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Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1835], The partisan: a tale of the revolution, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf358v1].

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CHAPTER I.

“Oh, grievous desolation! look, and see
Their sad condition! 'Tis a piercing sight:
A country overthrown and crushed—the scythe
Gone over it in wrath—and sorrowing Grief
Dumb with her weight of wo.”

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Our narrative begins in South Carolina, during the
summer of 1780. The arms of the British were at that
time triumphant throughout the colony. Their armies
overran it. Charlestown, the chief city, had stood a
siege, and had fallen, after a protracted and honourable
defence. One-half of the military strength of the lower
country, then the most populous region, had become prisoners
of war by this disaster; and, for the present, were
thus incapacitated from giving any assistance to their
brethren in arms. Scattered, crushed, and disheartened
by repeated failures, the whigs, in numerous instances,
hopeless of any better fortune, had given in their adhesion
to the enemy, and had received a pledge of British
protection. This protection secured them, as it was
thought, in their property and persons, and its conditions
simply called for their neutrality. Many of the
more firm and honourably tenacious, scorning all compromise
with invasion, fled for shelter to the swamps
and mountains; and, through the former, all Europe
could not have traced their footsteps. In the whole
state, at this period, the cause of American liberty had
no head, and almost as little hope: all was gloomy and

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unpromising. Marion, afterward styled the “Swamp
Fox,” and Sumter, the “Game Cock”—epithets aptly
descriptive of their several military attributes—had not
yet properly risen in arms, though both of them had
been engaged already in active and successful service.
Their places of retreat were at this time unknown;
and, certainly, they were not then looked to, as at an
after period, with that anxious reliance which their
valour subsequently taught their countrymen to entertain.
Nothing, indeed, could be more deplorably prostrate
than were the energies of the colony. Here and
there, only, did some little partisan squad make a stand,
or offer a show of resistance to the incursive British
or the marauding and malignant tory—disbanding, if
not defeated, most usually after the temporary object
had been obtained, and retreating for security into shelter
and inaction. There was no sort of concert, save
in feeling, among the many who were still not unwilling
for the fight: they doubted or they dreaded one
another; they knew not whom to trust. The next-door
neighbour of the stanch whig was not unfrequently a
furious loyalist—as devoted to George the Third as the
other could have been to the intrinsic beauty of human
liberty. The contest of the Revolution, so far as it had
gone, had confirmed and made tenacious this spirit of
hostility and opposition, until, in the end, patriot and
loyalist had drawn the sword against one another, and
rebel and tory were the degrading epithets by which
they severally distinguished the individual whose throat
they strove to cut. When the metropolis fell into the
hands of the British, and their arms extended through
the state, the tories alone were active and formidable.
They now took satisfaction for their own previous
trials; and crime was never so dreadful a monster as
when they ministered to its appetites. Mingled in with
the regular troops of the British, or forming separate
bodies of their own, and officered from among themselves,
they penetrated the well-known recesses which
gave shelter to the fugitives. If the rebel resisted, they
slew him without quarter; if he submitted, they hung

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him without benefit of clergy: they spoiled his children
of their possessions, and not unfrequently slew them
also. But few sections of the low and middle country
escaped their search. It was only in the bald regions
of North Carolina that the fugitives could find repose;
only where the most miserable poverty took from crime
all temptation, that the beaten and maltreated patriots
dared to give themselves a breathing-space from flight.
In the same manner the frontier-colony of Georgia had
already been overrun and ravaged by the conquerors;
and there, as it was less capable of resistance, all show
of opposition had been long since at an end. The invader,
deceived by these appearances, declared in
swelling language to his monarch, that the two colonies
were properly subjugated, and would now return
to their obedience. He knew not that,

“Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed from bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.”

But, though satisfied of the efficiency of his achievements,
and himself convinced of the truth of the assurances
which he had made to this effect, the commander
of the British forces did not suffer the slightest relaxation
of his vigilance. Earl Cornwallis, one of the best
of the many leaders sent by the mother-country to the
colonies in that eventful contest, had taken charge of
the southern marching army soon after the fall of
Charlestown. He was too good a soldier to omit, or
to sleep in the performance of any of his duties. He
proceeded with due diligence to confirm his conquests;
and, aptly sustained by the celerity and savage enterprise
of the fierce legionary, Colonel Tarleton, the
country was soon swept from the seaboard to the mountains.
This latter able but cruel commander, who enacted
the Claverhouse in South Carolina with no small
closeness of resemblance to his prototype, was as indefatigable
as unsparing. He plunged headlong into fight,
with a courage the most unscrupulous, with little reflection,
seeming rather to confide in the boldness and

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impetuosity of his onset than to any ingenuity of plan,
or careful elaborateness of manœuvre. Add to this
that he was sanguinary in the last degree when triumphant,
and we shall easily understand the sources
of that terror which his very name was found to inspire
among the undrilled, and, in half the number of instances,
the unarmed militia which opposed him. “Tarleton's
quarter” was the familiar and bitterly-derisive phrase
by which, when the whigs had opportunities of revenge,
his blood-thirsty treatment of the overthrown and captive
was remembered and requited.

The entire colony in his possession—all opposition,
worthy the name, at an end—the victor, the better to
secure his conquest, marched an army throughout the
country. His presence, for the time, had the desired
effect. His appearance quelled disaffection, overawed
all open discontents, and his cavalry, by superior skill
and rapidity of movement, readily dispersed the little
bands of Carolinians that here and there fell in his
way. Nor was this exhibition of his power the only
proceeding by which he laboured to secure the fruits
of his victory. With an excellent judgment, he established
garrisons in various eligible points of the country,
in order to its continual presence: these stations
were judiciously chosen for independent and co-operative
enterprise alike; they were sufficiently nigh for
concert—sufficiently scattered for the general control
of an extensive territory. Rocky Mount, Ninety Six,
Camden, Hanging Rock, Dorchester, and a large number
of military posts beside, were thus created, all
amply provided with munitions of war, well fortified,
and garrisoned by large bodies of troops under experienced
officers.

These precautions for a time compelled submission.
The most daring among the patriots were silent—the
most indulgent of the loyalists were active and enterprising.
To crown and secure all, Sir Henry Clinton,
who was at this period commander-in-chief of the
southern invading army, proclaimed a general pardon,
with some few exceptions, to all the inhabitants, for

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their late treasonable offences—promising them a full
reinstatement of their old immunities, and requiring
nothing in return but that they should remain quietly
in their homes. This specious and well-timed indulgence
had its due effect; and, in the temporary panic
produced by Lincoln's defeat, the fall of the metropolis,
the appearance of an army so formidable as that of the
British, and the establishment of military posts and
fortresses all around them, the people generally put on
a show of acquiescence to the authority of the invader,
which few in reality felt, and which many were secretly
but resolutely determined never to submit to.

Thus much is necessary, in a general point of view,
to the better comprehension of the narrative which
follows. The reader will duly note the situation of the
colony of South Carolina; and when we add, that the
existing condition of things throughout the Union, was
only not so bad, and the promise of future fortune but
little more favourable, all has been said necessary to
his proper comprehension of the discouraging circumstances
under which the partisan warfare of the South
began. With this reference, we shall be better able
to appreciate that deliberate valour, that unyielding
patriotism, which, in a few spirits, defying danger and
above the sense of privation, could keep alive the
sacred fires of liberty in the thick swamps and dense
and gloomy forests of Carolina—asking nothing, yielding
nothing, and only leaving the field the better to re-enter
it for the combat. We now proceed to the commencement
of our narrative.

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CHAPTER II.

“Sweet flow thy waters, Ashley, and pleasant on thy banks
The mossy oak and massy pine stand forth in solemn ranks;
They fringe thee in a fitting guise, since with a gentle play,
Through bending groves and circling dells thou tak'st thy mazy
way—
Thine is the summer's loveliness, save when September storms
Arouse thee to the angry mood, that all thy face deforms;
And thine the recollection old, which makes thee proudly shine,
When happy thousands saw thee rove, and Dorchester was thine.”

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The scene is very much altered now. Dorchester
belongs to Ashley no longer. It is a name—a shadow.
The people are gone; the site is distinguished by its
ruins only. The owl hoots through the long night
from the old church-tower, and the ancient woods and
the quiet waters of the river give back, in melancholy
echoes, his unnoted cries. The Carolinian looks on
the spot with a saddened spirit. The trees crowd
upon the ancient thoroughfare; the brown viper hisses
from the venerable tomb, and the cattle graze along
the clustering bricks that distinguish the old-time chimney-places.
It is now one of those prospects that kindle
poetry in the most insensible observer. It is one
of the visible dwelling-places of Time; and the ruins
that still mock, to a certain extent, his destructive
progress, have in themselves a painful chronicle of
capricious change and various affliction. They speak
for the dead that lie beneath them in no stinted number;
they record the leading features of a long history,
crowded with vicissitudes.

But our purpose now is with the past, and not with the
present. We go back to the time when the village of
Dorchester was full of life, and crowded with inhabitants;
when the coaches of the wealthy planters of
the neighbourhood thronged the highway; when the

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bells from the steeple sweetly called to the Sabbath
worship; and when, through the week, the shops were
crowded with buyers, and the busy hammer of the
mechanic, and the axe of the labourer, sent up their
crowding noises, imaging, upon a small scale, many of
the more stirring attributes of the great city, and all
of its life. Dorchester then had several hundred inhabitants.
The plan of the place lies before me now—
a regularly laid-out city, of perfect squares, with its
market-place, its hotels, and its churches; its busy
wharves, and its little craft of sloop and schooner,
lying at anchor, or skimming along the clear bosom of
the Ashley in all the show of impulse and prosperity.
It had its garrison also, and not the smallest portion
of its din and bustle arose from the fine body of red-coated
and smartly-dressed soldiers then occupying the
square fort of tapia-work, which to this day stands
upon the hill of Dorchester—just where the Ashley
bends in with a broad sweep to the village site—in a
singular state of durability and preservation.

This fort commanded the river and village alike.
The old bridge of Dorchester, which crossed the river
at a little distance above it, was also within its range.
The troops at frequent periods paraded in the market-place,
and every art was made use of duly to impress
upon the people the danger of any resistance to a
power so capable to annoy and to punish. This being
the case, it was amusing to perceive how docile, how
loyal indeed, were those inhabitants, who, but a few
weeks before, were in arms against their present rulers,
and who now only waited a convenient season to resume
the weapons which policy had persuaded them
to lay aside.

None of the villagers were more dutiful or devout in
their allegiance than Richard Humphries—Old Dick,
as his neighbours more familiarly styled him—who
kept the “Royal George,” then the high tavern of the
village. The fat, beefy face of the good-natured Hanoverian
hung in yellow before the tavern door, on one of
the two main roads leading from the country through

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the town. The old monarch had, in this exposed situation,
undergone repeated trials. At the commencement
of the Revolution, the landlord, who really cared
not who was king, had been compelled by public opinion
to take down the sign, replacing it with another
more congenial to the popular feeling. George, in the
mean time, was assigned less conspicuous lodgings in
an ancient garret. The change of circumstances restored
the venerable portrait to its place, and under the
eye of the British garrison, there were few more
thorough-going loyalists in the village than Richard
Humphries. He was a sociable old man, fond of
drink, and generally serving his own glass whenever
called upon to replenish that of his customer. His
house was the common thoroughfare of the travelling
and the idle. The soldier, not on duty, found it a pleasant
lounge; the tory, confident in the sympathies of
the landlord, and solicitous of the good opinion of the
ruling powers, made it his regular resort; and even the
whig, compelled to keep down his patriotism, not unwisely
sauntered about in the same wide hall with the
enemy he feared and hated, but whom it was no part
of his policy at the present moment to alarm or irritate.
Humphries, from these helping circumstances,
distanced all competition in the village. The opposition
house was maintained by a suspected whig—one
Pryor—who was avoided accordingly. Pryor was a
sturdy citizen, who asked no favours; and if he did
not avow himself in the language of defiance, at the
same time scorned to take any steps to conciliate patronage
or do away with suspicion. He simply cocked
his hat at the old-time customer, now passing to the
other house; thrust his hands into the pockets of his
breeches, and, with a manful resignation, growled
through his teeth as he surveyed the prospect—“He
may go and be d—d.”

This sort of philosophy was agreeable enough to
Humphries, who, though profligate in some respects,
was yet sufficiently worldly to have a close eye to the
accumulation of his sixpences. His household was

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well served; for though himself a widower, his daughter
Bella, a buxom, lively, coquettish but gentle-natured
creature, proved no common housekeeper. She was but
a girl, however, and, wanting the restraining presence of
a matron, and possessing but little dignity herself, the
house had its attractions for many, in the freedoms which
the old man either did not or would not see, and which
the girl herself was quite too young, too innocent, and
perhaps too weak, often to find fault with. Her true
protection, however, was in a brother not much older
than herself, a fine manly fellow, and—though with the
cautious policy of all around him suppressing his predilections
for the time—a stanch partisan of American
liberty.

It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall,
well-made youth, probably twenty-four or five years
of age, rode up to the door of the “George,” and throwing
his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His
person had been observed, and his appearance duly
remarked upon, by several persons already assembled
in the hall which he now approached. The new comer,
indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person
was symmetry itself, and the ease with which he managed
his steed, the unhesitating boldness with which
he kept on his way and gazed around him at a period
and in a place where all were timid and suspicious,
could not fail to fix attention. His face, too, was significant
of a character of command, besides being finely
intelligent and tolerably handsome; and though he
carried no weapons that were visible, there was something
exceedingly military in his movement, and the
cap which he wore, made of some native fur and
slightly resting upon one side of his thickly clustering
brown hair, imparted a daring something to his look,
which gave confirmation to the idea. Many were the
remarks of those in the hall as, boldly dashing down
the high-road, he left the church to the right, and moving
along the market-place, came at once towards the
“George,” which stood on the corner of Prince and
Bridge streets.

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“A bold chap with his spurs, that,” exclaimed Sergeant
Hastings, of the garrison, who was a frequent
guest of the tavern, and had found no small degree
of favour with the landlord's daughter. “A bold chap,
that—do you know him, Humphries?”

This question brought the landlord to the window.
He looked intently upon the youth as he approached, but
seemed at fault.

“Know him? why yes, I think I do know him, sergeant:
that's—yes—that's—bless my soul, I don't
know him at all!”

“Well, be sure, now, Humphries,” coolly spoke the
sergeant. “Such a good-looking fellow ought not
to be forgotten. But he 'lights, and we shall soon know
better.”

A few moments, and the stranger made his appearance.
The landlord bustled up to him, and offered
assistance, which the youth declined for himself, but
gave directions for his horse's tendance.

“Shall be seen to, captain,” said the landlord.

“Why do you call me captain?” demanded the youth,
sternly.

“Bless me, don't be angry, squire; but didn't you
say you was a captain?” apologetically replied Humphries.

“I did not.”

“Well, bless me, but I could have sworn you did—
now didn't he, gentlemen?—sergeant, didn't you
hear—”

“It matters not,” the stranger interrupted; “it matters
not. You were mistaken, and these gentlemen
need not be appealed to. Have my horse cared for if
you please. He has come far and fast to-day, and will
need a good rubbing. Give him fodder now, but no
corn for an hour.”

“It shall be done, captain.”

