to perform. To suffer
and to endure, he had sufficient common sense philosophy
to perceive, was equally the allotment of life. On
this occasion, he waited fully two hours, with no greater
sign of discontent, than could be conjectured from his occasionally
transferring his right and then his left leg from
the stirrup to the pommel of his saddle, simply to rest the
members, as they happened to be more or less stiffened
by the want of exercise. All the while, his eyes keenly
pierced the thicket below him, and his ears pricked up
like his steed's, which he also cautiously watched, with
the habitual readiness of a practised woodman. At length
the tedium of his situation was relieved. The tramp of a
horse was heard at a small distance, and as the traveller
came up to the thicket, Watson Gray quietly rode out beside
him.
“Ha! Watson Gray!” exclaimed the new comer, who
was the person expected.
“The same, Joe Brydone,” was the answer of Gray,
in tones which were gentle, quiet, and evidently intended
to soothe the alarm of the other, which was clearly conveyed
in his faltering accents, and in the sudden movement
of his bridle hand, which made his steed shy off to
the opposite side of the road. If his object was flight, it
did not promise to be successful, for the powerful and
fleet animal bestrode by Gray left him no hope to escape
by running from his unwelcome companion. This he
soon saw, and, encouraged perhaps by the friendly accents
of Gray's voice, was content to keep on with him
at the same pace which he was pursuing when they encountered.
But his looks betrayed his disquiet. He
had all the misgivings of the conscious traitor, apprehensive
for his treasonable secret. On this head Gray did
not leave him very long in doubt.
“I've been looking for you, Brydone.”
“Ah! why,—what's the matter.”
“Yes!—you're expected at the barony.”
“I know:—I'm on my way there now.”
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“Ned Morton expects you!”
“Who: the Captain?” with some surprise.
“Yes! a base charge is made against him by that
scoundrel Stockton, and he wants you to disprove it.”
“What's that?” demanded the other.
“Why, neither more nor less, than that the Captain
has been making preparations to desert the troop, in violation
of his oath.”
“Well, but Gray, that's the truth, you know;” said
Brydone with more confidence.
“How! I know!—I know nothing about it.”
“Why, yes you do. Didn't you send me yourself to
Isaac Muggs, and tell me what to say and do?”
“Brydone, you're foolish. If I sent you, didn't I pay
you for going; and isn't it a part of our business that you
should keep the secret if you keep the money? You
got paid for going, and got paid for keeping the secret;
and now we expect you to go up and prove this fellow
Stockton to be a liar and an ass.”
“I can't do it, Gray,” said the other, doggedly.
“And why not? There are more guineas to be got
where the last came from.”
“I don't know that,” was the reply.
“But you shall see. I promise you twenty guineas, if
you will swear to the truth, as I tell it to you, on this trial.”
“I can't, Gray. I've told the truth already to Captain
Stockton, and to more than him.”
“But you were under a mistake, Brydone, my good
fellow. Don't be foolish now. You will only be making
a lasting enemy of Captain Morton, who has always
been your friend, and who will never forget your treachery,
if you appear in this business against him.”
“His enmity won't count for much when they've tried
him, Gray. He must swing.”
“But mine will count for something. Would you be
making an enemy of me, also? If you go forward and
swear against him, you swear against me too.”
“I can't help it—it's the truth.”
“But where's the necessity of telling the truth at this
time of day? What's the use of beginning a new business
so late in life? You've told Stockton, it seems; go
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forwards then, and downface him that you never told him
a word on the subject, and I will be your security for
twenty guineas.”
“I can't;—I told Lieutenant Darcy also, and several
others.”
“Ah! that's bad—that's very bad. My dear Brydone,
that's unfortunate for all of us.”
“I don't see how its unfortunate for more than him;”
said Brydone, with recovered coolness.
“Why yes, it's a loss to you; a loss of money, and,
perhaps, something as valuable. But there's yet a way
how you may mend it, and prevent the loss. You shall
have the twenty guineas, if you'll just take the back
track down the country, and be gone for five days. I
don't care where you go, or what you do in the mean
time, so that you don't come within twenty miles of the
barony.”
“I can't think of it,” said the other obstinately.
Watson Gray regarded him earnestly, for a few moments,
before he continued.
“How a fellow of good sense will sometimes trifle
with his good fortune, and risk every thing on a blind
chance. Joe Brydone, what's got into you, that you
can't see the road that's safest and most profitable?”
“Perhaps I do;” replied the other with a grin of the
coolest self-complaisance.
He was answered by a smile of Gray, one of that
sinister kind which an observing man would shudder
to behold in the countenance of a dark, determined one.
“Brydone,” he said, “let me give you some counsel,—
the last, perhaps, I shall ever give you. You're in
the way of danger if you go to the barony. There
will be hot fighting there to-day. Captain Morton's
friends won't stand by and see him swing, to please a
cowardly scamp like Stockton. You can save yourself
all risk, and a good share of money besides, by taking
the twenty guineas, and riding down the road.”
“Ah, ha! Gray!—but what would be my share at
the gutting of the barony?”
“The share of a fool, perhaps, whose fingers are
made use of to take the nuts from the fire.”
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“No more fool than yourself, Watson Gray; and let
me tell you to look to yourself as well as the Captain.
There's more halters than one in preparation.”
“Ah! do you say so?” replied Gray, coolly, as the
other jerked up the bridle of his horse, and prepared to
ride forward.
“Yes! and I warn you that you had better take the
road down the country, rather than me. Your chance
isn't so much better than that of Ned Morton, that you
can stand by and see him hoisted, without running a
narrow chance of getting your own neck in the noose.
Now, take my word, you've given me what you call
good advice; I'll give you some in return. Do just
what you wanted me to do. Turn your horse's head,
and ride down the country, and don't trust yourself
within a day's ride of the barony. By hard pushing
you'll get to Martin's in time for breakfast, while I'll ride
for'ad and take mine at the barony.”
“You are very considerate, Joe—very. But I don't
despair of convincing you, by the sight of the twenty
guineas. Gold is so lovely a metal, that a handful of it
persuades where all human argument will fail; and I
think, that, by giving you a sufficient share of it to carry,
you will stop long enough, before you go on with this
cruel business. You certainly can't find any pleasure
in seeing your old friends hung; and when it's to your
interest, too, that they should escape, it must be the
worst sort of madness in you to go forward.”
“You may put it up. I won't look. I tell you what,
Watson Gray, I know very well what's locked up in
Middleton barony. I should be a pretty fool to take
twenty guineas, when I can get two hundred.”
Meantime, under the pretence of taking the money
from his bosom, Gray had taken a pistol from his belt.
This he held in readiness, and within a couple of feet
from the head of Brydone. The latter had pushed his
horse a little in the advance, while Gray had naturally
kept his steed in, while extricating the pistol.
“Be persuaded, Brydone:” continued Gray, with all
the gentleness of one who was simply bent to conciliate,
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“only cast your eyes round upon this metal, and you
will be convinced. It is a sight which usually proves
very convincing.”
But the fellow doggedly refused to turn his head,
which he continued to shake negatively.
“No! no!” he answered, “it can't convince me,
Watson Gray. You needn't to pull out your purse and
waste your words. Put up your money. I should be
a blasted fool to give up my chance at Middleton
barony, and Ned Morton's share, for so poor a sum as
twenty guineas.”
“Fool!” exclaimed Gray, “then die in your folly!
Take lead, since gold won't suit you;” and with the
words, he pulled trigger, and drove a brace of bullets
through the skull of his wilful companion. Brydone
tumbled from his horse without a groan.
“I would have saved the ass if he would have let
me,” said Gray, dismounting leisurely; and, fastening
his own and the horse of the murdered man in the
thicket, he proceeded to lift the carcass upon his
shoulder. He carried it into the deepest part of the
woods, a hundred yards or more from the road side,
and, having first emptied the pockets, he cast it down
into the channel of a little creek, the watery ooze of
which did not suffice to cover it. The face was down-wards,
but the back of his head, mangled and shattered
by the bullets, remained upward and visible through
the water. From the garments of Brydone he gleaned
an amount in gold almost as great as that which he had
tendered him; and, with characteristic philosophy, he
thus soliloquized while he counted it over and transferred
it to his own pockets.
“A clear loss of forty guineas to the foolish fellow.
This is all the work of avarice. Now, if his heart hadn't
been set upon gutting the barony, he'd have seen the
reason of every thing I said to him. He'd have seen that
it was a short matter of life and death between us. Him
or me! Me or him! Turn it which way you will, like
`96,'[3] it's still the same. I don't like to use bullets
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when other arguments will do: but 'twas meant to be
so. He wasn't to listen to arguments this time, and I
was to shoot him. He was a good runner, and that's
as much as could be said of him; but a most conceited
fool! Well, our reckoning's over. He's got his pay
and discharge, and Stockton's lost his witness. I was
fearful I'd have to shoot him, when I set out. The
foolish fellow! He wouldn't have believed it if I had
told him. With such a person feeling is the only sort
of believing; a bullet's the only thing to convince a hard
head. He's got it, and no more can be said.”
eaf366v2.n3[3] The two numbers which compose the name of the old State
district of Ninety-Six, expressing the same quantity when viewed
on either side, suggested to one of the members of the legislature
a grave argument for continuing the name, when a change was
contemplated—and effected—for that section of country. A better
argument for its preservation was to be found in the distinguished
share which it had in the Revolutionary struggle.
CHAPTER XX. A SEQUEL TO AN EVIL DEED.
The probable and ultimate task which Watson Gray
had assigned to himself, for performance, on quitting the
barony that morning, was fairly over; but the murderer,
by this sanguinary execution, did not entirely conclude
the bloody work which he had thus unscrupulously begun.
He was one of those professional monsters, whose
brag it is that they make a clean finish of the job, and
leave behind them no telltale and unnecessary chips
which they might readily dispose of out of sight. He
had no scruples in pocketing the money which he had
taken from the garments of Brydone; but he knew that
the horse of the murdered man could be identified, and,
accordingly, though with much more reluctance than he
had manifested in the case of his master, he decreed to
the animal the same fate. He brought him to the spot
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where he had thrown the body, and despatched him in
like manner, by putting a brace of bullets through his
head. Then, with all the coolness of the veteran ruffian,
he reloaded his weapons where he stood, and, having
done so, returned to the spot where his own steed had
been fastened. But the report of his last pistol had
awakened other echoes than such as were altogether desirable;
and he, who had so lately sent his fellow-creature
to his sudden and fearful account, was soon aroused
to the necessity of seeking measures for his own life and
safety. He had left the plain which he had made memorable
by his evil deed, not more than half a mile
behind him, when he was startled by the mellow note
of a bugle in his rear. A faint answer was returned
from above; and he now began to fear that his path
was beset by cavalry. Could it be that Stockton had
got some intimation of his departure from the barony,
and, suspecting his object, had set off in pursuit? This
was the more obvious interpretation of the sounds which
alarmed him. This was the most natural suspicion of
his mind. He stopped his horse for a few seconds on
the edge of the road, and partly in the cover of the wood;
undetermined whether to dismount and take the bushes,
or boldly dash forward and trust to the fleetness of his
steed. But for the difficulty of hiding the animal, the
former would have been the best policy. He chose a
middle course and rode off to the left, into the forest, at
as easy a pace as was possible. But he had not gone a
hundred yards before he espied the imperfect outlines of
three horsemen in a group, on the very line he was pursuing.