“Hark'ee, friend,” said the youth angrily, “you will
not style me captain again, unless you would have
more than you can put up with. I am no captain, no
colonel, no commander of any sort, and unless you

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give me the army, will not wear the title. So, understand
me.”

“Ask pardon, squire; but it comes so common—ask
pardon, sir;” and the landlord shuffled off, as he spoke,
to see after his business. As he retired, Sergeant
Hastings made up to the new comer, and with all
the consequence of one having a portion of authority,
and accustomed to a large degree of deference from
those around him, proceeded to address the youth on
the subject matter of his momentary annoyance.

“And, with your leave, young master, where's the
harm in being captain or colonel? I don't see that
there's any offence in it.”

“None, none in the world, sir, in being captain or
colonel, but some, I take it, in being styled such undeservedly.
The office is good enough, and I have no
objections to it; but I have no humour to be called by
any nickname.”

“Nickname—why, d—n it, sir—why, what do you
mean? Do you pretend that it's a nickname to be
called an officer in his majesty's troops, sir? If you
do—” and the sergeant concluded with a look.

“Pistols and daggers! most worthy officer in his
majesty's troops, do not look so dangerous,” replied the
youth, very coolly. “I have no sort of intention to
offend captain or sergeant. I only beg that, as I am
neither one nor the other, nobody will force me into
their jackets.”

“And why not, young master?” said the sergeant,
somewhat pacified, but still, as he liked not the non-chalance
of the stranger, seemingly bent to press upon
him a more full development of his opinions. “Why
not? Is it not honourable, I ask you, to hold his majesty's
commission, and would you not, as a loyal subject,
be very glad to accept one at his hands?”

There was no little interest manifested by the spectators
as this question was put, and they gathered more
closely about the beset stranger, but still keeping at a
deferential distance from the sergeant. He, too, looked
forward to the reply of the youth with some interest.

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His head was advanced and his arms akimbo, and,
stationed in front of the person he examined, in the
centre of the hall, his clumsy compact person and
round rosy face looked exceedingly imposing in every
eye but that of the person for whose especial sight their
various terrors had been put on. The youth seemed
annoyed by the pertinacity of his assailant, but he
made an effort at composure, and after a brief pause
replied to the inquiry.

“Honourable enough, doubtless. I know nothing
about the employment, and cannot say. As for taking
a commission at his majesty's hands, I don't know that
I should do any such thing.”

The declaration produced a visible emotion in the
assembly. One or two of the spectators slid away
silently, and the rest seemed variously agitated, while,
at the same time, one person whom the stranger had
not before seen—a stout, good-looking man, seemingly
in humble life, and not over his own age—came forward,
and, with nothing ostentatious in his manner, placed
himself alongside of the man who had so boldly declared
himself. Sergeant Hastings seemed for an
instant almost paralyzed by what appeared the audacity
of the stranger. At length, detaching his sword partially
from the sheath, so that a few inches of the blade
became visible, he looked round with a potential aspect
upon the company, and then proceeded—

“Hah!—not take a commission from the hands of
his majesty—indeed!—and why not, I pray?”

Unmoved by the solemnity of the proceeding, the
youth with the utmost quietness replied—

“For the very best reason in the world—I should
scarcely know what to do with it.”

“Oh, that's it!” said the sergeant. “And so you
are not an officer?”

“No. I've been telling you and this drinking fellow,
the landlord, all the time, that I am no officer, and
yet neither of you seems satisfied. Nothing will do,
but you will put me in his majesty's commission, and

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make me a general and what not, whether I will or
no. But where's the man?—Here, landlord!”

“Can I serve, sir?” said a soft voice, followed by
the pretty maid of the inn, the fair Bella Humphries,
whose person was now visible behind the bar.

“Yes, my dear, you can;” and as the stranger youth
spoke, and the maid courtesied, he tapped her gently
upon the cheek, and begged that he might be shown
his apartment, stating, at the same time, the probability
that he would be an inmate for several days of the
tavern. The sergeant scowled fiercely at the liberty
thus taken, and the youth could not help seeing that
the eye of the girl sank under the glance that the
former gave her. He said nothing, however, and taking
in his hand the little fur valise that he carried, the only
furniture, besides saddle and bridle, worn by his horse,
he followed the steps of Bella, who soon conducted
him to his chamber, and left him to those ablutions
which a long ride along a sandy road had rendered
particularly necessary.

The sergeant meanwhile was not so well satisfied
with what had taken place. He was vexed that he had
not terrified the youth—vexed at his composure—vexed
that he had tapped Bella Humphries upon her cheek,
and doubly vexed that she had submitted with such
excellent grace to the aforesaid tapping. The truth is,
Sergeant Hastings claimed some exclusive privileges
with the maiden. He was her regular gallant—bestowed
upon her the greater part of his idle time, and
had flattered himself that he stood alone in her estimation;
and so, perhaps, he did. His attentions had
given him a large degree of influence over her, and
what with his big speech, swaggering carriage, and
flashy uniform, poor Bella had long since been taught to
acknowledge his power over her heart. But the girl was
coquettish, and her very position as maid of the inn
had contributed to strengthen and confirm the natural
predisposition. The kind words and innocent freedoms
of the handsome stranger were not disagreeable to her,
and she felt not that they interfered with the claims of

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the sergeant, or would be so disagreeable to him, until
she beheld the scowling glance with which he surveyed
them.

In the hall below, to which the landlord had now
returned, Hastings gave utterance to the spleen which
this matter had occasioned.

“That's an impudent fellow—a very impudent fellow.
I don't like him.”

The landlord looked up timidly, and after a brief
pause, in which the sergeant continued to pace the
apartment, again ventured upon speech.

“And what do you think—what do you think he is,
sergeant?”

“How should I know? I asked you: you know
every thing; at least, you pretend to. Why are you
out here? Who is he?”

“Bless me, I can't say; I don't know.”

“What do you think he is?”

“God knows!”

“He certainly is an impudent—a very suspicious
person.”

“Do you think so, sergeant?” asked one of the persons
present, with an air of profound alarm.

“I do—a very suspicious person—one that should
be watched.”

“I see nothing suspicious about him,” said another,
the same individual who had placed himself beside the
stranger when the wrath of the sergeant was expected
to burst upon him, and when he had actually laid his
hand upon his sword. “I see nothing suspicious about
the stranger,” said the speaker, boldly, “except that he
doesn't like to be troubled with foolish questions.”

“Foolish questions—foolish questions! Bless me,
John Davis, do you know what you're a-saying?”
The landlord spoke in great trepidation, and placed
himself, as he addressed Davis, between him and
the sergeant.

“Yes, I know perfectly what I say, Master Humphries;
and I say it's very unmannerly, the way in which
the stranger has been pestered with foolish questions.

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I say it, and I say it again; and I don't care who hears
it. I'm ready to stand up to what I say.”

“Bless me, the boy's mad! Now, sergeant, don't
mind him—he's only foolish, you see.”

“Mind him—oh no! Look you, young man, do you
see that tree? It won't take much treason to tuck you
up there.”

“Treason, indeed! I talk no treason, Sergeant
Hastings, and I defy you to prove any agin me. I'm
not to be frightened this time o' day, I'd have you to
know; and though you are a sodger, and wear a red
coat, let me tell you there's a tough colt in the woods
that your two legs can't straddle. There's no treason
in that, for it only concerns one person, and that one
person is your own self.”

“You d—d rebel, is it so you speak to a sergeant
in his majesty's service? Take that”—and with the
words, with his sword drawn at the instant, he made a
stroke with the flat of it at the head of the sturdy disputant,
which, as the latter somewhat anticipated it, he
was prepared to elude. This was done adroitly enough,
and with a huge club which stood conveniently in the
corner, he had prepared himself without fear to guard
against a repetition of the assault, when the stranger,
about whom the coil had arisen, now made his appearance,
and at once interposed between the parties.

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CHAPTER III.

“It is a written bondage—writ in stripes,
And letter'd in our blood. Like beaten hounds,
We crouch and cry, but clench not—lick the hand
That strikes and scourges.”

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

Hastings turned furiously at the interruption; but
the stranger, though entirely unarmed, stood firmly, and
looked on him with composure.

“That's a bright sword you wear,” said he, “but
scarcely a good stroke, and any thing but a gallant
one, Master Sergeant, which you make with it. How
now, is it the fashion with English soldiers to draw
upon unarmed men?”

The person addressed turned upon the speaker with
a scowl which seemed to promise that he would
transfer some portion of his anger to the new-comer.
He had no time, however, to do more than
look his wrath at the interruption; for among the
many persons whom the noise had brought to the
scene of action was the fair Bella Humphries herself.
She waited not an instant to place herself between
the parties, and, as if her own interest in the persons
concerned gave her an especial right in the matter, she
fearlessly passed under the raised weapon of Hastings,
addressing him imploringly, and with an air of
intimacy, which was, perhaps, the worst feature in the
business—so, at least, the individual appeared to think
to whose succour she had come. His brow blackened
still more at her approach, and when she interfered to
prevent the strife, a muttered curse, half-audible, rose
to his lips; and brandishing the club which he had
wielded with no little readiness before, he seemed
more than ever desirous of renewing the combat, though
at all its disadvantages. But the parties around

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generally interfered to prevent the progress of the strife;
and Bella, whose mind seemed perfectly assured of
Hastings' invincibility, addressed her prayers only to
him, and in behalf of the other.

“Now don't strike, Master Sergeant—don't, I pray!
John is only foolish, and don't mean any harm. Strike
him not, I beg you!”

“Beg for yourself, Bella Humphries—I don't want
any of your begging for me. I'm no chicken, and can
hold my own any day against him. So don't come between
us—you in particular—you had better keep
away.”

The countryman spoke ferociously; and his dark
eye, long black hair, and swarthy cheek, all combined
to give the expression of fierce anger which his words
expressed, a lively earnestness not ill-adapted to sustain
them. The girl looked on him reproachfully as he
spoke, though a close observer might have seen in her
features a something of conscious error and injustice.
It was evident that the parties had been at one period
far more intimate than now; and the young stranger,
about whom the coil had begun, saw in an instant the
true situation of the twain. A smile passed over his
features, but did not rest, as his eye took in at a glance
the twofold expression of Bella's face, standing between
her lovers, preventing the fight—scowled on furiously
by the one, and most affectionately leered at by the
other. Her appeal to the sergeant was so complimentary,
that even were he not half-ashamed of what he had
already done in commencing a contest so unequal, he
must have yielded to it and forborne; and some of his
moderation, too, might have arisen from his perceiving
the hostile jealousy of spirit with which his rival regarded
her preference of himself. His vanity was enlisted
in the application of the maiden, and with a
becoming fondness of expression in his glance, turning
to the coquette, he gave her to understand, while
thrusting his sword back into the scabbard, that he
consented to mercy on the score of her application.
Still, as Davis held out a show of fight, and stood

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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

snugly ensconced behind his chair, defying and even
inviting assault, it was necessary that the sergeant
should draw off honourably from the contest. While
returning the weapon to the sheath, therefore, he spoke
to his enemy in language of indulgent warning, not
unmixed with the military threats common at the
period—

“Hark you, good fellow—you're but a small man to
look out for danger, and there's too little of you, after
all, for me to look after. I let you off this time; but
you're on ticklish territory, and if you move but one
side or the other, you're but a lost man after all. It's
not a safe chance to show rebel signs on the king's
lightway, and you have an ugly squinting at disaffection.
My eyes are on you, now, and if I but see you
wink, or hear you hint, treason,—ay, treason, rebellion—
I see it in your eyes, I tell you,—but wink it or look
it again, and you know it's short work, very short
work, and a shorter journey, to the tight rope and the
branching tree.”

The speaker looked round significantly upon the
company as he uttered a warning and threat, which,
though addressed particularly to the refractory countryman,
were yet evidently as much meant for the benefit
of the rest. Not that the worthy sergeant had any reason
for uttering language which, in all respects, seemed
so gratuitous; but this was of a piece with the wantonly
injudicious habits of his superiors, from whom, with
the readiness of subordination, he made free to borrow,
and, with as little discrimination, quite as frequently
employed it, not less for the gratification of his vanity
than for the exercise of his power. The speech had
something of its usual effect,—keeping in silence those
whose love of talk might have prompted to occasional
remark, though without any serious feeling in the matter;
and subduing thoroughly all demonstrations of
dislike on the part of the few, who, feeling things more
deeply, might be disposed rather to act than to speak,
when under such provocation. However the persons
around may have felt at the moment, they were

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[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

generally prudent enough to be silent. Old Humphries
alone, with uplifted hands, and somewhat touched with
liquor, now seeing all danger over, came forward, and
hobbling up to the sergeant, cried out, in reply—

“Why, bless us, sergeant, you talk as if you were
among the enemies of his majesty, and not among his
good friends and well-wishers. Now, I'm sure I can
answer for all here. There's Jones and Baxter, Lyons
and Tom Walker there—all true blue—right loyal good
fellows, who drink the health of King George—God
bless him!—whenever they can get a drink; and as for
Jack Davis, bless us, sergeant, there's no better boy
in Goose Creek, though he is cross and snappish when
his fit's on, and no chicken either, as he says himself.
He'll fight for his majesty any day, I know. There's no
mistake in him—there's no mistake in any of the boys—
I can answer for all that's here, except—” and here
the landlord paused in one of the longest speeches he
had ever made, and his eye rested doubtfully upon the
person of the stranger.

“Except me,” said the latter, coming forward,
looking Hastings attentively in the face as he spoke,
and at the same time placing his hand with some little
emphasis upon the shoulders of old Humphries—“except
me, Master Humphries, for whom you can say
nothing—of whom you know nothing—but about whom
you are excessively curious. You only know I am not a
captain, nor yet a colonel; and as I have not satisfied
your desires on these subjects, of course you cannot
answer for my loyalty.”

“Bless us, no; that I can't, stranger.”

“But I can, Master Humphries, and that's enough
for all parties; and I can say, as you have already said
for these gentlemen, that my loyalty is quite as good as
that of any around me, as we shall all see in season.
And now that this quarrel is ended, let me only beg of
the worthy sergeant here, that he may not be so quick
to draw his weapon upon the man that is unarmed.
The action is by no means so creditable to the

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soldier, and one that he may, most probably, in time,
come to be ashamed of.”

The perfect coolness and self-possession of the
stranger, in this brief interlude, confounded Hastings
not less than it did the rest. He knew not in what
character to behold him, and, but that he was rather
stolid than otherwise, might have exhibited traces of
that confusion which his mind certainly felt. But the
air of superiority which the other manifested, annoyed
him too greatly to give way to doubt or indetermination;
and he was about to answer roughly, when a remark
which Davis made, of a churlish nature, to the
coquettish Bella Humphries, who still lingered beside
the sergeant, attracted the latter's attention, and giving
a glance to the speaker, he threw his collected spleen
in that quarter, while addressing the girl—

“See, now, that's the good you get for saving him
from punishment. He doesn't thank you at all for
what you've done.”

“No, that I don't!” cried the incorrigible Davis:
“I owe her as little thanks as I owe you kindness,—
and I'll pay off both some day. I can hold my own
without her help; and as for her begging, I don't want
it—I won't have it—and I despise it.”

“What's that?” cried Hastings, with a show of
returning choler.

“Nothing, sergeant, nothing; don't mind what he
says; he's only foolish, and don't mean any harm.
Now take your hand away from the sword, I beg you.”

The girl looked so prettily, as she prayed him to be
quiet, that the soldier relented. Her deferential solicitude
was all-influential, and softened much of the harsh
feeling that might have existed in his bosom. Taking
her arm into his own, with a consequential strut,
and throwing a look of contempt upon his rival as he
passed, the conqueror moved away into the adjoining
apartment, to which, as his business seems private at
present, we shall not presume to follow him.

His departure was the signal for renovated I life
in several of those persons who, in the previous scene,

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[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

seemed quiescent enough. They generously came
forward to Davis with advice and friendly counsel to
keep himself out of harm's way, and submit, most civilly,
like a good Christian, to the gratuitous blow and
buffet. The most eloquent among them was the landlord.

“Now, bless me,” said he, “John, my dear boy,
why will you be after striving with the sergeant?
You know you can't stand against him, and where's
the use? He's quite too tough a colt for you to manage,
now, I tell you.”

“So you think, Master Humphries—so you think.
But I'm not so sure of it, now, by half. I can stand a
thump as well as any man—and I haint lived so long
in Goose Creek not to know how to give one too.
But how you stand it—you, I say, Dick Humphries—
I don't altogether see.”

“Eh, John—how I stand it? Bless us, what do you
mean, boy? He don't trouble me—he don't threaten
me—I'm a good subject to his majesty.”

The youth laughed irreverently, and the stranger,
who had been standing apart, but still within hearing,
noted the incident with a considerable show of interest
in his countenance.

“And what do you laugh for, John? Don't, boy—I
pray you, don't. Let's have a glass together, then say
what you mean. Good old Jamaica! Won't you join
us, stranger?”

The youth declined, and Davis proceeded—

“My meaning's soon said, Master Humphries. I'm
sorry to see—” and here, with a praiseworthy delicacy,
he whispered in the old man's ear his objections to the
large degree of intimacy existing between the British
sergeant and his pretty daughter.

“Oh, go, John! there's no harm, boy. You're only
jealous 'cause she turned you off.”

“Turned me off, indeed!” responded the other, indignantly
and aloud—“turned me off! No, Master
Humphries—not so bad neither. But it's no use talking—
you'll know all in time, and will wish you had

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[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

minded what I told you. But go your own gait, you'll
grow fatter upon it;” and with this not very nice proverb
the disappointed lover turned away.

This scene had not been lost upon the stranger youth,
though little regarded by the other personages, who
had each made his speech and taken his drink and departure.
There was much more spoken that we do
not care to record, but which, duly noted by the ears of
the one observer to whom we have made especial reference,
was held not unworthy in his mind of proper
consideration. He had seen a dogged disposition on
the part of Davis to break and to quarrel with the
British sergeant; and though he clearly saw that
much of this disposition arose, as old Humphries had
asserted, from a jealous dislike of the intimacy between
Bella and the person in question, he yet perceived that
many of the phrases made use of by the countryman
indicated any thing but respect or good feeling for the
British authority. There was a sturdy brusqueness
in his air and manner, when the other spoke to him of
treason, which said that the crime was, after all, a venial
one in his mind; and this disposition, perceptible as it
must have been to the sergeant, not less than to the
stranger, might doubtless have prompted much of that
violence on his part which had been so happily and in
time arrested. Nor was there any thing precipitate or
uncommon in what the sergeant had done. Such exhibitions
were common in the bitter and unserupulous
warfare of the south. The word and the blow, and frequently
the blow first, was the habitual mode of silencing,
not treason, but all manner of opposition; and this
was the injudicious course by which the British, regarding
South Carolina as a conquered province, revolted
the popular feeling from all sympathy with their
authority, and provoked that spirit of determined resistance
and hostility which, in a few weeks only after
this event, blazed up throughout the whole colony, from
one end to the other, and commenced that series of
harassing operations, the partisan warfare, which, in
spite of frequent defeats, cut off the foraging parties of

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[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

the British army, destroyed its resources, diminished
its exercise, contracted its sphere of operations daily,
and, in the end, drove the invader to the seaboard, and
from thence to his departing vessels.

Old Humphries followed Davis to the door, and
again renewed the conversation. The landlord seemed
to have a good feeling for his guest, who had probably
been a crony of his own, and a favoured lover of his
daughter, before the British army had made its appearance
to compel a change of political sentiment in the
one, or a British sergeant, in his red coat and round
face, to effect as great a revolution in the bosom of the
other. His object seemed to be to persuade Davis into
a more cautious habit of forbearance, when speaking
of the existing powers; and he warned him of the unhesitating
nature of the enemy when punishing what
they held rebellion, and of the severe kinds of punishment
put in exercise on such occasions. But whether
it was that the youth really felt sorely, too sorely for
calm reflection, the loss of his sweetheart—or whether
the assault of the sergeant had opened his eyes to the
doubtful tenure by which the American held his security
under the rule that now prevailed throughout the
land—may not well be said; but there was a reckless
audacity in his replies to the friendly suggestions of
the landlord, which half-frightened the latter personage
out of his wits.

“I'd rather eat acorns, now, Master Humphries, I tell
you, and sleep in the swamps in August, than hush my
tongue when I feel it's right to speak. They shan't
crow over me, though I die for it; and let them look
out; for I tell you now, Dick Humphries, flesh and
blood can't stand their persecutions. There's no
chance for life, let 'lone property. Look how they
did Frampton's wife, and she in such a way; and only
three days ago they tied up Tom Raysor's little boy
Ben, and give him a matter of fifty lashes with hickories
thick as my thumb, and all because the boy
wouldn't tell where his father was hiding.”

“But you see, John, that all came of the hiding.

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[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

If Frampton and Raysor had not taken to the swamp,
the old lady would have been let alone, and the boy
wouldn't have been whipt. Aint they in arms now
against his majesty?”

“Yes; and if his majesty goes on after this fashion
there will be a few more, I can tell you. Now, you
yourself, Dick Humphries, I put it to yourself, whether
the thing's right, and whether we ought to stand it.
Now, I know you of old, and know you're no more a
loyalist than—”

“Hush! Bless us, John Davis, how you talk, boy!
hush, hush!” and with an air of the greatest trepidation,
looking around and perceiving that, though the
stranger appeared to be reading very earnestly from
the pages of the “Royal (Charlestown) Gazette,” he
was yet within hearing, the landlord led his companion
farther from the door, and the conversation, as it proceeded
to its conclusion, was entirely lost to all ears
but their own. It was not long before Humphries returned
to the hall, and endeavoured to commence a sort
of desultory dialogue with the stranger guest, whose
presence had produced the previous quarrel. But this
personage seemed to desire no such familiarity, for
scarcely had the old man begun, when throwing down
the sheet he had been reading, and thrusting upon his
head the rakish cap which all the while had rested on
his knee, he rose from his seat, and moving rapidly to
the door of the apartment, followed the steps of Davis,
whom he beheld pursuing his way along the main
bridge road and towards the river. The path was
clear in this quarter; not a solitary being, but themselves,
was to be seen—by them at least. In the centre
of the bridge—a crazy structure of ill-adjusted
timber thrown over a point of the stream where it
most narrowed—the pursuing stranger overtook the
moodily-wandering countryman. He stopped him in
his progress till he could come up with him, by a
friendly hail; and freely approaching him, tendered
him his open hand in a cordial salutation. The other
grasped it with honest pleasure.

-- 037 --

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

“Master Davis, for such, I believe, is your name,”
said the stranger, frankly, “I owe you thanks for so
readily, though I must say rashly, taking up my quarrel.
I understand that your brush with that soldier-fellow
was on my account; and though, like yourself,
I need nobody to fight my battles, I must yet thank
you for the good spirit which you have shown in this
matter.”

“No thanks, stranger. I don't know what name to
call you—”

“No matter; names are unnecessary, and the fewer
known the better in these doubtful times. I care not
to utter mine, though it has but little value. Call me
what you please.” The other looked surprised, but
still satisfied, and replied after this fashion—

“Well, squire, as I said, you owe me no thanks at
all in this affair, for though I did take up the matter on
your hook, it was because I had a little sort of hankering
to take it up on my own. I have long had a grudge
at that fellow, and I didn't care much on whose score
it began, so it had a beginning.”

“He has done you wrong?” half affirmatively, half
inquiringly, said his companion.

“Reckon he has, squire, and no small wrong neither;
but that's neither here nor there, seeing there's little
help for it.”

“How! no help for it! What may be the nature of
this injury, for which a man with your limbs and spirit
can find no help?”

The countryman looked at the speaker with a curious
expression, in which a desire to confide, and a proper
hesitancy in intrusting his secret thoughts to a stranger,
were mingled equally. The other beheld the expression,
and readily divining the difficulty, proceeded
to remove it.

“This man has wronged you, friend Davis: you
are his match—more than his match; you have better
make and muscle, and manage your club quite as well
as he his broadsword:—why should you not have justice
if you desire it?”

-- 038 --

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

“If I desire it!” cried the other, and his black eye
sparkled. “I do desire it, squire; but there's odds
against me, or we'd a-been at it afore this.”

“What odds?”

“Look there!” and as Davis replied he pointed to
the fortress upon the opposite hill, a few hundred yards
off, where the cross of Great Britain streamed high
among the pine-trees, and from the entrance of which,
at that very moment, a small body of regulars were
pouring out into the street, and proceeding with martial
music to the market-place.

“I see,” replied the other—“I see; but why should
they prove odds against you in a personal affair with
this sergeant? You have justice from them surely.”

“Justice!—such justice as a tory captain gives
when he wants your horse, and don't want to pay for
it.” Davis replied truly, in his summing up of British
justice at that period.

“But you do not mean to say that the people would
not be protected, were complaints properly made to the
officers?”

“I do; and what's worse, complaint only goes after
new hickories. One man was strapped up only yesterday,
because he complained that Corporal Townes
kicked his wife and broke his crockery. They gave
him a hundred lashes.”

“And yet loyalty must have its advantages, more
than equal to this usage, else”—and a smile of bitter
scorn played upon the lips of the speaker as he finished
the sentence—“else there would not be so many to
love it so well and submit to it so patiently.”

The countryman gazed earnestly at the speaker,
whose eyes were full of a most searching expression,
which could not be misunderstood.

“Dang it, stranger,” he cried, “what do you mean—
who are you?”

“A man—one who has not asked for a British protection,
nor submitted to their hickories;” and the form
of the stranger was elevated duly as he spoke, and
his eye was lighted up with scornful fires, as his

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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

reference was made sarcastically to the many in the neighbourhood
who had done both. The man's face was
flushed when he hear this reply; the tears gathered
in his eyes, and with a bitter emphasis, though in low
tones, as if he felt all the shame of his acknowledgment,
he replied—

“God curse me, but I did! I was one of those who
took a protection. Here it is—here's the paper. Here's
where I sold my country, and put myself down in
black and white, to be beaten like a dog with hickories.
But it's not too late; and look you, stranger, I believe
you're true blue, but if you aint, why it's all the same
thing—I care not—you may go tell quick as you please;
but I will break the bargain.”

“How?—speak!” and the form of the other was advanced
and seemed to dilate, as he watched the earnest
glow in every feature of his companion.

“How?—by tearing up the paper: see”—and, as he
spoke, he tore into small bits the guaranty of British
protection, which, in common with most of his neighbours,
he had been persuaded to accept from the commandant
for his security, and as a condition of that
return, which he pledged at the same time, to his duty
and his allegiance.

“Your life is in my hands,” exclaimed his companion,
deliberately. “Your life is in my hands.”

“Take it!” cried the countryman, and he threw himself
upon his guard, while his fingers clutched fiercely
the knife which he carried in his bosom. His small
person, slight but active, thrown back, every muscle in
action and ready for contest; his broad-brimmed white
hat dashed from his brow; his black glossy hair
dishevelled and flying in the wind; lips closely compressed,
while his deep, dark eye shot forth fires of
anger, fiercely enlivening the dusky sallow of his cheek—
all gave to him a most imposing expression of animated
life and courage in the eye of his companion.

“Take it—take the worthless life!” he cried, in low
but emphatic accents. “It is worthless, but you will
fight for it.”

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[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

The other regarded him with a look of admiration
sobered into calm.

“Your life is in my hands, but it is safe. God forbid,
Master Davis,” said he, with solemnity, “God
forbid that I should assail it. I am your friend, your
countryman, and I rejoice in what you have done. You
have done well and nobly in destroying that evidence
of your dishonour; for it is dishonour to barter one's
country and its liberties for dastardly security—for
one's miserable life. You have done well; but be not
rash. Your movement must be in quiet. Nothing rash,
nothing precipitate. Every step you now take must
be one of caution, for your path is along the steeps of
danger. But come with me—you shall know more.
First secure those scraps; they may tell tales upon
you; a quick hand and close eye may put them together,
and then your neck would be fit game for the
halter you sergeant warned you of. But what now—
what are the troops about?”

The countryman looked, at his companion's question,
and beheld the troops forming in the market-place,
while the note of the bugle at intervals, and an occasional
sullen tap of the drum, gathered the crowd of
the village around them.

“It's a proclamation, squire. That's the market-place,
where they read it first. They give us one
every two or three days, sometimes about one thing,
sometimes another. If the cattle's killed by the whigs,
though it may be their own, there's a proclamation;[2] but
we don't mind them much, for they only tell us to be
quiet and orderly, and, Heaven knows, we can't be more
so. They will next go to the church, where they will
again read it. That's nigher, and we can get round in
time to hear what it is. Shall we go, squire?” The
other expressed his willingness, and leaving the bridge,
they proceeded in the direction of the crowd.

eaf358v1.n2

[2] We have two or three grave proclamations of this sort on record,
issued by the British generals in Carolina.

-- 041 --

CHAPTER IV.

“———Keep thy counsel well,
And fear not. We shall mate with them in time,
And spoil them who would strike us. We are free,
And confidently strong—have arms and men—
Good fellows in the wood, that will not fly
When blows are to be borne.”

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

By a short path the stranger and his companion
moved from the bridge to the place of gathering. It
was not long before they found themselves in the thick
of the crowd, upon the green plot in front of the church,
from the portals of which the heavy roll of the drum
commanded due attention from the populace. The
proclamation which the commander of the garrison at
Dorchester now proceeded to read to the multitude,
was of no small importance. Its contents were well
calculated to astound and terrify the Carolinians who
heard it. It was one of the many movements of the
British commander, unfortunately for the cause of royalty
in that region, which, more than any thing besides,
contributed to arouse and irritate that spirit of resistance
on the part of the invaded people, which it should
have been the studious policy of the invaders to mollify
and suppress. The document in question had been
just issued by Sir Henry Clinton, declaring all paroles
or protections granted hitherto to be null and void, and
requiring the holders of them, within twenty days, to
resume the character of British subjects—taking up
arms in the promotion of his majesty's cause, against
their brethren, under pain of being treated as rebels to
his government. The motive of Sir Henry for a
movement so exceedingly injudicious, may be only
conjectured from the concurrent circumstances of the
time. The continental army, under De Kalb, was on
its way to the South—Gates had been ordered to

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[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

command it—and this intelligence, though not generally
known to the people of Carolina, could not long be
withheld from their possession. It was necessary to
keep them from any co-operation with their approaching
friends; and no more effectual mode, simply considered
by itself, could have been suggested to the
mind of the Briton than their employment under his
own banners. This apart, the invasion of the adjoining
states of Virginia and North Carolina had been long
since determined upon, and was now to be attempted.
Troops were wanted for this purpose, and no policy
seemed better than to expend one set of rebels upon
another. It was also necessary to secure the conquered
province; and the terrors of the hangman were providently
held out, in order to impel the conquered to the
minor risks of the bayonet and shot. The error was
a fatal one. From that hour the declension of British
power was precipitately hurried in Carolina: the people
lost all confidence in those who had already so grossly
deceived them; for the condition of the protection or
parole called for no military service from the citizen
who took it. He was simply to be neutral in the contest;
and however unworthy may have been the spirit
consenting even to this condition, it cannot be denied
that a foul deception had been practised upon them.
The consequences were inevitable; and the determined
hostility of the foe was coupled, on the part of the
Carolinians, with a wholesale scorn of the want of
probity manifested by the enemy they were now not
so unwilling to encounter.