They were at some distance, and did not, probably,
perceive him where he stood. Drawing up his
reins, he quietly turned about, and endeavoured to cross
the road in order to bury himself in the woods opposite;
but, in crossing, he saw and was seen by at least
twenty other horsemen. The brief glimpse which was
afforded him of these men showed him that they were
none of Stockton's; but did not lessen, in any degree,
his cause of apprehension, or the necessity of his flight.
The pale yellow crescent which gleamed upon their caps
of felt or fur, and their blue uniforms, apprised him that
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they were the favourite troopers of Clarence Conway;
and the wild shout which they set up at seeing him, too
plainly told the eagerness with which they were resolved
to dash upon their prey. Gnashing his teeth in
the bitterness of his disappointment, he growled, in loud
soliloquy, as he drove the spurs into his charger's sides,
and sent him headlong through the woods.
“Hell's curses on such luck. Here, when all was as
it should be, to have him cross the track. It will be too
late to get back to the captain!”
At this time, the apprehensions of Watson Gray
seemed entirely given to his superior. The idea of his
own escape being doubtful, did not once seem to cross
his mind. He looked up to the sun, which was now
speeding rapidly onwards to his meredian summits, and
muttered,—
“Eight good miles yet, and how many twists and
turns beside, the d—l only knows! Would to Heaven
that Stockton would only come into the woods now.
There could be no more pretty or profitable game for
us, than to see his rascals, and these, knocking out each
other's brains. Where the deuse did Conway spring
from? He's after Stockton, that's clear; but what
brought him below? Not a solitary scoundrel of a
runner in all last week, to tell us any thing—no wonder
when we knock our skulls against the pine trees.”
Such were his murmurings as he galloped forwards.
The pursuit was begun with great spirit, from several
quarters at the same time; betraying a fact which Gray
had not before expected, and which now began to
awaken his apprehensions for his own safety. He was
evidently environed by his foes. There had been an
effort made to surround him. This, he quickly conjectured
to have been in consequence of the alarm which
he himself had given, by the use of firearms, in his late
performances.
“So much for firing that last pistol. It was not
needful. What did I care if they did find the horse
afterwards. Nobody could trouble me with the matter.
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But it's too late for wisdom. I must do the best. I
don't think they've closed me in quite.”
But they had. The very first pistol-shot had been
reported to Conway by one of his scouts, and the troop
had been scattered instantly, with orders to take a wide
circuit, and contract to a common centre, around the
spot whence the alarm had arisen. The second shot
quickened their movements, and their object was facilitated
by the delay to which Gray was subjected in the
removal of the body of Brydone, and in the search
which he afterwards made of the pockets of his victim.
He soon saw the fruits of his error—of that which is
scarcely an error in a sagacious scout—that Indian
caution which secures and smooths every thing behind
him, even to the obliteration of his own footsteps. He
had ridden but a few hundred yards farther, when he
discovered that the foe was still in front of him. Two
of the “Congaree Blues,” well mounted and armed,
were planted directly in his track, and within twenty
paces of each other. Both were stationary, and seemed
quietly awaiting his approach.
A desperate fight, or a passive surrender were only
to be avoided by a ruse de guerre. The chances of the
two former seemed equally dubious. Watson Gray
was a man of brawn, of great activity and muscle. He
would not have thought it a doubtful chance, by any
means, to have grappled with either of the foes before
him. He would have laughed, perhaps, at the absurdity
of any apprehensions which might be entertained in his
behalf, in such a conflict. But with the two, the case
was somewhat different. The one would be able to
delay him sufficiently long to permit the other to shoot,
or cut him down, at leisure, and without hazard. Surrender
was an expedient scarcely more promising.
The Black Riders had long since been out of the pale of
mercy along the Congaree; and the appeal for quarter,
on the part of one wearing their uniform, would have
been answered by short shrift and sure cord. But there
was a ruse which he might practise, and to which he
now addressed all his energies. He lessened the rapidity
of his motion, after satisfying himself by a glance behind
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him, that he was considerably in advance of the rear
pursuit. He was now sufficiently nigh to those in front
to hear their voices. They charged him to surrender
as he approached; and, with a motion studiously intended
for them to see, he returned the pistol to his belt,
which before he had kept ready in his hand. This was
a pacific sign, and his reply to the challenge confirmed
its apparent signification.
“Good terms—good quarter—and I'll surrender;”
was his reply.
“Ay, ay!—you shall have terms enough,” was the
answer; and the young dragoon laughed aloud at the
seeming anxiety with which the fugitive appeared to
insist upon the terms of safety. Gray muttered between
his teeth—
“He means good rope; but he shall laugh t'other side
of his mouth, the rascal!”
Maintaining an appearance studiously pacific, and
giving an occasional glance behind him, as if prompted
by terror, Gray took especial care to carry his horse to
the right hand of the farthest trooper, who was placed
on the right of his comrade, and, as we have said, some
twenty paces from him. By this movement he contrived
to throw out one of the troopers altogether, the
other being between Watson Gray and his comrade.
Approaching this one he began drawing up his steed,
but when almost up, and when the dragoon looked momentarily
to see him dismount, he dashed the spurs
suddenly into the animal's sides, gave him free rein, and
adding to his impetus by the wildest halloo of which his
lungs were capable, he sent the powerful steed, with
irresistible impulse, full against the opposing horse and
horseman. The sword of the trooper descended, but it
was only while himself and horse were tumbling to the
ground. A moment more, and Watson Gray went
over his fallen opponent with a bound as free as if the
interruption had been such only as a rush offers to the
passage of the west wind. But a new prospect of strife
opened before his path almost the instant after. One
and another of Conway's troop appeared at almost every
interval in the forest, the pursuing party were pressing
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forward with wild shouts of rage and encouragement
from behind, and a darker feeling, and far more solemn
conviction of evil, now filled the mind of the outlaw.
“A life's only a life, after all. It's what we all have
to pay one day or another. I don't think I shortened
Joe Brydone's very much, and if the time's come to
shorten mine, I reckon it wouldn't be very far off any
how. As for the captain, he don't know, and he'll be
blaming me, but I've done the best for him. It's only
on his account I'm in this hobble. I could easily have
managed Stockton on my own. Well, neither of us
knows who's to be first; but the game looks as if 'twas
nearly up for me. It won't be the rope though, I reckon.
No! No! I'm pretty safe on that score.”
The dark impressions of his mind found their utterance,
in this form, in the few brief moments that elapsed
after the discovery of his new enemy. They did not
seem disposed to await his coming forward, as had been
the case with the dragoon whom he had foiled and
overthrown. They were advancing briskly upon him
from every side. He would willingly have awaited
them without any movement, but for the rapidly sounding
hoofs in the rear. These drove him forward; and
he derived a new stimulus of daring, as he discovered
among the advancing horsemen the person of Clarence
Conway himself. Watson Gray had imbibed from his
leader some portion of the hate which the latter entertained,
to a degree so mortal, for his more honourable
and fortunate brother. Not that he was a man to entertain
much malice. But he had learned to sympathize
so much with his confederate in crime, that he gradually
shared his hates and prejudices, even though he lacked
the same fiery passions which would have provoked
their origination in himself. The sight of Clarence
Conway aroused in him something more than the mere
desire of escape. Of escape, indeed, he did not now
think so much. But the desire to drag down with
him into the embrace of death an object of so much
anxiety and hate, and frequent vexation, was itself a
delight; and the thought begat a hope in his mind,
which left him comparatively indifferent to all the
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dangers which might have threatened himself. He saw
Conway approaching, but he did not now wait for his
coming. To remain, indeed, was to subject him to the
necessity of throwing away his resources of death and
of defence, upon the less worthy antagonists who were
closing up from behind. Accordingly, drawing both
pistols from his belt, he dropped the reins of his horse
upon his neck, and gave him the spur.
“Beware!” cried Conway to the troopers around him,
as he saw this action—“the man is desperate.”
He himself did not seem to value the caution which
he expressed to others. He dashed forward to encounter
the desperate man, his broadsword waving above his
head, and forming, in their sight, the crescent emblem
of his followers. With loud cries they pressed forward
after his footsteps; but the splendid charger which
Conway bestrode, allowed them no chance of interposition.
The resolute demeanour, and reckless advance
of Conway, probably saved his life. It drew the precipitate
fire of Watson Gray, and probably disordered his
aim. The bullet shattered the epaulette upon Conway's
shoulder, and grazed the flesh, but scarcely to inflict a
wound. Before he could use the second, a henchman
of Conway's, a mere boy, rode up, and shivered the
hand which grasped it by a shot, almost sent at hazard,
from a single and small pistol which he carried. In another
moment the sweeping sabre of Conway descended
upon the neck of the outlaw, cutting through the frail
resistance of coat and collar, and almost severing the
head from the shoulders. The eyes rolled wildly for an
instant—the lips gasped, and slightly murmured, and
then the insensible frame fell heavily to the earth, already
stiffened in the silent embrace of death. The space of
time had been fearfully short between his own fate, and
that which the murderer had inflicted upon Brydone.
His reflections upon that person, may justify us in giving
those which fell from the lips of Clarence Conway, as
the victim was identified.
“Watson Gray!” said he, “a bad fellow, but a great
scout. Next to John Bannister, there was not one like
him on the Congaree. But he was a wretch—a bad,
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bloody wretch;—he's gone to a dread and terrible account.
Cover him up, men, as soon as you have searched
him. Lieutenant Monk, attend to this man's burial,
and join me below. We must see what he has been
about there. You say two pistol shots were heard?”
“Two, sir, about ten minutes apart.”
“Such a man as Watson Gray, never uses firearms
without good cause—we must search and see.”
Dividing his little force, Conway gave the order to
“trot,” and the troop was soon under quick motion,
going over the ground which they so recently traversed.
The search was keen, and as we may suppose, successful.
The body of Brydone and that of his horse were
found, but as he was unknown, it excited little interest.
That he was a Black Rider, and an enemy, was obvious
from his dress; and the only subject of marvel was,
why Watson Gray should murder one of his own fraternity.