From the church-porch the proclamation was again
read to the assembled multitude. The crowd was
variously composed, and various indeed was the effect
which it produced among them. The stranger and his
companion, at a little distance, listened closely to the
words of the instrument; and a smile of joy, not unmarked
by Davis, played over the features of the
former as he heard it read. The latter looked his indignation:
he could not understand why such a paper
should give pleasure to his comrade, and could not

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[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

forbear, in a whisper, demanding the occasion of his
satisfaction.

“It pleases you, squire? I see you smile!”

“It does please me—much, very much,” responded
the other, quickly, and with emphasis, but in a whisper
also.

“What!” with more earnestness, said the countryman—
“what! does it please you to listen to such
villany as this? I do not understand you.”

“Not so loud, comrade; you have a neck, and these
fellows a rope: besides, there's one to the left of us
whose looks I like not.”

The other turned in the direction signified, and saw
the propriety of his companion's caution, as he beheld
within a few feet the harsh features of the notorious
Captain Huck, a furious and bloody tory-leader, well
known, and held in odious estimation, throughout the
neighbourhood. The stranger went on, still whispering—

“Look pleased, friend Davis, if you can: this is
no time to show any but false colours to the enemy.
I am pleased, really, as you think, and have my reason
for being so, which you shall know in good time. Take
breath, and listen.”

The paper was finished, and the detachment moved
on its way to the “George Tavern,” the crowd generally
following; and there it was again read. Our two friends
kept together, and proceeded with the multitude. The
stranger was eminently watchful and observant: he
noted well the sentiment of indignation which all faces
manifested; there could be no doubt of that expression.
The sober farmer, the thoughtless and gayhearted
planter of the neighbourhood, the drudge, the
mechanic, the petty chapman—all had in their looks
that severe soberness which showed a thought and
spirit, active, and more to be respected, as they were
kept so well restrained.

“God save the king!” cried the officer, as he concluded
the instrument, from the steps of the tavern.

“Ay, God save the king, and God bless him, too!”

-- 044 --

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

cried old Humphries, at the entrance. A few only of
the crowd gave back the cry, and even with them the
prayer was coldly uttered; and there was nothing like
that spirit which, when the heart goes with the decree
of the ruler, makes the welkin ring with its unregulated
rejoicings.

“You are silent: you do not cry with the rest,” said
one at the elbow of the stranger. He turned to behold
the features of the tory-captain, of whom we have
already spoken, who now, with a scrutinizing glance,
placed himself close beside the person he had addressed.
The mean cunning—the low, searching expression
of his look—were eminently disgusting to the
youth, who replied, while resuming his old position—

“What? God save the king? Did I not say it? It's
very natural; for I'm so used to it. I'm quite willing
that God should save his majesty—God knows he
needs it.”

This was said with a very devout countenance, and
the expression was so composed and quiet, that the
tory could say nothing, though still not satisfied, seemingly,
with much that was in the language. It sounded
very like a sneer, and yet, strictly speaking, it was
perfectly unexceptionable. Baffled in this quarter, the
loyalist, who was particularly desirous of establishing
his own claims to British favour, now turned with a
similar inquiry to Davis; but the countryman was
ready, and a nudge in the side from his companion,
had any thing been wanting, moved him to a similar
answer. Huck was not exactly prepared to meet with
so much willingness on the part of two persons whose
movements he had suspected, and had been watching;
but concluding them now to be well-affected, he did not
scruple to propose to them to become members of the
troop of horse he was engaged in raising. To the
stranger he first addressed himself, complimenting him
upon his fine limbs and figure, and insisting upon the
excellent appearance he would make, well-mounted and
in British uniform. A smile of sovereign contempt
overspread the youth's features as he listened to the

-- 045 --

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

tory patiently to the end. Calmly, then, he begged
permission to decline the proposed honour.

“Why, you are loyal, sir?” he asked, seeming to
doubt.

“Who denies it?” fiercely replied the stranger.

“Oh, nobody; I mean not to offend: but, as a
loyal subject, you can scarce withhold yourself from
service.”

“I do not contemplate to do so, sir.”

“And why not join my troop? Come, now, you
shall have a lieutenancy; for, blast me, but I like your
looks, and would be devilish glad to have you. You
can't refuse.”

“But I do,” said the other, calmly—almost contemptuously.

“And wherefore?” Huck inquired, with some show
of pique in his countenance and manner—“wherefore?
What better service? and, to a soldier of fortune, let
me ask you, what better chances than now of making
every thing out of these d—d rebels, who have gone
into the swamps, leaving large estates for confiscation?
What better business?”

“None: I fully agree with you.”

“And you will join my troop?”

“No!”

The man looked astonished. The coolness and
composure with which the denial was made surprising
him not less than the denial itself. With a look of
doubt and wonderment, he went on—

“Well, you know best; but, of course, as a good
citizen, you will soon be in arms: twenty days, you
know, are all that's allowed you.”

“I do not need so many: as a good citizen, I shall
be in arms in less time.”

“In whose troop?—where?”

“Ah, now we come to the point,” was the sudden
reply; “and you will now see why I have been able
to withstand the tempting offers you have made me. I
am thinking to form a troop of my own, and should I
do so, I certainly should not wish so much success to
yours as to fall into your ranks.”

-- 046 --

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

“Indeed! Well, I'm glad, any how, that his majesty
is likely to be so well served with officers. Have you
yet applied for a commission to the commandant?”

“No: nor shall I, till my recruits are strong enough
to make my appearance respectable.”

“That's right! I know that by experience. They
never like you half so well as when you bring your
men with you: they don't want officers so much as
men; and some of the commands, if they can chouse
you out of your recruits, will not stop to do so; and
then you may whistle for your commission. I suppose
your friend, here, is already secured for your
squad?”

The tory referred to Davis, who did not leave his
companion to reply; but, without scruple, avowed himself
as having already been partially secured for the
opposition troop.

“Well, good luck to you. But I say, comrade, you
have commanded before—of course, you are prepared
to lead?”

“I have the heart for it,” was the reply; and as the
stranger spoke, he extended his arms towards the tory
captain, while elevating his figure to its fullest height;
“and you can say yourself for the limbs. As for the
head, it must be seen if mine's good for any thing.”

“I doubt it not; and service comes easy after a
brush or two. But wouldn't you like to know the
colonel?”

“Who?—Proctor—the colonel in command here?”

“The same.”

“In time, I'll trouble you, perhaps, to help me to
that knowledge. Not yet; not till I get my recruits.”

“You are right in that; and, talking of the recruits,
I must see after mine; and, so, a good-evening to you,
and success. We shall meet again.” The tory moved
among the separate groups as he spoke, and the stranger
turned to Davis, while he muttered—

“Ay, we shall meet again, Master Huck, or it will
be no fault of mine. If we do not, Old Nick takes
marvellous care of his own. But, ha! comrade, keep
you here awhile: there is one that I would speak with.”

-- 047 --

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

At a little distance apart, at one wing of the
tavern, stood a man, attired in the blue homespun
common to the country wear, among the humbler
classes; and with nothing particular to distinguish
him, if we may except a face somewhat more round
and rosy than belongs usually to the people dwelling in
Dorchester and its neighbourhood. He was like them
in one respect—having a sidelong, indirect movement,
coupled with a sluggish, lounging, indifferent gait,
which is the general feature of this people, unless
when roused by insult or provocation. In his hand he
carried a whip of common leather, which he smacked
occasionally, either for the sharp, shot-like sounds
which it sent forth, or when he desired to send to a
greater distance that most grumbling of all aristocrats,
the hog, as it approached him. The quick eye of the
stranger had singled out this personage; and, leaving
Davis where he stood, and moving quickly through
the straggling groups that still clustered in front of the
tavern, he at once approached him confidently as an
old acquaintance. The other seemed not to observe
his coming, until our first acquaintance, speaking as he
advanced, caught his notice. This had no sooner been
done, than the other was in motion. Throwing aside
his sluggishness of look, he recognised by a glance the
stranger youth, and his head was bent forward to listen,
as he saw that he was about to speak. The words of
our old acquaintance were few, but significant—

“I am here before you—say nothing—lead on, and
I will follow.”

With a nod, the person addressed looked but once
at the speaker; then, without a word, moving from his
easy position against the tavern, and throwing aside all
show of sluggishness, he led the way for the stranger;
and, taking an oblique path, which carried them in a
short time into the neighbouring woods, they soon left
the village behind them. Davis had been reluctant
to separate from the companion to whom he had so
readily yielded his confidence. He had his doubts—
as who could be without them in that season of general

-- 048 --

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

distrust?—but when he remembered the warm, manly
frankness of the stranger—his free, bold, generous, and
gentle countenance—he did not suffer himself to doubt
for a moment more that his secret would be safe in his
possession. This, indeed, was the least of his difficulties.
The fair coquette of the inn had attracted
him strongly, and, with a heavy heart, he turned into the
“Royal George;” and, throwing his form at length
upon a bench, he solaced himself with an occasional
glance at Bella Humphries, whose duties carried her
to and fro between the bar and the sitting-room; and
with thoughts of that vengeance upon his enemy
which his new position with the stranger seemed to
promise him.

Meanwhile, following the steps of the individual he
had so singled out, the latter kept on his way until the
village had been fairly passed; then, plunging down a
little by-path, into which the former had gone, he soon
overtook him, and they moved on closely together in
their common progress. The guide was a stout ablebodied
person, of thirty years, or perhaps more—
a rough-looking man, one seemingly born and bred
entirely in the humble life of the country. He was
powerful in physical development, rather stout than
high, with a short, thick neck—a head round and large,
with eyes small, settled, and piercing—and features
even solemn in their general expression of severity.
He carried no visible weapons, but he seemed the man
to use them; for no one who looked in his face could
doubt that he was full of settled purpose, firm in his
resolve, and reckless, having once determined, in the
prosecution of the most desperate enterprise.

The way they were pursuing grew more and more
tangled as they went, gradually sinking in level, until
the footing became slightly insecure, and at length
terminated in the soft oozy swamp surface common to
the margin of most rivers in the low country of the
south. They were now close on the banks of the
Ashley, which wound its way, perceptible to the two
in occasional glimpses, through the close-set foliage
by which they were surrounded. A few more strides

-- 049 --

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

through the copse and over the miry surface, brought
them again to a dry elevation, isolated by small sluices
of water, and more closely wrapped in brush and covering.
Here their progress was arrested, for they were
now perfectly secure from interruption. In all this time,
no word had been exchanged between the parties; but
the necessity for farther caution being now over, they
came to a pause, and the silence was broken as follows
by our last-made acquaintance:—

“We are safe here, Major Singleton, and can now
speak freely. The sharpest scout in the British garrison
could not well come upon us without warning,
and if he did, would do so by accident.”

“I'm glad of it, for I'm heartily tired, and not a little
impatient to talk with you. But let us be at ease.”

They threw themselves upon the ground—our elder
acquaintance, whom we now know as Major Singleton,
with an air of superiority which seemed familiar, choosing
the most favourable spot, while the other remained
standing until his companion had adjusted himself;
and then took his seat respectfully on the ridgy roots
of the pine-tree spreading over them.

“And now, Humphries,” said Singleton, “what of
my sister—is she safe, and how did she bear the
journey?”

“Safe, major, and well as could be expected, though
very feeble. We had some trouble crossing the Santee,
but it did not keep us long, and we got on tolerably
well after. The whole party are now safe at `The
Oaks.”'

“Well, you must guide me there to-night, if possible;
I know nothing of the place, and but little of the country.
Years have passed since I last went over it.”

“What! have you never been at `The Oaks,' major?
I was told you had.”

“Yes, when a boy; but I have no distinct memory
on the subject, except of the noble trees, the thick
white moss, and the dreamy quiet of all things around.
The place, I know, is beautiful.”

“You may well say so, major; a finer don't happen

-- 050 --

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

often in the low country, and the look at it from the
river is well worth a journey.”

“Ah! I have never seen it from that quarter. But
you said my uncle was well, and”—here the voice faltered
a little—“and my cousin Katharine—They are
all well?”

“All well, sir. The old squire is rather down in
the mouth, you see, for he's taken a protection, and he
can't help seeing the troubles of the county. It's this
that makes his trouble; and though he used, of old time,
to be a dashing, hearty, lively, talkative gentleman,
always pleasant and good-humoured, yet now he says
nothing; and if he happens to smile at all, he catches
himself up a minute after, and looks mighty sorry for
it. Ah, major, these cursed protections—they've made
many a good heart sore in this neighbourhood, and the
worst is to come yet, or I'm mistaken.”

“A sore subject, Humphries, and not very necessary
to speak on. But what news—what stirring, and how
get on our recruits?”

“Slowly enough, major; but that is to be expected
while the country is overrun with the red-coats. The
folks are afraid to move, and our poor swamp-boys
can't put their noses out yet—not until the enemy turns
his back on them for a while, and gives them chance
for a little skirmish, without the risk of the rope. But
things would change, I'm certain, if the great general
you spoke of, with the continentals, would only come
south. Our people only want an opportunity.”

“And they shall have it. But what intelligence here
from the city?”

“None, sir, or little. You heard the proclamation?”

“Yes, with joy—with positive delight. The movement
is a grand one for our cause: it must bring out
the ground-rats—those who skulked for safety into contracts,
measuring honour by acres, and counting their
duty to their country by the value of their crops.”

“True—I see that, major, but that's the thing I
dread. Why should you desire to bring them out?”

“Why, because, though with us in spirit and

-- 051 --

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

sentiment, they yet thought to avoid danger, while they
believed themselves unable to serve us by their risk.
Now, forced into the field—compelled to fight—is it
not clear that the argument is all in favour of our side?
Will they not rather fight in conformity with their feelings
and opinions than against them? particularly when
the latter course must place them in arms against their
friends and neighbours—not to speak of their countrymen—
in many instances to their relatives, and the
members of their own families. By forcing into the
field those who were quiet before, Sir Henry Clinton
has forced hundreds into our ranks, who will be as
slow to lay down their weapons as they were to take
them up.”

“I hope so, major; but I fear that many will rather
strike for what seems the strongest, and not ask many
questions as to which is the justest side.”

“No—this I fear not. The class of people on which
I rely are too proud to suffer this imposition, and too
spirited not to resist the indignity which it puts upon
them. They must be roused by the trick which has
been practised, and will shake off their sleep. Let us
hope for it, at least.”

“I am willing, sir, but fear it. They have quite too
much at stake: they have too much plate, too many
negroes, and live too comfortably to be willing to stand
a chance of losing all by taking up arms against the
British, who are squat close alongside of them.”

“So should I fear with you, Humphries, and for like
reasons, if the protections protected them. I doubt not
that they would be willing to keep quiet, and take no
part in this struggle, if the conquerors were wise enough
to let them alone; but they kick and cuff them on all
occasions, and patriots are frequently made by kicking.
I care not for the process, so it gives us the commodity.
Let them kick on, and may they get extra legs for the
purpose!”

“Amen,” said Humphries, gravely. Then changing
the topic somewhat, he asked him—

“You were with Jack Davis, of Goose Creek, major,

-- 052 --

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

when you first came up—I thought you were unknown
in these parts?”

“You thought rightly; I am still unknown, but I
learned to know something of him you speak of, and
circumstances threw us together.” Here Singleton
related the occurrences at the tavern, as already known
to us. Humphries, who was the son of the landlord,
gave close attention, and with something more than
ordinary interest. He was not at any time a man to
show his feelings openly, but there was an increased
pressure of his lips together as that portion fell upon
his ear which described the interference of his sister,
the fair coquette Bella, for the protection of her castoff
lover. His breathing was far less free at this
point of the narrative; and when Singleton concluded,
the listener muttered, partly in soliloquy and partly in
reply—

“A poor fool of a girl, that sister of mine, major;
loves the fine colours of the jay in spite of his cursed
squalling, and has played upon that good fellow, Davis—
Prickly Ash, as we sometimes call him in the village—
till he's half out of his wits. Her head, too, is
half turned with that red coat; but I'll cure her of that,
and cure him too, or there's no virtue in twisted bore.
But, major, did you do any thing with Davis?”

The answer was affirmative, and Humphries continued—

“That's a gain, sir; for Davis is true, if he says it,
and comes of good breed: he'll fight like a bull-dog,
and his teeth shall meet in the flesh. Besides, he's a
great shot with the rifle, like most of the boys from
Goose Creek. His old mother kept him back, or he'd
a-joined us long ago, for I've seen how his thoughts
run. But it's not too late, and if the word's once out
of his mouth, he's to be depended on—he's safe.”

“A few more will do. You have several others,
have you not, gathering in a safe place!” said Singleton.

“In the swamp—thirteen, true as steel, and ready
for fight. They're only some six miles off, and can

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[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

be brought up in two hours, at notice. See, this river
comes from the heart of the Cypress Swamp, where
they shelter; and if there be no tory among us to show
them the track, I defy all Proctor's garrison to find us
out.”

“We must be among them to-morrow. But the evening
wears, and the breeze freshens up from the river:
it is sweet and fresh from the sea—and how different,
too, from that of the forests! But come—I must go
back, and have my horse in readiness for this ride to
`The Oaks,' where you must attend me.”

“Your horse! Where is he?” asked the other,
quickly.

“In your father's stable.”

“He must not be suffered to stay there; if he is,
you will not have him long. We must hide him out,
or that black-hearted tory, Huck, will be on his quarters
before three days: he's beating about the country now
for horses as well as men.”

“See to it, then, for I must run no such risk. Let
us return at once,” said Singleton.

“Yes; but we take different roads: we must not
know each other. Can you find the way back alone,
major?”

“Yes—I doubt not.”

“To the left now—round that water; keep straight
up from the river for a hundred yards, and you fall into
the track. Your horse shall be ready in an hour, and
I will meet you at supper.”

They parted—Singleton on his way as directed, and
Humphries burying himself still deeper in the copse.

-- 054 --

CHAPTER V.

“It needs but to be bold—be bold—be bold—
Everywhere bold. 'Tis every virtue told;
Courage and truth, humanity and skill,
The noblest cunning that the mind can will,
And the best charity.”

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

It was not long before Singleton reached the tavern,
which he now found crowded. The villagers of
all conditions and politics had there assembled, either
to mutter over their doubts or discontents, or to gather
counsel for their course in future, from the many, wiser
than themselves, in their own predicament. There,
also, came the true loyalist, certain to find deference
and favour from the many around him, not so happy or
so secure as himself in the confidence of the existing
powers. The group was motley enough, and the moods
at work among them not less so. Some had already
determined upon submission,—some of the weak—the
time-serving—such as every old community will be
found to furnish, where indolent habits, which have become
inveterate, forbid all sort of independence. Some
fluctuated, and knew not what to do, or even what to
think. But there were others, Singleton imagined,
as he looked into their grave, sullen features, full of
thought and pregnant with determination, who felt nothing
so strongly as the sense of injustice, and the rebeldaring
which calls for defiance at every hazard. “Vengeance!
my men!” he muttered to himself, as, passing
full into the apartment, he became at once visible to
the group. The old landlord himself was the first person
who confronted him after that familiar fashion which
had already had its rebuke from the same quarter.

“Ah, captain! (the brow of Singleton darkened)—
squire I mean—I ask pardon, squire; but here, where

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[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

every man is a captain, or a colonel, or something, it
comes easy to say so to all, and is not often amiss. No
offence, squire—it's use, only, and I mean no harm.”

“Enough, enough! good Master Landlord! Least
said, soonest mended. Shall we soon have supper?”

The ready publican turned to the inner door of
the apartment and put the same question to his daughter,
the fair Bella; then, without waiting for her reply,
informed the inquirer that many minutes would not
elapse before it would be on table.

“Six o'clock's the time of day for supper, squire—
six for supper—one for dinner—eight for breakfast—
punctual to the stroke, and no waiting. Heh! what's
that you say, Master Dickenson?—what's that about
Frampton?”

Humphries turned to one of the villagers whose remarks
had partially met his ear, and who had just entered
the apartment. The person so addressed came
forward; a thin-jawed, sallow countryman, whose eyes
were big with the intelligence he brought, and who
seemed anxious that a well-dressed and goodly-looking
stranger like Singleton should have the benefit of his
burden.

“Why, gentlemen, the matter with Frampton's strange
enough. You all know he's been out several days, close
in the swamp. He had a fight, stranger, you see, with
one of Huck's dragoons; and he licked the dragoon, for
all the world, as if he'd a licked him out of his skin.
Now the dragoon's a strong fellow enough; but Frampton's
a horse, and if ever he mounts you the game is
up, for there's no stopping him when he gets his hand
in. So, as I tell you, the dragoon stood a mighty slim
chance. He first brought him down with a backhanded
wipe, that came over his cheek for all the world like
the slap of a water-wheel—”

“Yes, yes, we all heard that; but what was it all
about, Dickenson?—we don't know that, yet,” cried
one of the group which had now formed around the
speaker.

“Why, that's soon told. The dragoon went to

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Frampton's house when he was in the swamp, and made free
with what he wanted. Big Barney, his elder son,
went off in the mean while to his daddy, and off he
came full tilt, with Lance his youngest lad along with
him. You know Lance, or Lancelot, a smart chap of
sixteen: you've seed him often enough.”

“Yes, yes, we know him.”

“Well, as I tell you, the old man and his two boys
came full tilt to the house, and 'twas a God's mercy
they came in time, for the doings of the dragoon was
too ridiculous for any decent body to put up with,
and the old colt could'nt stand it no how; so, as I tell
you, he put it to him in short order. He first gave him
a backhanded wipe, which flattened him, I tell you;
and when the sodger tried to get up, he put it to him
again so that it was easier for him to lie down than
to stand up; and lie down he did, without a word, till
the other dragoons tuk him up. They came a few
minutes after, and the old man and the youngest boy
Lance had a narrow chance and a smart run for it.
They heard the troops coming down the lane, and they
took to the bush. The sodgers tried hard to catch
them, but it aint easy to hook a Goose-Creeker when
he's on trail for the swamp, and splashing after the
hogs along a tussock. So they got safe into the Cypress,
and the dragoons had nothing better to do than
go back to the house. Well, they made Frampton's
old woman stand all sorts of treatment, and that too bad
to find names for. They beat her too, and she as
heavy as she could go. Well, then, she died night
afore last, as might be expected; and now the wonder
is, what's become of her body. They laid her out; and
the old granny that watched her only went into the
kitchen for a little while, and when she came back the
body was gone. She looked out of the window, and
sure enough she sees a man going over the rail with a
bundle all in white on his shoulder. And the man
looked, so she swears, for all the world like old Frampton
himself. Nobody knows any thing more about it;
and what I heard is jist now what I tell you”

-- 057 --

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

The man had narrated truly what he had heard; and
what, in reality, with little exaggeration, was the truth.
The company had listened to one of those stories of brutality,
which—in the fierce civil warfare of the South,
when neighbours were arrayed against one another, and
when, on one side, negroes and Indians formed allies,
contributing, by their lighter sense of humanity, additional
forms of terror to the sanguinary warfare pursued
at that period—were of almost daily occurrence. Huck,
the infamous tory captain, of whom we have already
obtained a slight glimpse in the progress of our narrative,
was himself of a character well fitted, by his habitual
cunning and gross want of all the softening influences
of humanity, to give countenance, and even example,
to crimes of this nature. His dragoons, though
few as yet in number, and employed only on marauding
excursions calling for small parties, had already
become notorious for their outrages of this description.
Indeed, they found impunity in this circumstance.
In regular warfare, under the controlling presence of
crowds, the responsibility of his men, apart from what
they owed or yielded to himself, would have bound
them certainly in some greater restraints; although, to
their shame be it said, the British generals in the
South, when mortified by defeat and vexed by unexpected
resistance, were themselves not always more
tenacious of propriety than the tory Huck. The sanguinary
orders of Cornwallis, commanding the coldblooded
execution of hundreds, are on record, in melancholy
attestation to this day of the atrocities committed
by the one, and the persecutions borne by the other
party, during that memorable conflict.

It could easily be seen what was the general feeling
during this recital, and yet that feeling was unspoken.
Some few shook their heads very gravely, and a few,
more daring yet, ventured to say, that “it was very bad,
very bad indeed—very shocking!”

“What's very bad, friends? what is it you speak of
as so shocking?” was the demand of one just entering.
The crowd started back, and Huck himself stood among

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[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

them. He repeated his inquiry, and with a manner that
left it doubtful whether he really desired to know what
had been the subject of their remarks, or whether, having
heard, he wished to compel some of them to the
honest utterance of their sentiments upon it. Singleton,
who had listened with a duly-excited spirit to the
narrative of the countryman, now advanced deliberately
towards the new-comer, whom he addressed as in answer
to his question—

“Why, sir, it is bad, very bad indeed, the treatment
received, as I learn, by one of his majesty's dragoons, at
the hands of some impudent rebel a few nights ago. You
know, sir, to what I allude. You have heard, doubtless.”

The bold, confident manner of the speaker was sufficiently
imposing to satisfy all around of his loyalty.
Huck seemed completely surprised, and replied freely
and with confidence—

“Ay, you mean the affair of that scoundrel, Frampton.
Yes, I know all about it; but we're on his trail, and shall
soon make him sweat for his audacity, the blasted rebel.”

“Do you know that his wife died?” asked one of
the countrymen, in a tone subdued to one of simple
and inexpressive inquiry.

“No—and don't care very greatly. It's a bad breed,
and the misfortune is, there's quite too many of them.
But we'll thin them soon, and easily, by God! and the
land shall be rid of the reptiles.”

“Yes, captain, we think alike,” said Singleton, familiarly—
“we think alike on that subject. Something
must be done, and in time, or there will be no comfortable
moving for a loyalist, whether in swamp
or highway. They have it in their power to do mischief
if not taken care of in time. It is certainly our
policy to prevent our men from being ill-treated by
them, and to do this, they must be taken in hand early.
Rebellion grows like nut-grass when it once takes root,
and runs faster than you can find it. It should be seen to.”

“That is my thought already, and accordingly I have
a good dog on trail of this lark, Frampton, and hope
soon to have him in. He cannot escape Travis, my

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lieutenant, who is now after him, and who knows the
swamp as well as himself. They're both from Goose
Creek, and so let dog eat dog.”

“You have sent Travis after him, then, captain?”
inquired a slow and deliberate voice at Huck's elbow.
Singleton turned at the same moment with the person
addressed, recognising in the speaker his own lieutenant,
the younger Humphries, who had got back to the
tavern almost as soon as himself. Humphries, of whose
Americanism we can have no sort of question, had yet
managed adroitly, and what with his own cunning and
his father's established loyalty, he was enabled, not only
to pass without suspicion, but actually to impress the
tories with a favourable opinion of his good feeling for
the British cause. This was one of those artifices
which the necessities of the times imposed upon most
men, and for which they gave a sufficient moral sanction.

“Ah, Bill, my boy,” said Huck, turning as to an old
acquaintance, “is that you!—why, where have you
been?—haven't seen you for an age, and didn't well
know what had become of you—thought you might
have gone into the swamps too with the skulking rebels.”

“So I have,” replied the other calmly—“not with
the rebels, though. I see none of them to go with—but
I have been skirting the Cypress for some time, gathering
what pigs the alligators found no use for. Pigs and
poultry are the rebels I look after. You may judge of
my success by their bawling.”

In confirmation of what Humphries had said, at that
moment the collection of tied pigs with which his cart
had been piled, and the tethered chickens undergoing
transfer to a more fixed dwelling, and tumbled from the
mass where they had quietly but confusedly lain for
an hour or two before, sent up a most piteous pleading,
which, for the time, effectually silenced the speakers
within. A moment's pause obtained, Humphries reverted,
though indirectly, to the question which he had
put to the tory captain touching the pursuit of

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Frampton by Travis; and, without exciting his suspicion
by a positive inquiry, strove to obtain information.

“Travis will find Frampton if he chooses,—he knows
the swamp quite as well—and a lean dog for a long
chase, you know,—that is, if you have given him men
enough.”

“I gave him all he wanted: ten, he said, would answer:
he could have had more. He'll catch him, or
I'm mistaken.”

“Yes, if he strikes a good route. The old paths
are washed now by the freshet, and he may find it hard
to keep track. Now, the best path for him to take,
captain, would have been up over Terrapin Bridge by
Turkey Town. That will bring him right into the heart
of the swamp, where it's most likely Frampton hides.”

“Terrapin Bridge—Turkey Town,” said the other,
seeming to muse. “No, he said nothing of these
places: he spoke of—”

“Droze's old field,” exclaimed Humphries, somewhat
eagerly.

“Yes, that's the name; he goes that route; and I
remember he spoke of another, where he said the waters
were too high.”

“Ay—and does he think to find Frampton on the
skirts?—and then, what a round-about way by Droze's!
eh! neighbours?—he can't be there before midnight.
But, of course, he went there in time,” said Humphries,
insinuating the question.

“Only two hours gone,” replied the other, giving the
desired intelligence; “but he won't do more than stretch
to the swamp to-night. He wants to be ready to make
a dash with the daylight upon them, when he hopes to
find the fellow not yet out of his nest.”