It was midday before Clarence Conway took
up the line of march for Middleton Barony, and this
mental inquiry was one for which he could find no
plausible solution until some time after he had arrived
there. Let us not anticipate his arrival.
CHAPTER XXI. BUCKLING ON ARMOUR.
It may readily be supposed that the disappearance of
Watson Gray caused some uneasiness in the mind of his
principal; but when, hour after hour elapsed, yet brought
neither sign nor word which could account for his absence,
or remedy its evil consequences, the uneasiness of
the outlaw naturally and proportionately increased. The
fearful hour was speeding onwards to its crisis, as it
seemed, with more than wonted rapidity of time. The
aspect of events looked black and threatening. Wounded
and feeble, wanting in that agent who, in his own
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prostration, was the eye, and the wing, and the arm, of his
resolves, Edward Morton could not shake off the gathering
clouds of apprehension which hung heavy about his
soul. He had risen at the first blushing of the day, and,
with the assistance of a servant, contrived to put on his
garments. The sword which he was scarcely able to
wield,—certainly, with no efficiency—was buckled to his
side;—but his chief reliance, in the event of a last struggle,
lay in his pistols, of which an extra pair had been
provided by Watson Gray, the moment he discovered
the probable danger of his superior. As the day advanced,
and Gray did not appear, the outlaw felt it necessary
to make those preparations, the chief duty of
which now promised to devolve upon him; and with
some difficulty, descending to the lower story of the
house, he proceeded to drill his men in anticipation of
the worst. He had already resolved not to go further,
unless Gray made his appearance in season and counselled
the measure. He had, from the first, been opposed
to the trial; though he could not but acknowledge that
the arrangement had been most favourable, at the time,
which his confederate could hope to make. He was now
more thoroughly confirmed than ever in his determination
to keep his defences, and convert the mansion house into
a strong hold, which he would surrender only with his
life. The surgeon, Hillhouse, was present, with a double
share of resolution, to second his resolve. The picture
which Watson Gray had judiciously presented to his
mind, the night before, of the sacking of his various
wardrobe, by the sable mutineers, had been a subject of
sleepless meditation to him the whole night, and had imbued
him with a bitter disposition, to kill and destroy, all
such savage levellers of taste and fortune as should cross
his path or come within shooting distance from the windows.
His person was decorated with more than usual
care and fastidiousness that morning. He wore a rich
crimson trunk, that shone like flame even in the darkened
apartments. This was tapered off with stockings of the
softest lilac; and the golden buckles which glittered upon
his shoes, also served to bring “a strange brightness to
the shady place.” His coat, worn for the first time since
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he had reached the barony, was of the rich uniform of
the British Guards. Altogether, Surgeon Hillhouse, in
his present equipments, made a most imposing figure.
His person was not bad, though his face was monstrous
ugly; and he possessed a leg which was symmetry itself.
He measured at annual periods, the knee, the calf, and
the ankle, and by a comparison with every other handsome
leg in the army, he had been able to satisfy himself
that his was the perfect standard. It did not lessen the
military effect of his appearance, though somewhat incongruous
with his display in other respects, that he wore a
common belt of sable strapped about his waist, in which
were stuck half a dozen pistols of all sizes. He had a
taste in this weapon, and had accumulated a moderate assortment,
most of which were richly wrought and inlaid
with bits of embossed plate, of gold and silver; carvings
and decorations, which took the shapes of bird, beast,
and flower, according to the caprice or fancy of their
owner; or, it may be, the artist himself. The more serious
and stern outlaw met this display with a look of
scorn which he did not seek to suppress, but which the
fortunate self-complaisance of the other did not suffer him
to see.
“You don't seem, Mr. Hillhouse,” he observed, as
they met, “to anticipate much trouble or danger in this
morning's work.”
“Ah sir! and why do you think so?” demanded the
other with some curiosity.
“Your garments seem better adapted for the ballroom
and the dance, than for a field of blood and battle. You
may be shot, and scalped, or hung, sir, in the course of
the morning.”
“True, sir, and for that reason, I have dressed myself
in this fashion. The idea of this extreme danger, alone,
sir, prompted me to this display. For this reason I
made my toilet with extreme care. I consumed, in my
ablutions, an entire section of my famous Chinese soap.
You perceive, sir, in the language of the divine Shakspeare”—
stroking his chin complacently as he spoke,—
“`I have reaped the stubble field'—also my chin was
never smoother; and, in the conviction, sir, that I might
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be called upon this day, to make my last public appearance,
I have been at special pains to prepare my body,
to the best advantage, for the inspection of the fortunate
persons who will make the final disposition of it. To
die with dignity, and to appear after death with grace,
has been the reflection which has occupied my mind
this morning, as I made my toilet. If these rogues are
to inherit my wardrobe, let me make as much use of it
as I can. I may probably secure this suit to myself by
dying in it like a man.”
The outlaw scarcely heard these forcible reasons—
certainly he did not listen to them. He was already
busy in disposing, to the best advantage, of his half
score of muskets. The house was one of comparatively
great strength. It was of brick, built for service, and
had been more than once defended against the assaults
of the Congarees. With an adequate force it might
have been held against any assailants, unless they
brought artillery. But the little squad of Edward Morton
was wretchedly inadequate to its defence, even
against the small force of Stockton. It required all of
his skill, courage and ingenuity to make it tolerably
secure. He now more than ever felt the absence of
Watson Gray. The readiness of resource which that
wily ruffian possessed, would, no doubt, have been
productive of very important assistance. Even if the
garrison could hold out against assault, they could not
hope to do so against famine. The provisions of the
plantation were already at the mercy of the Black
Riders.
The outlaw surveyed his prospects with sufficient
misgivings. They were deplorable and discouraging
enough. But he never once thought of faltering. His
soul felt nothing but defiance. His words breathed
nothing but confidence and strength. He laughed—he
even laughed with scorn—when Hillhouse said something
of a capitulation and terms.
“Terms, sir! ay, we'll give and take terms—such
terms as lie at the point of these bayonets, and can be
understood from the muzzle of gun and pistol. Terms,
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indeed! Why do you talk of terms, sir, when we can
beat and slay the whole gang of them in twenty minutes!
Let them approach and give us a mark at all,
and what chance can they have, with their pistols only,
against these muskets? Really, Mr. Hillhouse, for a
gentleman of high rank in his majesty's army, I am surprised
that you should hold such language. If you
dread the result, sir,—you are at liberty to leave the
house this very moment. Go, sir, to a place of safety,
if you can find it; or make your own terms with our
enemies, as you or they please. Try it, and you'll find
that your fine clothes will be one of the best arguments
for hanging you to the first tree;—the Black Riders
have long since learned that the finest bird is to be
first plucked. We shall remain where we are, and
probably inherit your wardrobe after all.”
The surgeon was abashed and confounded for the
moment. He had not often been compelled to listen to
such language; nor did the outlaw intend it so much
for the ears of the person whom he addressed as for
those who listened around him. He knew the value of
big words and bluster, in a time of doubt and danger,
to the uninformed and vulgar mind. He felt that nothing
could be hoped for, at the hands of his small
party, if any of them were suffered to flinch or falter.
He knew the importance of all that he himself said; but
the surgeon did not once suspect it. He recovered
from his astonishment, and, after a brief delay, his
wounded pride found utterance.
“Really, sir,—Mr. Conway, your language is exceedingly
objectionable. I shall be constrained to notice it,
sir; and to look for redress at your hands at the earliest
opportunity.”
“Any time, sir—now,—when you please—only don't
afflict me with your apprehensions. If you cannot see,
what is clear enough to the blindest mule that ever
ploughed up a plain field, that these scoundrels stand
no sort of chance against us, in open assault,—no
words of mine, or of any man, can make you wiser.
Like Rugely, you would surrender, I suppose, at the
enforcement of a pine log.”
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A hearty laugh of the soldiers attested the inspiriting
which they had imbibed from the confident bearing and
words of Morton, and their familiarity with an anecdote
which, but a little time before, had provoked much
mirth in both parties at the expense of a provincial
officer, in the British army.[4] It may be supposed that
this burst of merriment did not diminish the anger of
Hillhouse; but he contented himself with saying that
he should “bide his time.”
“You are right, sir, in this respect;” said Morton—
“we have neither of us any time for private squabbles.
Do your duty manfully to-day, Mr. Hillhouse, and if we
survive it, I shall be ready to apologize to you to-morrow,
or give you whatever satisfaction will please you
best. But now to work. These shutters must be
closed in and secured.”
The lower story was completely closed up by this
proceeding. The shutters, of solid oak, were fastened
within, and, ascending to the upper story, Morton disposed
his men in the different apartments, with strict
warning to preserve the closest watch from the windows,
at every point of approach. Having completed
his disposition of the defences, he requested an interview
with the ladies of the house, which was readily
granted. The outlaw and surgeon were accordingly
ushered into an antechamber in which, amidst the stir
and bustle of the events going on below, they had taken
refuge. The gentlemen were received with kindness
At such moments—moments of sudden peril and unexpected
alarm—the human ties assert their superiority,
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over the forms of society and the peculiar habits of education,
through the medium of our fears; and even the
suspicions which the ladies might have had, touching
the character of Edward Morton—whom they knew
only as Edward Conway—and the contempt which
they felt for the fopperies of Hillhouse, gave way entirely
before the pressing and mutual necessities which
prevailed to the probable danger of the whole. But, in
truth, the appearance of the outlaw, at that moment of
his own superior peril, was well calculated to command
the admiration even of those who loved him not. Man
never looks so noble as when he contends calmly with
the obvious danger—when, aware of all its worst
characteristics, he yet goes forth to the encounter with
a stern deliberate purpose, which sustains him unshrinking
to the last, and suffers him, at no moment, to
seem palsied, weak or indecisive. Edward Morton
wore the aspect of this firmness, in the presence of the
ladies. They knew that he was the destined victim
whom the Black Riders professed to seek, and seek
only;—they knew not exactly why—but their conjecture,
naturally enough, in the absence of more certain
reasons,—assumed it to be in consequence of his Americanism.
Whatever might be the cause, to be the foe
of the Black Riders was, in all likelihood, to be the
friend of virtue and the right; and as he stood before
them, erect for the first time after weeks of painful sickness
and prostration,—more erect than ever—with a
demeanour that did not presume in consequence of his
situation,—nor challenge, by doubtful looks and tremulous
tones, that sympathy which might well be asked
for, but never by, “the brave man struggling with the
storms of fate;”—he insensibly rose in the estimation
of both, as his person seemed to rise nobly and commandingly
in their sight. His voice was gentle and
mournful—in this, perhaps, he did not forbear the exercise
of some of his habitual hypocrisy. He did not forget
for a moment that the keen glances of Flora Middleton
were upon him; and like most men of the world, he
never forgot that policy which casts about it those
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seeds which, as they ripen into fruit,—whatever the degree
of probability,—the same hand may gather which
has sown.