Humphries looked approvingly as he heard the plan,
and he exchanged glances of intelligence at intervals
with Singleton, who listened attentively to this dialogue,
which had wormed out the secret of one of those
little adventures of Huck's party, in which his command
was most generally employed. The look of Singleton
spoke clearly to Humphries his desire of the

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strife; and the other, with a due correspondence of
feeling, was yet prudent enough to control its expression
in his features. In the mean time, Huck, who
had long been desirous of securing Humphries for his
troop, now pressed the latter more earnestly than ever
upon that subject. Taking him aside, he detailed to
him in an under-tone the thousand advantages of profit
and position which must result to him from coming out
in arms for his majesty, and in his, Captain Huck's,
particular command of cavalry. It was amusing to
observe how much stronger became his anxiety whenever
his eye rested upon the form of Singleton, whom
he now regarded in the light of a rival leader. The eye
of young Humphries also, glanced frequently in the
same direction, as, from a previous knowledge of the
character of Singleton, he felt how impatient he would
be until he could make the attack which he saw he
contemplated upon the marauding party which had
been sent out under Travis. It was in such little adventures
that the partisan warfare of Carolina had its
origin.

Humphries, closely pressed by Huck, had yet ingenuity
enough to evade his application without offending
his pride or alarming his suspicions. He made
sundry excuses simply as to time, leaving the tory to
infer that in the end the recruit would certainly be his.

“You will soon have to come out, Bill, my boy; and
dang it, but there's no better chance than you have in
my troop. You shall be my right-hand man, for I
know you, old fellow—and blast me, but I'd sooner
trust you than any chap of the corps. I may as well
put you down.”

“No, not yet: I'll be ready to answer you soon, and
I can easily make my preparations. You have arms
a-plenty?”

“Soon shall have. Three wagons are on their way
from Charlestown with sabres and pistols especially
for us.”

“I shall, no doubt, want some of them, and you shall

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then hear from me. There is time enough in all next
week.”

“Yes; but be quick about it, or there will be no
picking; and then you have but twenty days, remember.
The proclamation gives but twenty days, and
then Cornwallis has sworn to treat as rebels, with the
utmost severity of the law, all those who are not in
arms for his majesty—just the same as if they had
fought against him. See, I have it here.”

He took from his pocket the proclamation, and with
it a private order, which was issued by the commander-in-chief
to all the subordinate commands, giving directions
for the utmost severity, and prescribing the mode
of punishment for the refractory, nearly in the language
and to the full effect of Huck's representations. Humphries
looked grave enough at these crowding evidences,
but resisted, by well-urged evasions, the exhortations
of the tempter. The tory captain was compelled
to rest satisfied for the present, assured that he
had held forth especial inducements to the countryman
which must give his troop a preference in his eye over
any claims that might be set up by the rival recruiting
officer, as he considered Singleton. With a hearty
shake of the hand, and a few parting words in whisper
to his companion, he left the hotel to make his way—a
subtle sycophant with his superiors—to the presence
of Colonel Proctor of the Dorchester garrison, from
whom he had received his commission.

Singleton, while this episode of Humphries and the
tory had been going on, employed himself in occasional
conversation with the landlord and sundry of
the villagers in another end of the apartment. In this
conversation, though studiously selecting topics of a nature
not to startle or offend the fears or the prejudices
of any, he contrived, with no little ingenuity, to bring
about, every now and then, occasional expressions of
their feelings and opinions. He saw, from these few
and brief evidences, that their feelings were not with
their rulers—that they subscribed, simply, to a hard necessity,
and would readily seek the means of relief, did

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they know where to find it. He himself took care,
while he uttered nothing which could be construed into
an offence against loyalty, to frame what he did say in
such a guise that it must have touched and ministered
largely to the existing provocations. He could see
this in the burning indignation strong in every countenance,
as he dwelt upon the imperative necessity they
were now under of taking up arms in obedience to the
proclamation. His urging of this topic was, like that
of Huck, ostensibly the obtaining of recruits for his
contemplated troop. His policy was one frequently
acted upon in that strange warfare, in which the tories,
when defeated, found few conscientious scruples to restrain
them from falling into the ranks and becoming
good soldiers along with their conquerors. Such devices
as that which he now aimed to practise were
freely resorted to; and the case was not uncommon of
a troop thus formed under the eye of the enemy, and,
in his belief, to do the battles of the monarch, moving
off, en masse, the first opportunity, and joining with
their fellow-countrymen, as well in flight as in victory.
Such, however, was scarcely now the object of the
stranger he simply desired that his loyalty might pass
unquestioned; and he put on a habit, therefore, as a disguise,
which but too many natives wore with far less scruple,
and perhaps with some show of grace. It may be
said, as highly gratifying to Singleton, that in the character
thus assumed he made no converts.

But the bell for supper was now ringing, and taking
his way with the rest, he passed into the inner apartment.
Bella Humphries presided, her brother taking
a seat at the other end of the table, and ministering to
the guests in that quarter. Singleton was assigned a
seat, possibly by way of distinction, close to the
maiden, who smiled graciously at his approach. Still
she looked not so well satisfied. Neither of her squires
was present, and her eye wandered from side to side
among her unattractive countrymen at the table, resting
at last, as with a dernier hope, upon the manly but
handsome face and person of our adventurer. While she

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did so, he had an opportunity of scanning her features
more narrowly. She was very girlish, certainly very
youthful, in appearance, and her face was decidedly
handsome. He saw, at a glance, that she was incapable
of any of that settled and solemn feeling which
belongs to love, and which can only exist along with
a strongly-marked character and truly elevated sentiments.
Her desire was that of display, and conquest
made the chief agent to this end. It mattered not how
doubtful was the character of her captives, so that they
were numerous; and Singleton felt assured that his
simple Goose Creek convert, Davis, but for the red
coat and the command, stood quite as good a chance
in the maiden's heart as the more formidable sergeant.
How long he would have watched the features which
seemed not unwilling to attract his eye, we may not
say; but his gaze was at length disturbed by the entrance
of Davis, who, taking his seat at the opposite
corner of the table, now appeared in a better and a more
conciliating humour. He addressed some country
compliment to Bella, which she was not displeased to
listen to, as she was perfectly satisfied to have a
swain, no matter who, in the absence of the greater
favourite. She answered some few remarks of Singleton
and Davis with a pretty, childish simplicity, which
showed that, after all, the misfortune of the girl was
only a deficiency in the more interesting points of character,
and not the presence of an improper or a wanton
capriciousness of feeling.

Meantime the supping proceeded, and towards its
conclusion, Humphries the brother, giving Davis a
look and a sign, which the latter seemed to comprehend,
left the apartment. Davis followed him; and
they were gone about a quarter of an hour, which time
had been spent by Singleton in a lively chat with
the girl, when, through the window, he saw the face of
a man, and the motion of a hand which beckoned him.
In a moment after the person was gone; and suffering
some few seconds to elapse, he also rose and obeyed
the signal. He took his way into the yard, and under

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the shadow of a tree, at a little distance from the house,
distinguished the person of Humphries. Singleton at
once approached him—the other motioned silence,
seeing him about to speak, and led him to the stable,
where all was perfectly in shadow.

“We are safe now,” said he. Singleton immediately
addressed him, and with some show of impatience, on
a subject which had much employed his thoughts during
the past hour.

“Humphries, say, can we not strike at that fellow
Tracy? Is it possible to do any thing with his detachment?”

“Travis, not Tracy, major,” replied the other. “It
is possible, sir; and there is a strong chance of our
success if we manage well, and if so be you can postpone
going to `The Oaks' to-night.”

“True,” said the other; “I should like very much
to go, but this movement of Tracy—or Travis, you
say—gives us a good beginning, which we ought on no
account to miss. Besides, we should put your men on
their guard—are they not in danger?”

“Not if they watch well; but there's no answering
for new hands. They must have practice before they
can learn, and down here they've had but little yet.
They're not like your Santee boys I've heard you
tell of.”

“Willing soon will! But let us move. I'll say no
more of `The Oaks' to-night at least. We can move
there to-morrow. Of course you lead the route, for I
know nothing about it.”

“Trust to me; and, major, go back to the house
quietly. Wait till you hear my whistle three times—
thus. It's an old signal, which you'll have to learn
hore, as our little squad all knows it, and knows nothing
else by way of music. Meantime I'll get things in readiness,
and set Davis to carry out the horses to the bush.”

“Is he bent to go with us?” was Singleton's question.

“True as steel. A little weak o' heart, sir, about
that foolish girl—but that's all the better, for it makes
him hate the British the more. Here he comes. You

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had better go now, major, and let us be as little seen
together as may be. You'll mind the whistle—thus,
three times;” and in a low tone Humphries gave him
the signal. Singleton went towards the house, in the
shadow of which he was soon lost from sight, while
Humphries and Davis proceeded to the farther arrangements.

It was not long before these were completed, and
with a rush of pleasure to his heart, Major Singleton
heard the thrice-uttered note—the signal agreed upon—
directly beneath his chamber window. He rose at
the sound, and silently descending the stairs, passed
through the hall, where, in something like uncomfortable
solitude, the fair Bella sat alone. She looked up
as she heard his footsteps, and the gracious smile
which her lips put on, was an invitation to make himself
happy in a seat beside her. But he resisted the
blandishment, and lifting his hat as he passed, with
a smile in return, he soon disappeared from her presence,
and joined the two who awaited him. All was
ready for departure, but Davis craved a few minutes'
indulgence to return to the house.

“Why, what should carry you back, Davis?” asked
Humphries, peevishly.

“Nothing, Bill; but I must—I will go,” said the
other.

“I see, I see: you will be as foolish as ever,” exclaimed
the former, as the lover moved away. “The
poor fellow's half mad after my sister, major, and she,
you see, don't care a straw about him. She happened
to smile on him at supper-table, and he takes it for
granted he's in a fair way. We must wait for him, I
suppose; and if I know Bella, he won't keep us long.”

Meanwhile, the seat beside her, which her smile had
beckoned Major Singleton to occupy, had been comfortably
filled by Davis. The girl was not displeased to
see him: she was lonesome, wanted company, and
liked, as all other coquettes do, to have continually in
her presence some one or other of the various trophies
of her conquest—she cared not materially which. Her

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graciousness softened very greatly the moody spirit of
her swain, so that he half-repented of that rashness
which was about to place him in a position calculated,
under every probability, to wrest him, for a time
at least, from the enjoyment of that society which
he so much coveted. Her gentleness, her good-nature,
her smiles—so very unfrequent to him for so long a
time—almost turned his brain, and his professions of
love grew passionate, and he himself almost eloquent
in their utterance. Surely, there is no tyranny like
that of love, since it puts us so completely in subjection
to the character which deliberate reason must despise.
In the midst of his pleading, and while she regarded
him with her most gracious smile, the voice of the obtrusive
Sergeant Hastings was heard in the tap-room,
and the sweet passages of love were at once over between
the couple. “As rocks that have been rent
asunder” was their new position. The maiden drew
her chair a foot back from its place, and when Davis
looked into her face, and beheld the corresponding
change in its expression, he rose up, with a bitter curse
in his throat, which he was nevertheless too well-behaved
to utter. He wanted no better evidence of
her heartlessness, and with a look which said what
his tongue could not have spoken, he seemed to warn
her that he was lost to her for ever. His determination
was at length complete, and rapidly passing the luckier
sergeant, who now entered the apartment, he was soon
again in company with the two he had left in waiting.
Humphries smiled as he saw the desperate manner of
his comrade, but nothing was said, and the three together
made their way on foot, till, leaving the village,
they entered the forest to the right, and found the clump
of trees to which their horses had been fastened. In a
moment they were mounted and speeding with the
wind towards the close and scarcely penetrable estuary
known as the Cypress Swamp, and forming a spacious
reservoir for the Ashley, from which, by little and
little, widening as it goes, it expands at length, a few
miles below, into a noble and navigable river.

-- 068 --

CHAPTER VI.

“Stretch out thy wand before thou set'st thy foot;
'Tis a dim way before thee, and the trees
Of bygone centuries have spread their arms
Athwart thy path. Now make thy footing sure;
And now, God cheer us, for the toil is done.”

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

Night had fairly set in—a clear starlight night—
before the three set forth upon their proposed adventure.
To Major Singleton, who was a native of the
middle country, and had lived heretofore almost exclusively
in it, the path they now travelled was entirely
unknown. It was necessary, therefore, to move on
slowly and with due circumspection. But for this, the
party would have advanced with as much speed as if
they were pursuing the common highway; for, to the
other two, accustomed all their lives to the woodland
cover and the tangled recesses of the swamps, their
present route, uncleared, in close thicket growth, and
diverging as it continually did, was, nevertheless, no
mystery. Though delayed, however, by this cause, the
delay was much less than might have been expected;
for Singleton, however ignorant of the immediate
ground over which they sped, was yet thoroughly
versed in forest life, and had traversed the longer and
denser swamps of the Santee, a task, though similar,
infinitely more difficult and extensive than the one now
before him. After a little while, therefore, when his
eye grew more accustomed to the peculiar shades
about him, he spurred his good steed forward with
much more readiness than at their first setting out, and
it was not long before the yielding of the soil beneath
his hoofs and the occasional plash of the water,

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together with the more frequent appearance of the solemn
and ghostly cypresses around them, gave sufficient indication
of the proximity of the swamp.

They had ridden some five miles, and in all this
time no word had been spoken by either of the three,
except when, here and there, an increased difficulty in
the path led Humphries to the utterance of some caution
to his companions. They were now close upon
the cypress causeway, and the swamp was gathering
around them. Their pace grew slower and more fatiguing,
for the freshet had swept the temporary structure
over which they rode, and many of the rails were
floating in their path. Little gaps were continually
presenting themselves, many of which they saw not,
but which, fortunately for their safety, were generally
avoided by the horses without any call for interference
on the part of their riders. Stumbling sometimes,
however, they were warned not to press their
animals; and picking their way with as much care as
possible, they went on in single file, carefully and
slowly, over the narrow and broken embankment. It
was at this part of their progress that Humphries broke
out more freely into speech than he had done before,
for his usual characteristic was that of taciturnity.

“Now, I do hate these dams and causeways; our
people know nothing of road-making, and they ridge
and bridge it, while our bones ache and our legs go
through at every step we take in going over them. Yet
they won't learn—they won't look or listen. They do
as they have done a hundred years before, and all your
teaching is of no manner of use. Here is this causeway
now—every freshet must break its banks and tear
up the poles, yet they come back a week after, and
lay them down just as before. They never ask if
there's a way to build it, which is to make it lasting.
They never think of such a thing. Their fathers did
so a hundred years ago, and that's reason enough why
they should do so now.”

“And what plan have you, Humphries, by which to
make the dam solid and strong against the freshets,

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such as we have, that sweep every thing before them,
and sometimes give us half a dozen feet of water for a
week, over a road that we have been accustomed to
walk dryshod?”

“To be sure there is a way, major, and with far
less labour. There's no use in building a road unless
you give it a backbone. You must run a ridge through
it, and all the freshets make it stronger, for they wash
the refuse and the mud up against it, instead of washing
it away. You see all good roads rise in the centre.
The waters run off and never settle, which they always
do in the hollows between these poles. You fell your
tree, always a good big one, to make your ridge—your
backbone; and if it be a causeway like this, running
through a swamp, that you would build, why, you fell
your dozen trees, or more, according to the freshet's
call for them. You lay them side by side, not across,
but up and down the road, taking care to put the big
ones in the centre. So you may run it for miles,
heaping the earth up to the logs. A road made after
that fashion will stand a thousand years, while such a
thing as this must always be washing away with every
freshet. It takes, in the first place, you see, a great
deal more of labour and time, and a great deal more
of timber, to build it after this fashion; then, it takes
more dirt to cover the rails—a hundred times the quantity—
and unless they're well covered, they can't be
kept down; they will always come loose, and be floating
with every rain, and then the water settles heavily
in their places and between them. This can't be the
case where you lay the timber up and down, as I tell
you. It must stand fast; for the rain can't settle, and
the earth gathers close to the ridge, and hugs it tighter
the more the water beats on it. Besides, building it
this way, you use heavy timber, which the waters can't
move at any season. But here we stop; we have no
farther use for the causeway to-night; there's our
mark. See to that white tree there; it's a blasted pine,
and it shines in a dark night as if it was painted. The
lightning peeled it from top to toe. It's a'most two

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years since. I was not far off in the swamp, catching
terapins, when it was struck, and I was stupified for
an hour after, and my head had a ringing in it I didn't
get rid of for a month.”

“What, do we go aside here?” inquired Davis, who
did not seem to relish the diversion, as the first plunge
they were required to make from the broken causeway
was into a turbid pond, black, and almost covered with
fragments of decayed timber and loose bundles of
brush.

“Yes, that's our path,” replied Humphries, who resolutely
put his horse forward as he spoke.

“This is about one of the worst places, major, that
we shall have to go through, and we take it on purpose,
so that we may not be tracked so easily. Here, when
we leave the causeway, we make no mark, and few
people think to look for us in the worst place on the
line. No, indeed; most people have a love to make
hard things easy, though they ought to know that when
a man wants to hide, he takes a hole, and not a highway,
to do it in. Here, major, this way—to your left,
Davis—through the bog.”

The party followed as their guide directed, and after
some twenty minutes' plunging, they were deep in the
shadow and the shelter of the swamp. The gloom
was thicker around them, and was only relieved by the
pale and skeleton forms of the cypresses, clustering in
groups along the plashy sides of the still lake, and
giving meet dwelling-places to the screech-owl, that
hooted at intervals from their rugged branches. Sometimes
a phosphorescent gleam played over the stagnant
pond, into which the terapin plunged heavily at their
approach; while on the neighbouring banks the frogs of
all degrees croaked forth their inharmonious chant,
making the scene more hideous, and certainly adding
greatly to the sense of gloom which it inspired in those
who penetrated it. A thousand other sounds filled up
the pauses between the conclusion of one and the
commencement of another discordant chorus from these
admitted croakers—sounds of alarm, of invitation, of

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exulting tyranny—the cry of the little bird, when the
black-snake, hugging the high tree, climbs up to the
nest of her young, while, with shrieks of rage, flapping
his roused wings, the mate flies furiously at his head,
and gallantly enough, though vainly, endeavours to
drive him back from his unholy purpose—the hum
of the drowsy beetle, the faint chirp of the cricket, and
the buzz of the innumerable thousands of bee, bird, and
insect, which make the swamps of the South, in midsummer
and its commencement, the vast storehouse, in
all its forms, of the most various and animated life—
all these were around the adventurers, with their gloomy
and distracting noises, until they became utterly unheeded
at last, and the party boldly kept its onward
course into their yet deeper recesses.

“Well, Humphries,” said Major Singleton, at length
breaking the silence, “so far, so good; and now what
is our farther progress, and what the chances for trapping
this Travis? Will he not steal a march upon us,
and be into the swamp before daylight?”

“Never fear it, major,” replied the other, coolly
enough, while keeping on his way. “You remember,
sir, what Huck gave us of his plan. He will place
himself upon the skirts of the swamp, high above the
point at which we struck, and keep quiet till morning.
He will be up betimes, and all that we must do is to be
up before him. We have a long ride for it, as it is one
part of our work to stop him before he gets too far
into the brush. I know his course just as if I saw him
on it.”

“Yes; such indeed may have been the plan; but is
there no chance of his departing from it? A good
leader will not hold himself bound to a prescribed
course, if he finds a better. He may push for the
swamp to-night, and I am very anxious that we should
be in time to strike him efficiently.”

“We shall, sir,” replied the other, calmly; “we
shall have sufficient time, for I know Travis of old.
He is a good hound for scent, but a poor one for chase.
He goes slow to be certain, and is always certain to

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[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

be slow. It's nature with him now, though quick
enough, they say, some twenty years ago, when he
went out after the Cherokees. Besides, he has a long
sweep to make before he gets fairly into the swamps,
and the freshet we have had lately will throw him out
often enough, and make his way longer. We shall be
in time.”

“I am glad you are so sure of your man, Humphries.
I would not like to lose a good chance at the party. A
successful blow struck in this quarter, and just at this
moment, would have a fine effect. Why, man, it would
bring out those fellows handsomely, whose ears are
now full of this protection business, which troubles
them so much. If they must fight, they will see the
wisdom of taking part with the side which does not
call upon them to strike friends or brethren. They
must join with us to a man, or go to the West Indies,
and that, no doubt, some of the dastards will not fail
to do in preference. God help me, but I can scarce
keep from cursing them, as I think on their degradation.”

“Bad enough, major, bad enough when it's the poor
man, without house and home, and nothing to live for
and nothing to lose, who takes up with the enemy and
fights his battles; but it's much worse when the rich
men and the gentlemen, who ought to know better, and
to set a good example, it's much worse when they're
the first to do so. Now I know and I feel, though I
expect you won't be so willing to believe it, that, after
all, it's the poor man who is the best friend of his country
in the time of danger. He doesn't reckon how
much he's to lose, or what risk he's to run, when there's
a sudden difficulty to get through with. He doesn't
think till it's all over, and then he may ask how much
he gains by it, without getting a civil answer.”

“There's truth in what you say, Humphries, and we
do the poor but slack justice in our estimation of them.
We see only their poverty, and not their feelings and
affections; we have, therefore, but little sympathy,

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and perhaps nothing more than life and like wants in
common with them.”

“That's a God's truth here, major, where the poor
man does the fighting and the labour, and the rich
man takes protection to save his house from the fire.
Now, its just so with this poor man Frampton. He
was one of Buford's men, and when Tarleton came
upon them, cutting them up root and branch, he took
to the swamp, and wouldn't come in, all his neighbours
could do, because the man had a good principle for
his country. Well, you see what he's lost;—you
can't know his sufferings till you see him, major,
and I won't try to teach you; but if there's a man can
look on him and see his misery, and know what did
it, without taking up sword and rifle, I don't want to
know that man. I know one that's of a different way
of thinking, and willing to do both.”

“And I another!” exclaimed Davis, who had been
silent in their ride hitherto.

“Is Frampton here in the swamp—and shall we see
him to-night?” asked Singleton, curious to behold a
man who, coming from the poorest class of farmers
in the neighbourhood, had maintained such a tenacious
spirit of resistance to invasion, when the more leading
people around him, and indeed the greater majority,
had subscribed to terms of indulgence, which, if less
honourable, were here far more safe. The sufferings
of the man himself, the cruel treatment his wife had
undergone, and her subsequent death, also contributed
largely to that interest which, upon hearing his simple
but pathetic story, the speaker had immediately felt to
know him.

“We shall see him in an hour, major, and a melancholy
sight it is; you'll be surprised, and if you aint very
strong of heart, it will go nigh to sicken you. But it
does good to see it for one's self; it makes one strong
against tyranny.”

“It grows very dark here.”

“That's water before you, and a good big pond too,”
said Davis.

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“This is the track, major;” and Humphries led the
way to the left, inclining more in the direction of the
river. A sullen, child-like cry, succeeded by a sudden
plunge into the water, indicated the vicinity of an
alligator, which they had disturbed in his own home;
the rich globules of light, showering over the water
around him, giving a singular beauty to the scene, in
every other respect so dark and gloomy. They kept
continually turning in a zigzag fashion almost at every
step, to avoid the waving vine, the close thicket, or the
half-stagnant creek, crowded with the decayed fragments
of an older and an overthrown forest.

A shrill whistle at this moment, thrice repeated, saluted
their ears. It was caught up in the distance by
another, and another, in a voice so like, that they might
almost have passed for so many echoes of the same.

“Our sentries watch closely, major; we must answer
them, or we may sup on cold lead,” said Humphries.
As he spoke, he responded to the signal,
and his answer was immediately followed by the appearance
of a figure emerging from behind a tree that
bulged out a little to the left of the tussock upon which
they were now standing. The dim outline only, and
no feature of the new-comer, was distinguishable by
the group.

“Ha! Warner, you watch?—all's well; and now
lead the way. Are all the boys in camp?”

“All!” was the reply; “and a few more come in from
Buford's corps who know Frampton.”

“And how is he?—does he know them?”

“He's in a bad fix, and knows nothing. You can
hardly get a word out of him since his wife's come.”

“His wife! Why, man, what do you think of?—his
wife's dead!” exclaimed Humphries with surprise.

“Yes—we know that; but he brought her, all the
same as if she was alive, on his shoulders, and he
won't give her up. There he sits, close alongside of
her, watching her all the time, and brushing the flies
from her face. He don't seem to mind that she's
dead.”

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“Great God!” exclaimed Singleton, “the unhappy
man is mad. Let us push on, and see what can be
done.”

Without a word farther, following their new guide,
Warner, they advanced upon their way, until the blaze
of a huge fire, bursting as it were out of the very
bosom of the darkness, rose wavingly before them.
The camp of the outlawed whigs, or rebels, as they
were styled by the enemy, lonely and unattractive, on
a little island of the swamp, in a few moments after
rose fully in their sight; and plunging into the creek
that surrounded it, though swimming at that moment,
a bound or two carried them safely over, and they stood
in the presence of their comrades.

CHAPTER VII.

“Do I not live for it? I have no life,
But in the hope that life may bring with it
The bitter-sweet of vengeance.”

The gloomy painter would have done much with the
scene before them. The wild and mystic imagination
would have made it one of supernatural terros; and
fancy, fond of the melancholy twilight, would have
endowed the dim shadows, lurking like so many spectres
between the bald cypresses, with a ghostly character,
and most unhallowed purpose. Though familiar with
such abodes, Singleton, as he looked upon the strange
groupings thrown along the sombre groundwork, was
impressed with a lively sense of its imposing felicity.
They stood upon an island in the very centre of the
swamp—one of those little islands, the tribute ooze of
numerous minor water-courses, hardening into solidity
at last. These, beating their feeble tides upon a single
point, in process of time create the barrier which is to
usurp their own possessions. Here, the rank matter of

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the swamp, its slime and rubbish, resolving themselves
by a natural but rapid decomposition into one mass, yield
the thick luxuriance of soil from which springs up the
overgrown tree, which heaves out a thousand branches,
and seems to have existed as many years—in whose
bulk we behold an emblem of majesty, and, in whose
term of life, standing in utter defiance of the sweeping
hurricane, we have an image of strength which compels
our admiration, and sometimes the more elevated
acknowledgment of our awe. Thus, gathering on this
insulated bed, a hundred solemn cypresses mingled
their gaunt, spectral forms with the verdant freshness
of the water-oak—the rough simplicity and height of
the pine—all intertwined and bound together in the common
guardianship of the spot, by the bulging body of
the luxuriant grape-vine, almost rivalling in thickness,
and far surpassing in strength, the trees from which it
depended—these formed a natural roof to the island,
circumscribing its limits even more effectually than did
the narrow creek by which it had been isolated, and
through which the tribute waters of this wide estuary
found their way, after a few miles of contracted journeying,
into the bed and bosom of the Ashley.

A couple of huge fires, which they had seen in
glimpses while approaching, were in full blaze upon
the island; one, the largest, near its centre; the other
somewhat apart, upon a little isthmus which it thrust
forth into the mouth of the creek. Around the former
lay a singular assemblage of persons, single, or in
groups, and in every position. There were not more
than twenty in all, but so disposed as to seem much
more numerous to the casual spectator. Three, in the
glare of the fire, sat upon a log at cards, one at either
end, and the third, squat upon the ground beside it. A
few slept; some were engaged in conversation, while
one, more musical than his neighbours, broke into a song
of some length, in which the current situation of the things
around him underwent improvisation. A stout negro
prepared the evening meal, and passed between the
card-players and the fire to their occasional

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inconvenience; their sharp but unheeded denunciations being
freely bestowed at every repetition of the offence.
The dress and accoutrements of this collection were
not less novel, and certainly far more outré, than their
several positions and employments. Certainly, taste
had but little share in their toilet arrangements, since
the hair of some of them flew dishevelled in the
wind, or lay matted upon their brows, unconscious of
a comb. The faces generally of the party were
smeared, and some of them absolutely blackened, by
the smoke of the pine-wood fires which at night were
kept continually burning around them. This had most
effectually begrimed their features, and their dresses
had not scrupled to partake of the same colouring.
These, too, were as various as the persons who wore
them. The ragged coat, the round-jacket, and sometimes
the entire absence of both, in the case of some
individual otherwise conspicuous enough, destroyed
all chance of uniformity in the troop. There was but
one particular in which their garb seemed generally
to agree, and that was in the coonskin cap which surmounted
the heads of most of them—worn jantily
upon the side of the head, with slips that flapped over
the ears, and the tail of the animal depending from
front or rear, tassel-fashion, according to the taste of
the wearer. Considering such an assemblage, so disposed,
so habited, in connection with the situation and
circumstances in which we find them, and we shall
form no very imperfect idea of the moral effect which
their appearance must have had upon the new comers.
The boisterous laugh, the angry, sharp retort, the
ready song from some sturdy bacchanal, and the silent
sleeper undisturbed amid all the uproar, made, of themselves,
a picture to the mind not likely to be soon forgotten.
Then, when we behold the flaming of the
torch in the deep dark which it only for a moment
dissipates, and which crowds back, as with a solid body,
into the spot from which it has been temporarily
driven—the light flashing along and reflected back
from the sullen waters of the creek,—listening, at the

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same moment, to the cry of the screech-owl as the
intruder scares him from his perch—the plaint of the
whippoorwill, in return, as if even the clamour of the
obscene bird had in it something of sympathy for the
wounded spirit,—these, with the croaking of the frogs
in millions, with which the swamp was a dwelling-place
among a thousand, were all well calculated to
awaken the most indifferent regards, and to compel a
sense of the solemn-picturesque even in the mind of
the habitually frivolous and unthinking.

With the repeated signals which they had heard
from their sentries on the appearance of the new
comers, the scattered groups had simultaneously started
to their feet, and put themselves in a state of readiness.
The signals were familiar, however, and spoke of
friends in the approaching persons; so that, after a
few moments of buzz and activity, they generally sank
back sluggishly to their old occupations,—the card-players
to finish their game, and the less speculative,
their sleep. Their movement, however, gives us a
better opportunity to survey their accountrements. The
long cumbrous rifle seemed the favourite weapon, and
in the hands of the diminutive, sallow, but black-eyed
and venturous dweller in the swamps of the lowlands,
across whose knee we may here and there see it
resting, it may confidently be held as fatal at a hundred
yards. A few of them had pistols—the common
horse-pistol—a weapon of little real utility under any
circumstances. But a solitary musket, and that too
without the bayonet, was to be seen in the whole collection;
and though not one of the party present but
had his horse hidden in the swamp around him, yet
not one in five of the riders possessed the sabre, that
only effective weapon of cavalry. These were yet to
be provided, and at the expense of the enemy.