“Ladies, I am sorry to tell you that my presence has
brought danger to your house.”
The venerable lady replied promptly,—
“I trust, Mr. Conway, that with the assistance of
your followers you will be able to keep the danger
from it.”
“Alas, madam! I must not disguise from you the
truth—we are as one to ten only;—we may slay many
of the assailants, but if they are led by ordinary courage,
they may eat through these walls in our despite.
I have one hope that Watson Gray, who left the house
last night, will return in season, with a sufficient force
to baffle them in their attempts. All that can be done
now will be to keep off the moment of danger—to parry
for awhile, and protract as long as we can, the storm
which will come at last.”
“Mr. Conway,—I would not disparage your judgment
or your valour,—but, the late General Middleton,
when scarcely at your years, beat off three hundred
Congarees from the very threshold of this dwelling.”
The outlaw replied modestly with a bow of the
head,—
“We will do what we can do, Mrs. Middleton, but
we have a poor squad of ten men in all, not including
Mr. Hillhouse and myself. I have no doubt Mr. Hillhouse
will do his duty as becomes him—”
“As becomes a gentleman fighting in the presence of
the fairest lady—”
Morton continued his speech in season to interrupt
some stiltish common-place of the surgeon, which could
only have been digusting to the ladies.
“As for myself, you know my condition. I can die—
I need not, I trust, say, that no man could feel it
hard to do so, under such circumstances as prevail over
us at present—but I have little strength to make my
death expensive to our enemies. There is one thing,
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Mrs. Middleton, that I have deferred speaking to the
last.”
He hesitated, and his eyes were fixed sadly for a
moment upon the face of Flora, then, as he met her
glance, they were instantly averted.
“What is that, sir?” demanded the old lady.
“It is this, madam:—there is one proceeding by
which it is yet possible to avert from your dwelling
the strife which will shortly threaten it.”
“In God's name, sir, let it be resorted to—”
“If it be right,—if it be proper, only, mother;” cried
Flora earnestly, putting her hand upon the wrist of her
grandmother.
“Certainly—surely, my child;” was the reply. “Peace
and safety are to be purchased only by just conduct.
Speak, Mr. Conway, what is the alternative?”
“Professedly, madam, these ruffians seek me, alone,
of all this household. I am the sole object of their hate—
the victim whom they have singled out for their
special vengeance. Were I in their hands—”
“Surely, Mr. Conway, you would not think so meanly
of my mother and myself,” was the hasty interruption
of Flora Middleton, “as to fancy that we could be
pleased at your giving up any security, however partial,
such as our house affords you, because of the possible
annoyance to which we might be subjected on
account of this banditti. I trust that you will be able
to defend the house, and I hope that you will do so to
the last.”
The outlaw seemed to catch fire at the manner of the
generous girl. Her own flashing eyes were full of a
flame to impart enthusiasm to the dullest spirit; and he
exclaimed with a more genuine feeling of zeal than
was usual with him—
“And, by heavens! I will! You have stifled the
only doubts which I had of the propriety of making
your house my castle. I need not say to you that the
hostility of these scoundrels to me, is, perhaps, little
more than a pretence. Even were I given up to them,
and in their hands, they would probably sack your
dwelling. They are, just now, I suspect, released from
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nearly all restraint and subjection, and about to fly
the country. Lord Rawdon has gone, or is on his way
below, by another route, with all his forces; and the
men of Sumter, Lee, and Marion, are pressing at the
heels of his lordship. Perhaps, I speak with literal
accuracy when I say that your safety depends on mine.
If I fail to make good the house against these Black
Riders—you already know their character—I tremble
for you! Your safety shall be no less in my thoughts
during this conflict, than my own; and I repeat, once
more, my readiness to die before outrage and violence
shall cross your threshold.”
“We thank you, sir,—from the bottom of our hearts,
we thank you, Mr. Conway—”
Morton bowed, as he interrupted the strain of feminine
acknowledgment:
“Let me now beg you to seek the garret—there you
will be in tolerable safety. If we do not again meet,
do me the justice to believe that I spared neither limb
nor life, in your behalf. I may fall, but I will not falter.”
“God be with you, Mr. Conway!” was the ejaculation
of both ladies. A blush tinged the cheek of the outlaw,
a tremulous emotion passed through his veins. When
before had the pure of the purer sex, uttered such an
invocation in his behalf? “Can it be an omen of ill,”—
such was his reflection—“that it is spoken, as it would
seem, in the last moment of my career?”
“I thank you, Mrs. Middleton—I thank you,”—to
Flora, but he did not speak her name. The direction
of his eye indicated the person to whom he spoke. His
look and air were not unadroit. He still remembered
his policy; and Flora Middleton fancied, as she turned
away, that she had not often seen a nobler-looking
personage. The contrast between himself and Mr.
Hillhouse, perhaps, helped to strengthen this impression.
A grave monkey is of all objects the most lugubrious,
and the plain statements of the outlaw had suddenly
made the surgeon very grave. He really did not
imagine that things were in so deplorable a condition.
Thinking over them rendered him forgetful of his fine
sayings, and the attempt which he made to throw some
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pathos into his parting address to the ladies, was ridiculous,
without being easy, and elaborate and strained
without being flowing or graceful. When they had
gone, Mr. Hillhouse found a more ready tongue, and
once more began to intimate the propriety of terms and
a flag of truce.
“In India once, an affair of the Sepoys,—very much
like the present—a sort of meeting and insurrection—”
“No more of this nonsense,” said Morton, with the
old habit of command which belonged to the captain of
the fierce banditti by which he was now threatened.
“It's time, Mr. Hillhouse, to be a man, if you ever hope
to be like one. Do you hear that trumpet, sir? It is a
summons! It opens the business! You talk of terms
and overtures! How do you like the idea of making
them from the balcony of yonder porch? What?—it
does not please you? Yet it must be done. Musketeers,
to the windows! Cover the approach to the
porch, and shoot as I bid—see that no man comes
within pistol-shot. I, myself, will parley with those
scoundrels.”
The door of the great passage way which divided
the dwelling centrally, was thrown open, and the outlaw
presented himself in the balcony to the eyes of the
Black Riders, who had assembled, some thirty or forty
in number, in detached groups, about fifty yards from
the building. A yell of ferocious exultation hailed his
appearance from below, and attested the excited feelings
of malicious hate with which they had been
wrought upon to regard their ancient leader.
eaf366v2.n4[4] Colonel Rugely had command of a British stockade near Camden,
which was garrisoned by an hundred men. It was summoned
by Colonel William Washington. “Washington was without artillery;
but a pine log, which was ingeniously hewn and arranged
so as to resemble a field-piece, enforced, to the commander of the
post, the propriety of surrendering, at the first summons of the
American colonel. This harmless piece of timber, elevated a few
feet from the earth, was invested by the apprehension of the garrison
with such formidable power, that they were exceedingly glad
to find a prompt acceptance of their submission.”—History of South
Carolina, p. 187.
CHAPTER XXII. THE SIEGE AND STORM.
A smile of mixed bitterness and derision passed over
the lips of the outlaw as he hearkened to the rude but
mighty uproar.
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“Dogs!” he muttered, “there was a time when I
would have made you crouch beneath the lash to your
proper attitude!—and I may do so yet. I am not wholly
powerless even now!”
As they shouted, an involuntary movement was
made by several among them. They rushed towards
him, as if their purpose had been to approach him with
determined violence. Several of these were dismounted,
and these, waving their pistols aloft, were evidently
disposed to bring themselves within the necessary distance
which should permit of the certain use of their
weapon. But Morton, in the intervals of their clamour,
suffered them to hear his brief, stern command to the
musketeers, whom they might behold at the windows,
in readiness and watchful.
“Shoot down the first scoundrel that advances with
arms. Take good aim and spare none, unless I bid ye!”
This order produced a pause in their career. Some
incertitude seemed to prevail among them, and, at
length, Morton distinguished, beneath a tree in the distance,
the persons of Stockton, Darcy, and two others,
who were evidently busy in the work of consultation.
He, himself, quietly took his seat upon one of the
benches in the balcony, and patiently waited the result
of this deliberation. His pistols, broad-mouthed and
long, of the heaviest calibre, were ready in his hand
and belt, and all well loaded with a brace of balls.
Meanwhile, his resolute appearance, placid manner,
and the indifference which his position displayed, were
all provocative of increased clamours and commotion
among the crowd. They were evidently lashing themselves
into fury, as does the bull when he desires the
conflict for which he is not yet sufficiently blinded and
maddened. Cries of various kinds, but all intended to
stimulate their hostility to him, were studiously repeated
by the emissaries of his successor. Not the less influential
were those which dilated upon the spoils to be
gathered from the contemplated sack of the barony—
an argument which had most probably been more
potent than any other in seducing them away from
their fealty to the insubordinate desires of Stockton.
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Morton watched all these exhibitions without apprehension,
though not without anxiety; and when he turned,
and gave a glance to his few followers within the house—
drilled men, stubborn and inflexible, who could easier
die, under the command to do so, than obey the impulse
to flight, without hearing the “retreat” sounded—but
who had no other resources of mind and character beyond
the dogged resolution taught by their military life—
his heart misgave him. He felt what he himself
might do in command of the Black Riders against such
defenders as he then possessed; and he did not deceive
himself as to the probable result. One hope yet remained.
It was that Watson Gray was somewhere
busy in his behalf. His eyes often stretched beyond
the park, in the direction of the high road, in the vain
hope to see his confederate, with some hastily gathered
recruits, marching to his rescue. At that very moment
Gray was quivering in the few brief agonies of death,
which he endured under the sabre of Clarence Conway.
The deliberations of Stockton and his confederates
were soon at an end, and, with them, the doubts of the
outlaw. Stockton himself made his appearance in the
foreground, bearing a white handkerchief fastened to a
sapling. His offensive weapons he ostentatiously spread
out upon the earth—at some distance from the mansion—
when he came fairly into sight. His course, which
was intended to inspire confidence in himself, among
his followers, had been dictated by Darcy.
“They must see that you're as bold as Ned Morton.
He comes out full in front and you must do no less.
You must go to meet him. It will look well among
the men.”
There were some misgivings in Stockton's mind as
to the probable risk which he incurred; nor was Darcy
himself entirely without them. Morton, they knew to
be desperate; and if he could conjecture their intentions
toward him, they could very well understand how
gladly he would avail himself of the appearance of
Stockton to extinguish the feud in his blood. The idea,
in fact, crossed the mind of Morton himself.
“That scoundrel!”—he muttered as Stockton
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approached him—“is the cause of all. Were he out of
the way—and a single shot does it!—but, no! no!—he
has put down his arms; and then there's that base
scoundrel Darcy in the background. Were I to shoot
Stockton, he would bring out another of these bloodhounds
to fill his place. I should gain nothing by it.
Patience! Patience! I must bide my time, and wait
for the turn of the die.”
Meanwhile, Stockton advanced, waving aloft his
symbol of peace. Morton rose at his approach, and
went forward to the railing of the balcony.
“Well,”—he demanded—“for what purpose does
Lieutenant Stockton come?”
“Captain Stockton, if you please. He comes to know
if you are ready to deliver yourself up for trial by the
troop, as was agreed upon by Watson Gray yesterday.”
“Let Watson Gray answer for himself, Captain or
Lieutenant Stockton. He will probably be upon your
backs with Coffin's cavalry in twenty minutes. For
me, sirrah—hear the only answer I make. I bid you
defiance; and warn you now to get back to your covert
with all expedition. You shall have five minutes to
return to your confederates; if you linger after that
time—ay, or any of your crew—you shall die like
dogs. Away!”
The retort of Stockton was that of unmeasured abuse.
A volume of oaths and execrations burst from his lips;
but Morton, resuming his seat, cried to the musketeers—
“Attention—make ready—take aim!”
Enough was effected, without making necessary the
final command, to “fire.” Stockton took to his heels,
in most undignified retreat; and, stumbling before he
quite regained the shelter of the wood, fell, head foremost,
and was stretched at full length along the earth,
to the merriment of some and the vexation of others
among his comrades. The fury of the conspirator was
increased by this event; and he proceeded, with due
diligence, to commence the leaguer. His corps were suddenly
commanded to disappear from the open ground;
and when Edward Morton saw them again, they were
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in detached parties, preserving cover as well as they
could, along the edges of the park, the avenue, a small
thicket of sassafras and cedar that lay along the northern
skirts of the mansion-house, and such of the outhouses
and domestic offices, as could bring them near
enough to act upon the defenders without exposure of
themselves. The body thus distributed was formidably
numerous when compared with that of Morton. His
estimate made them little less than sixty men. Immediately
in front, though beyond the sure reach of musketry,
Stockton, himself, prepared to take his stand,
surrounded by some half dozen of his troop; and among
these, to the increased annoyance of Morton, he saw
one who unslung a rifle from his shoulder. At this
sight he at once withdrew from the balcony, secured
the door, and commanded his musketeers to sink from
sight, and avoid unnecessary exposure. The warning
was just in season. In the very instant while he spoke
the glass was shattered above his own head, and the
sharp, clear sound which accompanied the event attested
the peculiar utterance of the rifle.
“A little too much powder, or a young hand,” said
Morton coolly. “Give me your musket, one of you?”
He took his place at the window, detached the bayonet
from the muzzle of the gun, and handed it back to
the soldier.
“But for the steel”—meaning the bayonet—“the
smooth bore would be a child's plaything against that
rifle. But I have made a musket tell at a hundred
yards, and may again. We must muzzle that rifle if
we can.”
The gun was scarcely lifted to the eyes of the speaker
before its dull, heavy roar was heard, awakening all the
echoes of the surrounding woods. The men rushed to
the window, and as the smoke lifted, they perceived
that the party of Stockton was dispersed, while one
man stood, leaning, as if in an attitude of suffering,
against a tree. The rifle, however, appeared in another
hand at some little distance off. Morton shook his head
with dissatisfaction, as he recollected that while there
were fifty men in the ranks of the enemy, to whom the
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rifle was a familiar weapon, to disarm one, or a dozen,
was to do little or nothing for his own and for the safety
of his party. In a few moments after sudden cries and
a discharge of firearms from the opposite quarter of
the building betrayed the beginning of the strife where
Mr. Hillhouse commanded.
“Keep as well covered as you can, men; but watch
well that they do not close in with you. You are but
twelve feet above them, and at that distance a pistol is
quite as dangerous as a musket. I leave you for an
instant, only, to look at the rear.”
There, he found Hillhouse, doing his duty as bravely
as if he had no fine uniform at hazard.
“You take a needless risk,” said Morton, as he beheld
him flashing one of his pretty, but trifling weapons,
at the invaders, and exposing, the while, his entire person
to their aim. “There will be time enough for that
when they are pressing through the breach.”
“They are at it now,” said the other, with a momentary
forgetfulness of all his circuitous phraseologies.
“They've got ladders, and are trying to mount.”
“Indeed!” cried the outlaw, drawing his sabre from
the sheath, and pushing Hillhouse aside, with a seeming
forgetfulness of his own wounds and infirmities. He
approached the window, and saw the truth of the surgeon's
representations. A squad of the Black Riders
had, indeed, pressed forward to the wall sufficiently
nigh to plant against it, the rack, which they had taken
from the stables; and which furnished them a solid and
sufficient ladder to carry up two men abreast. Hillhouse,
in his haste, had suffered the four musketeers
who had been allowed him, for the defence of the rear,
to fire simultaneously, and, in the interval required by
them to reload their pieces, the ladder had been planted,
and half a dozen sable forms were already darting
upward, upon its rungs.
“Reload, instantly!” Morton cried to the musketeers.
“Keep your small pistols for close conflict, Mr. Hillhouse—
they are fit for nothing better.”
The now cool, observing outlaw, receded a moment
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from the window, while a blaze of pistol-shot from
without, shivered the glass. He awaited this discharge,
only, to advance, and with better aim, to level
a brace of pistols at the same moment, among his foes,
just when the ladder was most darkened, and trembling,
with their forms. Of the foremost assailants, when the
broad muzzles met their glance, one dashed resolutely
forward up the ladder, but received the bullet through
his brain and tumbled headlong backwards; while the
other, with less audacity, endeavouring to retreat,
was forced onward by those behind him. He had the
alternative only, of throwing himself over, which he
did at the risk of a broken neck; and the bullets of the
remaining pistol, which Morton had drawn from his
belt, were expended upon the rest of the scaling party,
by whom they were utterly unexpected. This discharge
had the effect of clearing the ladder for an
instant; and Morton, commanding two of the musketeers,
who had now reloaded, to keep the enemy at
a distance, by a close watch from an adjoining window,
endeavoured, with the aid of the remaining two, to
draw the ladder up, and into the window, against which
it rested. But the weight of the massive frame was
infinitely beyond their strength; and the outlaw contented
himself with cutting away the rungs, which
formed its steps, with his sabre, as far as his arm could
reach. He had not finished this labour ere he was
summoned to the front. There, the enemy had also
succeeded in drawing the fire of the musketeers; and
then, closing in, had effected a permanent lodgment
beneath the porch below. This was a disaster. Under
the porch they were most effectually sheltered from
any assault from above, and could remain entirely out
of sight, unless they themselves determined otherwise.
How many of them had succeeded in obtaining this
cover, could not be said by the soldiers. Their conjecture,
however, represented it at ten at least—a force
fully equal to that which was engaged in the defence.
The brow of Morton grew darker as he discovered
this circumstance. The net of the fates was evidently
closing around him fast; and, for a moment, he gazed
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anxiously over the distant stretch of the road, in the
fond hope to see Watson Gray riding in to his succour.
But he turned away in hopelessness at last. His
despondency did not, however, lead to any relaxation
of his courage, or of that desperate determination,
which he entertained, to make the fight as terrible to
his foes as their hostility threatened to be terrible to
him. A momentary cessation of the strife appeared to
have taken place. The outlaws, who were beneath the
balcony, remained perfectly quiescent.
“They can do nothing there, unless we let them.
Now, men, do you keep your arms ready. Throw
away no shot at the cracking of a pistol. What should
it matter to you if the fools snap their puppies at you
all day at a distance of fifty yards. Let no more of
them join these below the porch, if you can help it—let
none of these get away if bullets can stop their flight;
but do not all of you fire at once. Keep one half of
your muskets always in reserve for the worst.”
While giving these instructions, Morton was prepared
in getting his own weapons in readiness. The
strife once begun, with the loss of men to the assailants,
could not, he well knew, come to an indefinite or sudden
conclusion. There was to be more of it, and his chief
apprehensions now arose from the party which had
found lodgment under the portico below. To the lower
story he despatched one of his soldiers, whom he instructed
to remain quiet, in the under passages of the
house, in order to make an early report of any movements
which might take place in that quarter. He had
scarcely adopted this precaution before the clamours of
battle were again renewed in the part where Hillhouse
was stationed. Twenty shots were fired on both sides,
without intermission, in as many seconds, and, in the
midst of all, a deep groan and the fall of a heavy body
in the adjoining room, struck cold to the heart of
Morton. He could ill afford to lose any one of his
small array. He hurried to the scene of operations,
and found that one of the soldiers had fallen. He still
lived, but the wound was in his bosom; and a hurried
inspection showed it to be from the fatal rifle. The
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ragged orifice, wrought by the peculiar revolutions of
the deadly twist, was large enough to have received a
small fowl egg. The dying man looked up to the outlaw,
as if to ask if there was any hope. So Morton
understood the appealing inquiry in his eyes, and he
answered it with soldierly frankness.
“Make your peace with God, my good fellow; it's
all over with you. You'll be dead in five minutes.”
The man groaned once, shivered fearfully, then turned
upon his face. His arms were once stretched out—his
fingers endeavoured to grasp the floor, then relaxed,
then stiffened, and he lay unconscious of the rest. He
was dead. Morton stepped over his body and took a
hurried glance at the window.
“We have shot three of them,” said Hillhouse.
“Would it were thirty! But all will not do. Are
you loaded, men, and ready?”
“Yes!” was the answer of all.
“Then keep ready, but keep out of sight. Wait till
they mount the ladder, expend no more shot, but rely
on the push of the bayonet. There are four of you, and
they have but the one ladder. The rifle cannot be used
while they are on it, and at no other time need you
show yourselves.”
Such were the hurried directions of the outlaw, which
were interrupted by the renewal of the conflict. Once
more they were upon the ladder, but this time the
clamours arose also in front.
“Oh, for twenty muskets, but twenty”—cried the
now thoroughly aroused Morton, as he made his way
once more to the little squad which he had left in
front—“and dearly should they pay for this audacity!
Nay, if I only had my own strength!”—he murmured,
as he leaned, half fainting, against the door lintel in the
passage. A new assault from another quarter, aroused
him to the consciousness of his increasing dangers, and
stimulated him anew with the strength to meet it. The
thunders of an axe were heard against the lower door
of the entrance, and from the portico where the party
had previously found a lodgment.
“This was what I feared! The trial, the danger, is
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here at last! But the game is one at which both of us
may do mischief. I must be there to meet them.
Heaven send that Stockton may be the first to find
entrance!”
The soldier now appeared from below giving him the
information, which he no longer needed, of the dangers
that threatened from that quarter. The cheering reply
of Morton sent him down again.
“Ay, ay, back to your post! You shall have help
enough before they get in—before you need it.”
From the upper part of the house he drew all the
soldiers with the exception of three. One of these kept
his place in the front, the other two in the rear, where
the attempt had been made to force an entrance by
means of the ladder. These stations were left under
the direction of the surgeon. The greater danger was
now below. He regarded the efforts of those above to
be feints simply.
“Mr. Hillhouse, you have only to be wary. Your
two bayonets, with your own pistols, will keep down
all your enemies. But, should you apprehend otherwise,
draw the musket from the front of the house to
your assistance. There is perhaps less likelihood of
assault from that quarter. Below, the struggle must be
made hand to hand. The passage is narrow, and six
stout men may be able to keep it against twenty.
Farewell, sir—be firm—I may never see you again.”
The surgeon had some tender philosophy, gleaned
from his usual vocabulary of common-places, to spend,
even at such a moment, and Morton left him speaking
it. He hurried down stairs with the six soldiers, whom
he stationed in the passage-way, but a little in the background,
in order that they should not only escape any
hurt from the flying fragments of the open door as it
should be hewn asunder, but that a sufficient number
of the banditti might be allowed to penetrate and crowd
the opening. Meanwhile the strokes of the axe continued
with little interval. The door was one of those
ancient, solid structures of oak, doubled and plated
with ribs which, in our day, might almost be employed
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for beams and rafters. It had been constructed with
some reference to a siege from foes who used no artillery;
and its strength, though it did not baffle, yet
breathed not a few of the assailants, before it yielded to
the final application of the axe. As the splinters flew
around them, Morton wiped the heavy and clammy
dews from his forehead. Cold chills were upon him,
and yet he felt that there was a burning fever in his
brain. The excitement was too great;—the transition
from the bed of wounds and sickness, he felt, must
work the most fatal effects even if he survived the
struggle. But the solemn conviction had at length
reached his soul that he was not to survive. The awful
truth had touched his innate mind, that in a few hours
he must be a portion of the vast, the infinite, the strange
eternity.
“Surely! I shall not find it hard!” was the audible
speech which this conviction forced from him. He
started at the sound of his own voice. Thought was
painful and torturing. The pause which had been
allowed him, left him only to agony; and he longed for
the coming on of the strife, and the reckless conflict, to
relieve him, by their terrible excitements, from thoughts
and feelings still more terrible. This relief, dreadful as
it threatened to be, was now at hand. The massive
bolts which secured the frame-work of the door were
yielding. Some of the panels were driven in—and the
soldiers were preparing to lunge away, through the
openings, at the hearts of the assailants. But this
Morton positively forbid. In a whisper, he commanded
them to keep silent and in the background. Their
muskets were levelled, under his direction, rather under
breast height, and presented at the entrance;—and, in
this position, he awaited, with a stillness like that which
precedes the storm, for that moment when he might
command all his bolts to be discharged with the unerring
certainty of fate. Moments now bore with them
the awful weight of hours; the impatient murmurs
deepened from without; the strokes of the axe became
redoubled; and the groaning timbers, yielding at every
stroke, were already a wreck. Another blow, and the
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work was done! Yet, ere the dreadful certainty yawned
upon them—ere the chasm was quite complete—a wild
chorus of yells above stairs—the rush of hurrying
footsteps—the shrieks and the shot—announced to the
gloomy outlaw, below, the occurrence of some new
disaster. His defences were driven in above!
A troop of the outlaws had, in fact, already effected
their entrance. They had literally clambered up the
slender columns of the portico in front,—the sentinel
placed in that quarter having been just before withdrawn
to the rear by Hillhouse, who deemed that he would be
more useful there, and under his command, which he
wished, with natural vanity, to make as respectable as
possible. Lifting one of the sashes, without being heard
in the din which prevailed below, they had found their
way silently into the apartment. Stealing cautiously
along the passage, they had come upon the surgeon,
while himself and little squad were most busy with the
assailants from without. The skirmish between them
had been short. The first notice that Hillhouse had of
his danger, was from the pistol-shot by which he was
stricken down. His men turned to meet their new
enemies, and in the brief interval that ensued, other foes
dashed up the ladder, through the window, into the
apartment, and put the finishing stroke to the conflict
there. Hillhouse was not so much hurt as not to be
conscious, before sinking into insensibility, that the outlaws
were already stripping him of his gorgeous apparel.
His scarlet coat had already passed into the hands of a
new owner.
Meanwhile the work was going on below. Morton,
when he heard the uproar above, readily divined the
extent of his misfortune. But he was not suffered to
muse upon it long. His own trial was at hand. The
door was finally driven from all its fastenings, there was
no longer any obstruction, and the living tide poured in,
as Morton fancied they would, in tumultuous masses.
Then came the awful order from his lips to “fire!” It
was obeyed by the first file of three men, kneeling; the
remaining three followed the example a moment after;
and yells of anguish ensued, and mingled with the first
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wild shouts of triumph of the assailants! It was a moment
of mixed pain and terror! Perhaps, if they could
have recoiled, they would have done so. But this was
now a physical impossibility. The crowd in the rear
pressed forward and wedged their comrades who were
in the foreground; while the bayonet plied busily among
them. But what could be done, in that way, by six
men in a hand to hand conflict with six times their
number. The strife was dreadful, but short. Man after
man of the outlaws, was spiked upon the dripping steel;
but the mass, unable to retreat, were driven forward,
mad and foaming, under the feeling of desperation which
now filled their hearts, they ceased to think or fear, and
they rushed like the wild bull upon the ready bayonets.
The soldiers went down under the sheer pressure of
their crowding bodies. The Black Riders darted among
and over them, searching each heart separately with
their knives; and the only strife which now remained
was from the unavoidable conflict among themselves of
their jostling and conflicting forms. The hoarse accents
of Stockton were now heard, pre-eminent above the
uproar, giving his final orders.
“Take Ned Morton alive, my merry fellows. He
owes a life to the tree and timber. Save him for it if
you can.”
Morton had reserved himself for this moment.
“Ye have tracked the tiger to his den!” he muttered,
in the shadow of the stairway, where he had taken his
position, partly concealed in the obscurity of the passage.
The crisis of his fate was at hand. The party from
above were now heard hurrying downwards, to mingle in
the melée below; and he levelled his pistols among the
crowd in the direction of Stockton's voice, and fired—
not without effect. He was now too deliberate to
throw away his bullets. One of them passed through
the fleshy part of the shoulder of his inveterate enemy,
who was in the advance; while the other prostrated in
death one of his most forward followers. Stockton
screamed with mingled pain and fury, and with sabre
lifted, darted upon his foe. Feebly shouting his hate
and defiance, Morton also lifted his sword, which he had
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leaned on the steps beside himself, for greater convenience;
and advanced gallantly to meet the ruffian.
They met, and the whole remaining strength of Morton,
treasured up for this very crisis, was thrown into his
arm. But the tasks through which he had already gone
had exhausted him. The limb fell nerveless by his side,
and ere the blow of Stockton descended, he had sunk
down in utter insensibility, at the feet of his opponent.
The conflict was ended. The pledge made to the ladies
of the mansion had been amply redeemed by its defenders.
Not one of them remained unhurt; and the
greater number were already stiffened in the unrelaxing
grasp of death. The outlaws had paid dearly for their
victory. No less than sixteen of their number had been
slain; and the arts of Stockton, which had originally
won them over to his designs, and made them hostile
to their ancient leader, now derived additional support
from the sanguinary feeling which had been induced
by the bloody struggle in their minds. They were now
reconciled to that decree which determined that Morton
should be their victim. They needed no more persuasion
to resolve that he should die upon the gallows.
The first impulse of Stockton, as he straddled the
inanimate body of the man whom he so much feared
and hated, was to spurn it with his foot,—the next to
make his fate certain by a free use of his sword upon it;
but the cold malignity of his character prevailed to prolong
the life and the trial of his enemy. The utter impotence
of Morton to do further harm, suggested to
Stockton the forbearance which he would not otherwise
have displayed. It was with some pains only, and a
show of resolution, such as Morton had usually employed
to hold them in subjection, that he was enabled to keep
back his followers, who, in their blind rage, were pressing
forward with the same murderous purpose which
he had temporarily arrested in his own bosom. With
a more decided malignity of word, he gave a new direction
to their bloody impulses.
“Away,” he cried, “get a hurdle, or something that
will take him out without much shaking! He has life
enough in him yet for the gallows!”
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A shout seconded with approbation the dark suggestion,
and the crowd rushed away to procure the necessary
conveyance. A door, torn from an outhouse,
answered this purpose; and the still breathing, but motionless
form of Edward Morton, was lifted upon it.
Unhappily, he wakened to consciousness in a few moments
after leaving the threshold of the dwelling. The
purer atmosphere without revived him; and his eyes
opened to encounter the biting scorn, and the insulting
triumph, everywhere apparent. His ears were filled
with the gross mockeries of those whom his bloody resistance
had stimulated to new hate and a deeper ferocity
of temper. A bitter pang went keenly through his
heart; but he had still a hope. He had kept one hope
in reserve for some such occasion. Long before, when
he first commenced that dark career of crime, the cruel
fruits of which he was about to reap, he had provided
himself with a dagger—a small, stout, but short instrument—
which he hid within his bosom. This instrument
he devoted to the one particular purpose of taking
his own life. He had decreed that it should be sacred—
not to employ language illegitimately—to the one work
of suicide only! But once, indeed, he had almost violated
his resolve. The same instrument he had proffered to
poor Mary Clarkson, in a mood, and at a moment of
mockery, scarcely less bitter than had fallen to his own
lot. The remembrance of the circumstance touched him
at this instant; and humbled, in some degree, the exulting
feeling which was rising in his breast, at the recollection
of his resource. But he did exult, nevertheless.
He felt that the dagger was still about him, hidden
within the folds of his vest; and, with this knowledge,
he was better able to meet the vindictive glance of his
foe, who walked beside the litter on which the outlaws
were bearing him to the wood.
“Bring him to the Park!” commanded Stockton.
“He will hang there more conspicuously, as a warning
for other traitors.”
“No! No!—not there,” said Darcy, interposing,
“the ladies can see him from the house.”
“Well, and a very good sight it is too;” replied the
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other, brutally, “they've seen him often enough dancing
on the earth, I fancy; it may be an agreeable change to
behold him dancing in air awhile.”
A few serious words, however, whispered in his ears
by Darcy, prevailed with Stockton to effect a change in
his brutal resolution; and the cavalcade took its way in
the direction of the woods where the encampment of the
Black Riders for the night had been made. It was intended
that there the crowning scene of hate and punishment
should take place.
CHAPTER XXIII. HATE BAFFLED BY JUSTICE.
Meanwhile, what had been the condition of mind of
the ladies in the dwelling? They had heard the greater
part of the bloody struggle going on below—the shots—
the shouts, the groans and shrieks, and all the infernal
clamours of that strife of moral feelings and physical
passions, in which man, alone, of all the animals, is permitted
to indulge. The rending of bolt and bar had
also been audible, and they readily conjectured all the
rest. They finally knew that the barriers were forced,
and when the first rush of the strife was over, and the
silence of death prevailed for the first time below, then
did they feel assured that death himself was there, surrounded
by all his melancholy trophies. How terrible
was then that silence! For the first time during the
whole period of their suspense, did Flora Middleton
yield herself up to prayer. Before, she could not kneel.
While the storm raged below, her soul seemed to be in
it,—she could not divert it to that calmer, holier contemplation
which invests the purpose with purity, and
lifts the eye of the worshipping spirit to the serene
courts of Heaven. Her father's spirit was then her
own, and she felt all its stimulating strength. She felt
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that she too could strike, should there be occasion; and
when at one moment the clamour seemed to be approaching,
her eye kindled with keener fire, as it looked
round the dim attic in which they had sought refuge, as
if in search of some weapon which might defend it.
“It's all over!” at length she exclaimed, when the
silence had continued the space of half an hour. “They
have left the house, mother.”
“Do not trust to go out yet, my child,” was the answer
of the grandmother. “I fear some trick, some
danger;—for why should they leave us undisturbed, so
long.”
“Hark! mother—there is a noise below.”
“Yes,—I think so! I hear it!”
“A footstep,—I should know that footstep!—a voice!
It is,—it must be the voice of Clarence Conway.”
The keen sense of the interested heart had not deceived
the maiden. Clarence Conway was, indeed,
within the dwelling. With limbs that trembled, and a
heart that shuddered as he advanced, the young commander
trod the avenues of the dwelling which bore
such bloody proofs, at every footstep, of the fearful
conflict which we have faintly endeavoured to describe.
The victims were all unknown to him, and
their uniforms, those equally of the British and the banditti,
did not awaken in him any sympathy in their
behalf. On the contrary, it would seem that enemies
alone had fallen, and the inference was natural enough
that they had fallen by the hands of those who were
friends to the country. But how should the patriots
have assailed the enemy in the dwelling which, hitherto,
among all the Americans, had been considered sacred.
Even though it had been made their place of retreat and
refuge, such, he would have preferred it to remain,
sooner than its peaceful and pure sanctuary should have
been dishonoured by such unholy tokens. But the
more serious concern which troubled him, arose from
his apprehensions for Flora and her grandmother. He
hurried through the several chambers, calling on their
names. Well might his voice thicken with a husky
horror, as he heard the responses only of the deserted
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apartments, in so many mocking echoes. At length,
when he was most miserable, and when, in his further
search in the upper chambers, he dreaded lest he should
happen on their mangled remains, his ear recognised, or
he fancied, an answer in those tones which were then
doubly dear to his senses.
“Flora, dear Flora!” he cried aloud, but with a rapidity
of utterance which almost made his syllables incoherent,
lest he should somehow lose the repetition of
the sweet assurance which he had so faintly heard before.
The door of the attic was thrown open in the
next instant, and the voice of the maiden summoned
him to her presence.
He clasped her in his arms with a fervour which could
not be put aside; which no mere looks of reserve could
discourage or repulse; nay, under circumstances of relief
which wrought in her mind a momentary forgetfulness
of his supposed perfidy.
“Thank God, you are safe!” was his fervent ejaculation;
“but tell me, dear Flora, what means the horrible
carnage which has taken place below?”
“Oh, Clarence—your brother! Is he not there—is
he not among the slain?”
“No! he is not among them—what of him? I see
none among the slain but British and sworn enemies.”
“Then they have made him prisoner—the Black
Riders—they made the assault upon the house because
he was in it; their avowed purpose being to execute
death upon him as a rebel.”
A sad smile passed over the lips of Clarence, as he
heard these words, and his head was shaken with a
mournful doubt.
“He has nothing to fear from them, Flora!” he replied,
“but where are they? How long is it since this
dreadful affair took place.”
“Scarce and hour. The horrible strife I seem to hear
now. To my senses it is scarcely ended.”
“Enough! I must believe you then. I must fall
upon these bloodhounds if I can. Farewell, dear Flora,—
farewell, for a little while.”
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“But your brother—remember, Colonel Conway, that
he is your brother!”
“Colonel Conway!” exclaimed the young soldier, with
a surprise that was greatly increased as he beheld the
looks of the speaker, now suddenly cold and frozen.
“There is something wrong, Flora, I perceive; and
it all comes from that same brother, whose relationship
you are so anxious to have me remember. Would to
God that he had remembered it. But I will save him if
I can. You may be right—he may be in danger. Those
bloody wretches would not make much difference between
friend and foe, in their love of strife and plunder.
But meet me not with such looks when I return.”
“Fly, if you would save him. I tremble, Colonel
Conway, lest you should be too late!”
“Colonel Conway, again! Flora Middleton, you have
again listened to the voice of the slanderer. There must
be an explanation of this, dear Flora.”
“There shall be, but fly now, if you would be of service,—
if you would lessen the difficulties of that explanation.”
“Be it so! I leave you, Flora, but will leave a few
trusty men to rid your dwelling of these bloody tokens.
Meanwhile, spare yourself the sight; keep your present
place of retreat, till you hear my voice. Farewell.”
“Farewell!”—the word was uttered by Flora with
emphatic fervour. From her heart she wished him, of
all others, to fare well! She looked with a longing,
lingering gaze after his noble form, so erect, so commanding,
so distinguished in all its movements, by the
governing strength of a high and fearless soul within.
“Can such a presence conceal such baseness!” she
murmured, as she returned to the attic. “Can it be,
dear mother?” was the apparently unmeaning expression
which fell involuntarily from her lips, as she buried
her face in bitter anguish, in the bosom of the maternal
lady.
Clarence Conway immediately set his troop in motion.
He detached his more trusty scouts in advance. At
the moment of leaving the house, he had no sort of intelligence
which could designate the position of the
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Black Riders, or even assure him of their near neighborhood.
Not an individual was to be seen around the
dwelling. The slaves of the plantation, at the first approach
of the conflict, took flight to the swamp-thickets;
and in these they would remain until long after the
strom had overblown. Conway moved forward therefore
with the greatest caution. He might be entering
an ambuscade, and certainly had reason to apprehend
one, in consequence of the sudden flight of the banditti
from the mansion-house before they had sacked it. The
idea that Edward Conway had any thing really to fear
from those whom he too well knew to be his confederates,
was something of an absurdity, which he found
little difficulty in dismissing from his mind. He rejoiced,
at the first moment of receiving the intelligence, that his
brother lived—that he had survived the fiercer conflict
which had taken place between them. But, an instant
after, and he almost regretted that such was the case.
It was his duty to pursue him as a public enemy, and one
of a cast so atrocious that he well knew, if taken, his
life would probably be required by the hands of the summary
avenger. The stern justice which in those days
required blood for blood, had long since selected the
fierce chief of the Black Riders as a conspicuous victim
for the gallows; and Clarence Conway, as a means to
avoid this cruel possibility, issued the sanguinary orders
to his troop to show no quarter. The tenderest form
of justice called for their extermination in the shortest
possible manner. This resolve was made and the command
given, after he had been advised by the scouts
that the enemy were collected in force upon an open
ground on the river bluff, a short mile and a half above.
The scouts reported that a good deal of confusion appeared
among them, but they could not approach sufficiently
nigh to ascertain its particular occasion; having
returned, in obedience to orders, as soon as they had
traced out the enemy's place of retreat. They also conveyed
to Conway the farther intelligence that they
might have gone much nearer with impunity,—that the
foe, so far from forming an ambush, had not, in fact,
taken the usual precautions against attack,—had not
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thrown out any sentinels, and might be surprised with
little difficulty.
Upon hearing this, Clarence Conway gave orders for
a division of his force into three equal parties; one of
which was despatched to make a circuit, and gain a
point above them upon the river, a second was ordered
to traverse the river banks from below, while he, himself,
leading on the third division, was to burst suddenly
upon them from the forest—the nearest point from
which the attack could be made. These orders had
scarcely been given, before the sound of a rifle was
heard, in the direction of the spot where the outlaws
were assembled, and this was followed by a confused
clamour, as of many voices. This hurried the movement.
What was the meaning of that shot? Did it
indicate alarm among the enemy? Were they apprised
of his approach? Clarence Conway, in all his conjectures,
made no sort of approach to the real nature of
that one rifle-shot, and yet it was of some importance
to him and to his feelings. It rendered a portion of his
task less irksome, and far less difficult. Silently, he led
the way for his division—not a bugle sounded—scarce
a word was spoken, and the parties separated on their
several courses, with no more noise than was unavoidable,
from the regular and heavy tread of their horses'
feet. It was fortunate for them, perhaps, that the banditti
which they sought were only too busy in their own
purposes to be heedful of their foes until it was too late.
But let us not anticipate.
The Black Riders had borne their victim, with slow
steps, upon his litter, to the spot which had been chosen
for his last involuntary act of expiation. Their advance
was preceded by that of our old friend, the watchful
scout, John Bannister. Anxious, to the last degree,
for the safety of the ladies of the barony, he had tracked
the steps of the outlaws to the assault upon the dwelling,—
following as closely upon their heels as could be
justified by a prudential regard to his own safety. He
had beheld so much of the conflict as could be comprehended
by one who was compelled to maintain his watch
from a distant covert in the woods. The cause of the
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fight, and the parties to it, were equally inscrutable to
him; and this, too, added not a little to the anxiety
which filled his mind. This anxiety grew to agony
when he discovered that the defences of the dwelling
were broken down, and the house in the possession of
the banditti. The fate of Flora Middleton was in their
hands, and he was impotent to serve or save her. His
anguish was truly indescribable, as it was nearly insupportable.
But he was suddenly aroused from its indulgence,
when he beheld the crowd, as, leaving the house,
it advanced through the grounds to that very spot in the
woods in which he had made his hiding place. It became
necessary to decamp; and as he sped back to the place
where he had left his canoe in the custody of the landlord
and Jacob Clarkson, he was somewhat surprised to find
that they continued to follow in his footsteps. Somewhat
wondering at this, and at their brief delay in the dwelling
which they had entered after so obstinate a conflict,
he ordered Muggs to put himself, Clarkson and the
canoe, into close cover, while he, himself, advancing
somewhat upon the higher grounds before them, could,
from a place of concealment, observe the movements of
the enemy, and prescribe the farther conduct of his own
attendants.
He had not long to wait. The Black Riders brought
their prisoner to the very spot where the body of Mary
Clarkson lay buried. The fainting form of the outlaw
chief was leaned against the head-board which the devoted
Bannister had raised to her memory; and, as the
anguish following the transfer of his body to the ground
from the door on which it had been borne, caused Morton
to open his eyes, and restored him to consciousness,
the letters “M. C.” met his first glance, but their import
remained unconjectured. He had not much time allowed
him for conjectures of any kind. His implacable
foe, Stockton, stood before him with looks of hate and
triumph which the prostrate man found it difficult to endure,
but utterly impossible to avoid.
“It is all over with you, Ned Morton,” said the other.
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“Will you beg for your life—will you supplicate me for
mercy?”
A smile of scorn passed over the lips of the outlaw.
“My life is not in your hands;” he replied, “and, if
it were, it should be thrice forfeit before I should acknowledge
your power and ask your mercy. I bid you defiance
to the last; I look upon you without fear, though
with unsuppressed loathing, as I quit the world, and, in
this way, do I baffle all your malice.”
As he spoke these words, he drew the little stiletto
suddenly from his bosom, and plunged it desperately,
and with an effort of all his strength, full at his own
heart. But the blow was baffled. The hand of Darcy,
who had placed himself behind Morton without his
knowledge, was extended at the moment, and grasped
the arm which impelled the weapon.
“Not so fast!” cried Stockton, as he wrested the
weapon from his hand, and flung it from him, “there's
no cheating the halter. It's a destiny!”
The baffled outlaw writhed himself about, and looking
round upon Darcy, with a bitter smile, exclaimed—
“May your last friend fail you, as mine has done, at
the last moment!”
A faintness then came over him, his eyes closed, and
he sank back exhausted upon the little hillock which
covered Mary Clarkson. Little did he at that moment
conjecture on whose bosom his body temporarily found
repose.
“Up with him at once;” cried Stockton, “or he will
cheat the gallows at last.”
An active brigand then ran up the trunk of a huge
water oak that stood nighest to the spot. The rope
was flung to him and fastened; and two of the banditti,
stooping down raised the fainting outlaw upon their
shoulders, while the noose was to be adjusted. As his
form was elevated above the level of the rest, the crowd
shouted with ferocious exultation; and brought back to
the eyes of their destined victim, a portion of their
former fire. He recovered a momentary strength. He
looked round upon them with scorn. He felt his situation,
and all the shame, and all the agony,—but his
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glances were full of life and defiance, and his cheeks
were utterly unblenching.
“He'll die game!” muttered John Bannister, who, at
length, as he recognized the features of Edward Conway,
began to conjecture the truth, and to comprehend
the circumstances, which were lately so inscrutable.
“He'll die game; he's got some of the good blood of
the Conways in him, after all. But it's a mortal pity
he should die so, for the family's sake. It's a good
name, and he's the blood-kin of Clarence.”
The scout lifted his rifle, as he thus soliloquized.
The evident desire to interpose, and save the victim
from one fate by the substitution of another, was strong
and anxious in his mind.
“But, no!”—he said, after he had drawn his sight
upon the pale brow of the outlaw.—“If it's to be done
at all, Jake Clarkson's the man to do it. He's got a
sort of right to Ned Conway's life. Jake! Jake!”
He called up the desolate old man, who, on the lower
ground by the river had not seen these proceedings.
“Jake!” he said—“is your rifle loaded?”
“Yes!”
“Then look, man!—there's your enemy—there's
Ned Conway—it's him that they're a-lifting up among
them there. I 'spose they want to do him some parti'lar
kind of honour, but it's jest over poor Mary's
grave!”
The words were electric! The old man grasped
and raised his weapon. He saw not the purpose of
the crowd, nor did he pause to ask what was the
sort of honour which they were disposed to confer
upon the outlaw. He saw him!—his face only! That
he knew, and that was enough. A moment elapsed—
but one!—and the report of the rifle rang sharply along
the river banks. In the same moment the men who
were lifting Edward Morton to the tree, dropped the
body to the ground. The work of death was already
done! Their efforts were no longer necessary, as their
design was unavailing. The bullet had penetrated the
forehead of the outlaw, and his blood streamed from
the orifice upon the still fresh mould which covered the
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victim of his passions. The Black Riders turned to the
quarter whence the shot had come, but the boat of John
Bannister, with his associates, were already at some
distance from the shore.
CONCLUSION.
The rage of Stockton, at being thus defrauled of his
prey, at last, though violent, was of no effect. He discharged
his own pistol at the boat which contained the
fugitives; an idle act, which was followed by a like discharge
from some twenty of his followers. They might
as well have aimed their bullets at the moon. John
Bannister answered them with a shout,—which, to
their consternation, found an echo from twenty voices
in the woods behind them. They turned to confront
an unexpected enemy. Clarence Conway was already
upon them. His little band, in advance of the other two
divisions, began the fray as soon as it had reached
within striking distance; and the sudden effect of their
surprise compensated well for the inadequacy of their
numbers. The broadsword was doing fearful execution
among the scattered banditti, before Stockton well knew
in what direction to turn to meet his enemy.
But the power which he had thus so lately gained,
was too sweet, and had called for too much toil and
danger, to be yielded without a violent struggle: and,
if mere brute courage could have availed for his safety,
the outlaw might still have escaped the consequences of
his indiscretion. He rallied his men with promptness,
enforced their courage by the exhibition of his own;
and his numbers, being still superior to the small force
which had followed Conway through the woods, the
effect of his first surprise was overcome, and the issue
of the conflict soon grew doubtful. But it did not long
remain so. The division from below soon struck in,
and the outlaws gave way. They broke at length, and
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endeavoured to find safety by flying up the banks of
the river; but here they were met by the third division,
and their retreat entirely cut off. Hemmed in on every
side, assured that no quarter would be given them, they
asked for none, but fought and died upon the ground to
which they had been forced. It was the fortune of
Stockton to fall under the sabre of Clarence Conway;
while Darcy, leaping into the river perished beneath a
blow from the clubbed rifle of John Bannister, whose
boat, a moment after, touched the shore. Nothing could
exceed the rapturous expressions of his wild whoop of
joy at this unlooked-for meeting,—meeting with his
friend and leader, in a moment of such complete victory,
amply atoned to him for all the trials, risks and
anxieties to which he had been exposed, from the night
of their separation. Not one of the Black Riders escaped
the conflict. The greater number fell beneath the swords
of their conquerors; but some few, in their desperation,
leapt into the Congaree, which finally engulfed them
all. Clarence Conway, after the close of the conflict,
devoted a few painful moments to the examination of
the bloody field. But John Bannister threw himself between
his commander and one of the victims of the
day. The eye of Clarence, searchingly fell on that of
his follower; and he at once divined the meaning of
the interruption.
“It's here then, that he lies, John? How did he
die?”
“Yes, Clarence, there he is;—a rifle bullet kept off a
worse eending. He died like a brave man, though it
mou't be, he didn't live like a good one. Leave the rest
to me, Clarence. I'll see that he's put decently out of
sight. But you'd better push up and see Miss Flora,
and the old lady. I reckon they've had a mighty scary
time of it.”
“I thank you, John. I will look but once on the son
of my father, and leave the rest to you.”
“It's a ragged hole that a rifle bullet works in a
white forehead, Clarence; and you'll hardly know it;”
said the scout as he reluctantly gave way before the
extended hand of his superior. Clarence Conway gazed
in silence for a space upon the inanimate and bloody
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form before him; a big tear gathered slowly in his eyes,
but he brushed away the intruder with a hasty hand;
while he turned once more to meet his followers who
were slowly gathering in the back grounds. He felt,
even at that moment, a cheering sensation, as he knew
that his brother had fallen by another hand than his.
That pang, at least, was spared him; and for the rest,
the cause of sorrow was comparatively slight.
“He could have lived;” he murmured as he turned
away from the bloody spectacle—“He could have lived
only as a dishonoured and a suspected man. His path
would have been stained with crime, and dogged by
enemies. It is better that it is thus! May God have
mercy on his soul!”
Our story is on the threshold of the conclusion. We
have little more to say. Flora Middleton and her lover
were soon reconciled, and the misunderstanding between
them easily and promptly explained. Jacob
Clarkson and John Bannister were living and sufficient
witnesses to save Clarence Conway the necessity of
answering for himself, and of denouncing his late kinsman.
Between unsophisticated and sensible people,
such as we have sought to make them appear, there
could be no possibility of a protracted session of doubts,
misgivings, shynesses and suspicions, which a frank
heart and a generous spirit, could not breathe under for
a day, but which an ingenious novelist could protract
through a term of years, and half a dozen volumes. In
the course of a brief year following these events, the
British were beaten from the country, and Clarence and
Flora united in the holy bonds of matrimony. The last
was an event which nobody ever supposed was regretted
by either. John Bannister lived with them at
the barony, from the time of their marriage, through the
pleasant seasons of a protracted life. Many of our
readers may remember to have seen the white-headed
old man who, in his latter days, exchanged his sobriquet
of Supple Jack, for one more dignified, though, possibly,
less popular among the other sex. He was called “Bachelor
Bannister,” towards the closing years of his life,
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and, in the presence of the ladies, did not quarrel with
the designation. His long stories about the Revolution,
of his own feats and those of Clarence Conway,
were remembered and repeated by him, with little variation,
to the last. In this he differed considerably from
ordinary chroniclers of the old school, simply, perhaps,
because his stories were originally more truthful, and
his memory, in spite of his years, which were “frosty
but kindly,” was singularly tenacious to the end. Our
narrative has been compiled from particulars chiefly
gained, though at second-hand, from this veracious
source. John Bannister lived long enough to see the
eldest son of Clarence Conway almost as good a marksman
with the rifle, and as supple a forester, as he himself
had been in his better days; and his dying moments
were consoled by the affectionate offices of those, whom,
with a paternal wisdom, he had chosen for his friends
from the beginning. It may be stated, en passant, that
one exquisite, Mr. Surgeon Hillhouse, neither lost
his life nor his wardrobe in the conflict at Middleton
Barony. He survived his wounds and saved his baggage.
His self-esteem was also preserved, strange to
say, in spite of all his failures with the sex. He was
one whom Providence had wondrously blessed in this
particular. Of self-esteem he had quite as many garments,
if not more, than were allotted to his person.
He certainly had a full and fresh suit for every day in
the year.
THE END.
Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1841], The kinsmen, or, The black riders of Congaree, volume 2 (Lea & Blanchard, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf366v2].