The immediate appearance of Major Singleton, as
he followed Humphries up the bank, once more called
them to their feet. He had been expected, yet few of
them personally knew him. They knew, however,
that he was high in favour with Governor Rutledge,

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[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

and bore his commission. Of this they had been apprized
by Humphries, who had been the recruiting
officer of the troop. They now crowded around him
with a show of curious examination, which was narrow
and close without being obtrusive. With that
manly, yet complaisant habit which distinguished him,
he soon made himself known to them, and his opening
speech won not a little upon their hearts. He unfolded
his commission, delivered an address from the executive,
in which a direct and warm appeal was made
to their patriotism, and concluded with some remarks
of his own to the same effect, which were all enthusiastically
received. His frank, fearless manner, fine
eye, and manly, though smooth and youthful face, took
admirably with them, and at once spoke favourably to
their minds in support of his pretensions to govern
them. This command they at once tendered him;
and though without the material for a force called for
by the commission which he bore, yet, in those times,
it was enough that they loved their leader and were
not unwilling to fight with an enemy. Major Singleton
was content to serve his country in an humbler
command than that which his commission entitled him
to hold. Acting, therefore, as their captain for the
present, he made Humphries his lieutenant. Him
they had long known, and he was a favourite among
them. He, indeed, had been chiefly instrumental in
bringing together their scattered elements, and in thus
forming the nucleus of a corps, which, in the subsequent
warfare, contributed in no slight degree to the
release of the country from foreign thraldom. In
Humphries they had a good officer and every confidence,
though it was obvious enough, that while full
of courage, calm, collected, and not easily moved, he
yet lacked many of those essentials of superior education
and bearing, without which militia-men are not
often to be held in order. He was not sufficiently
their superior to stand apart and to command them;
and the inferior mind will never look to its equal in
the moment of emergency. Though ready and acute

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[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

enough in the smaller details of military adventure—
the arrangement of the ambuscade, the rapid blow at
the rear, or the plan for striking at the foragers of an
enemy—he was yet rather apt to go forward with than
to command his party. He trusted rather to his presence
than to the superior force of his character, to
urge upon them the performance of their duties; and,
conscious of this, though ready at all times to lead, he
yet shrank from the necessity of commanding. This
capacity can only result successfully from an habitual
exercise of authority. It was with no small satisfaction,
therefore, that he placed his recruits under the
control of Major Singleton, although, it may be said,
that such a transfer of his command was rather nominal
than real; Humphries still counselling in great
part the particular business of adventure which Singleton
was the better able to command. The latter
had yet to acquire a knowledge of localities which
could only be obtained by actual experiment.

“And now, major, soldiers without arms are not
apt to fight well. Come, sir, with me, and see our
armory. It's a queer one, to be sure, to those used
to a better; but it must serve where there's no choice.
This way, sir—to the left. Here, Tom, bring a
chunk.”

The black led the way with a blazing brand, until
their farther progress was arrested by the waters of
the creek. In the centre of the stream grew a
cypress of immense size, much larger than any of its
surrounding companions. Motioning Singleton to wait,
Humphries waded into the water almost up to his middle,
until he reached the tree, into which, taking the
blazing brand from the black, he entered, returning in
a few moments with half a dozen fine sabres, which,
one after the other, he threw from him to the bank.

“This is all our stock in trade, major; and you
have your choice of them till we can get a better.
This, if I know the signs of the weather, we shall
do before long. Meanwhile, as the stuff's good, they
will answer our present purpose.”

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Singleton pressed the points of the weapons severally
to the earth, testing the elasticity of the steel, then
accommodating the hilt to his grip, declared himself
suited. Humphries made a selection after him, and
the remaining four were subsequently distributed
among chosen men, to whom commands in the little
corps were assigned. As rebels, heretofore, the shortshrift
and sure cord must have been their doom if
taken. The commission of the state, and a due register
of their names in the books of the orderly, now
secured them in the immunities of regular warfare,
and made that comparatively innocent which before
was obnoxious to death and degradation.

We have spoken of two several fires as conspicuous
upon the island at the approach of Singleton, the one
upon the centre, the other, and smaller one, at its remotest
extremity. Of the use made of the former,
we have already seen something; the other, while it
had caught the eye of Major Singleton, had been too
remote to enable him to distinguish the employment
or character of the various persons who yet closely
encircled it. He could see that there were several
figures sitting around the brands, which seemed to have
been but loosely thrown together, as they had now
fallen apart, and only gave forth a flickering blaze at
intervals, denying that constant light, without which
he could not hope to gain any knowledge of the persons,
even at a far less distance. These persons had
not moved at his approach, and had remained stationary
all the while he was employed in making himself
known to those who were to be his comrades. This
alone would have been enough to attract his
attention; and, in addition, he saw that those around
him, when bending their glances off in the direction of
his own, shook their heads with an air of solemnity,
and, though saying nothing, were yet evidently influenced
by a knowledge of some circumstances connected
with the mysterious group, of a painful character.
Observing the inquiring look of Major Singleton, Humphries
approached, and whispered him that the party

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at the opposite fire consisted of Frampton, his two
sons, and the dead body of his wife, and proposed
that they should go to him. The major at once consented.

“You'll see a sad sight, Major Singleton—a sad
sight!—for the man is crazy, let them say what they
may. He don't know half the time what he says or
does, and he scarcely feels any thing.”

They moved over in the prescribed direction, and approached
without disturbing the chief personage of the
group. The elder son, a youth of twenty, looked up
at their coming, but said nothing. It was evident that
he, and he alone, had been weeping. The other
son, a tall fine-looking lad of sixteen, seemed inspired
with harsher feelings as his eye gazed from
the face of the father to that of the mother, whose
dead body lay between the two, her head on the lap
of the elder son, over whose arms her hair streamed
loosely—long, and delicately brown and glossy. She
had evidently been a woman of some attractions. Her
person was well formed and justly proportioned, neither
masculine nor small. Her features were soft and
regular. The face was smooth, but had been bruised,
seemingly as if she had fallen upon it; and there were
blotches upon the cheek and forehead, which may
have been the consequence of blows, or might be the
natural evidence of that decay which was now strongly
perceptible. The face of the chief mourner, who sat
silent at her feet, looking forward into her face, was
a fine one, as well in its mould as in its expression. It
was that of a splendid savage. There was enough of
solemn ferocity in it for the murderer, enough of redeeming
sensibility to soften, if not to subdue, the
other more leading attributes of its character. His
skin was dark like that of the people generally of that
neighbourhood. His eyes were black and piercing;
and a burning spot on each cheek, seemed to have
borrowed from the red glare of the fire at his side a
corresponding intensity of hue. His lips were parted;
and the lower jaw seemed to have been thrown and

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kept down spasmodically. Through the aperture
glared the tips of the small and white teeth, sometimes
closed together by a sudden convulsive jerk, but immediately
relaxing again and resuming their divided
position.

He took no sort of notice of the new-comers, until,
throwing himself alongside of the younger boy, Humphries
took the hand of the mother into his own, and
gazed over upon her face. Frampton then gave him a
look—a single look; and as their eyes met, those of
Humphries intuitively filled with water. The bereaved
wretch, as he saw this, laughed sneeringly and
shook his head. There was no misunderstanding the
rebuke. It clearly scorned the sympathy, and called
for the sterner tribute of revenge. The elder son
then carried on a brief conversation in an under tone
with the lieutenant, which was only audible in part to
Singleton, who sat on the root of a tree opposite.
He gave the particulars of his mother's removal in
this dialogue, and of the resolute doggedness with
which his father had hitherto resisted the burial of the
body.

“It must be buried at once,” said Humphries more
earnestly to the youth. The father heard him, and
glaring upon him with the eyes of a tiger, the desolate
man bent forward and placed his hand resolutely over
the body, as if determined not to suffer its removal.

“Nay, but it must, Frampton;—there's no use in
keeping it here: and, indeed, there's no keeping it
much longer. Hear to reason, man, and be persuaded.”

The person addressed shook his head, and maintained
his hold upon it for a moment in silence; but
all on a sudden, half rising to his feet, he shook his
fists fiercely at the speaker, while his expression was
so full of ferocity, that Humphries prepared for, and
every moment expected, attack.

“You have lied to me, Humphries!” he exclaimed
with difficulty, as if through his clenched teeth.—
“You have lied to me;—you said he should be
here,—where is he? why have you not brought him?”

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“Who? brought who?” demanded the other earnestly.

“Who!”—and as the maniac half shrieked out the
word in sneering repetition, he pointed to the body,
while he cried, with a fierce laugh, between each pause
in his words—“who!—did he not strike her—strike
her to the ground—trample upon her body—great
God!—upon her—my wife?” And, as the accumulated
picture of his wife's injuries rose up before his
mind while he spoke, his speech left him, and he
choked, til his face grew livid in their sight, and yet
he had no tears. He soon recovered enough to speak
again with something like a show of calmness.

“You said you were my friend—that you would
bring him to me—that I should kill him here—here,
even while mine eyes yet looked upon her. Liar!
where is he? Why have you not brought him?”

“I am no liar, Frampton, and you know it. I never
promised to bring the dragoons to you; but I am willing
to lead you to them.”

“Do I want a leader for that?—you shall see:” and
he relapsed after this reply into the same solemn stupor
which had marked his looks at the first coming
of the two. Humphries proceeded with temper and
coolness—

“It is time, Frampton, to be a man—to bear up against
your losses, and think how to have revenge for them.”

“I am ready. Speak not to me of revenge—speak
not; I am thirsting—thirsting for blood!” was the reply.

“Yet, here you sit moping over your losses,
while the red-coats are in the swamp—ay, hunting us
out in our own grounds—Huck's dragoons, with Travis
at their head.”

The man was on his feet in an instant. There was
a wild glow now visible in his face, which completely
superseded the sombre fixedness of its previous expression.
All now was summary impatience.

“Come!” said he, waving his hand impatiently, and
convulsively grasping his bosom with his fingers—
“come!”

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“It is well. I now see you are in the right mood
for vengeance, and I have made all arrangements for
it. Here is a sword; and this, Frampton, is our commander,
Major Singleton. He is now our leader, and
will put us in the dragoons' tracks in short order.”

The maniac turned stupidly to Singleton, and bending
his head with a strange simper on his lips, simply
repeated the word “Come!” with which he showed his
willingness for the adventure. Humphries whispered
Major Singleton to take him at his word, and move him
off to the rest of the party, while he gave directions
for the interment of the body. Singleton did so, and
without any show of reluctance, Frampton followed
him. Once did he stop suddenly, turn quickly round,
and seem about to retrace his steps; but seeing it,
Singleton simply observed, as if to himself—

“We shall soon be upon the dragoons, and then—”

The object was gained, and the distracted, desolate
creature followed, like a tame dog, the lead of his commander.
He listened in gloomy silence to the arrangements,
as they were agreed upon, for the encounter
with Travis. He knew enough of that sort of fighting
to see that they were judiciously made; and, satisfied
with the promise which they conveyed to his mind of
the revenge which he desired, he offered no suggestion,
nor interfered in the slightest degree with any of their
plans. Still, not a word which had been uttered
among them escaped his appreciation. He was now
fully awakened to a single object, and the reasoning
faculties grew tributary to the desire of his mood when
that became concentrated. He saw that the proposed
plans were the best that could be devised for the encounter,
and he looked to that now for the satisfaction
of his thirst.

Humphries having given his directions duly for the
interment of the body, now returned to join in the deliberations
with the rest. His opinion was adopted by
Major Singleton, who, giving orders that all things
should be in readiness, himself saw to the execution
of certain minor resolves, and then dispersing his

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sentries, proceeded to enjoy the three hours of slumber
which had been allotted before the necessary start to
intercept Travis.

It was an hour after midnight when the guards
aroused them with the preparations for their movement.
The night was still, clear, and calm. The winds were
sleeping, or only strove with a drowsy movement along
the tops of the trees, the highest above the swamp.
Sweetly the murmurs of the creek around them, swollen
by the influx of the tide from the sea, which is
there strongly perceptible, broke upon the ear, as
the waters, in feeble ripples, strove against the little
island, and brought with them a sense of freshness
from the sea, which none feels more pleasantly than he
who has been long wandering in the southern forests.
Not a lip had yet spoken among the troops, and save the
slight cry of the capricious insect, and the sound produced
by their own early movement in bustling into
action, there was nothing in that deep stillness and
depth of shadow calculated in the slightest degree to
impair the feelings of solemnity which, in his own
abode, Silence, the most impressive of all the forest
divinities, exacts from his subjects. With a ready
alacrity, obeying the command of their leader, the
troopers were soon in saddle, forming a compact body
of twenty men, Frampton and his two sons included;
the very boys being thus early taught in the duties of
the partisan. Following in such order as the inequalities
of the swamp would permit, they were soon advanced
upon their route through bog and through brier,
slough, forest, and running water—a route, rugged and
circuitous, and not always without its peril. In three
hours, and ere the daylight yet dappled the dun east,
they skirted the narrow ridge where the arrangement
of Singleton placed them, and over which the scouting
party of Travis was expected to pass. There, with
hostile anxiety, and well prepared, they confidently
awaited the arrival of the enemy.

-- 088 --

CHAPTER VIII.

“There shall be joy for this. Shall we not laugh—
Laugh merrily for conquest, when it takes
The wolfdog from our throats, and yields us his?”

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Travis, the faithful coadjutor of the tory Huck,
was on his march into the swamp before daylight. As
Humphries had anticipated, he took the path, if so it
might be called, on which the ambuscade had been
laid for him. He might not have done so, had he
dreamed for an instant of the existence in this quarter
of such a body of men as that now preparing to receive
him. Looking on his object, however, simply as the
arrest of Frampton, and the scouring of the swamp of
such stragglers besides as might have been led for
shelter into its recesses, he adopted the route which
was obviously most accessible, and most likely, therefore,
to be resorted to by the merely skulking discontent.
The half-military eye, looking out for an enemy
in any respect equal, would have either studiously
avoided the ridge over which Travis now presumed to
ride, or would have adopted some better precautions
than he had troubled himself to take. It was naturally
a strong defile, well calculated for an easy defence, as
only a small force could possibly be of use upon it.
But two persons could ride abreast in the prescribed
direction, and then only with great difficulty and by
slow movement; for little gullies and fissures continually
intersected the path, which was circuitous and
winding, and, if not always covered with water and
swamp, quite as difficult to overcome, from its luxuriant
growth of umbrage. Though an old traveller in such
fastnesses, these obstructions were in no sort pleasant
to the leader of the party, who, being a notorious
grumbler, accompanied every step which he took with

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a grunting sort of commentary, by way of disapprobation.

“Now, may the devil take these gullies, that go as
deep when you get into them as if they were made for
him. This is a day's chase, and the next time Huck
wants a hunt, he shall seek it himself. I like not this
service. It's little less than a disparagement of the
profession, and speaks not well for an old soldier.”

The leader spoke with feeling, and no little emphasis,
as his steed scrambled up the bank from the slough in
which his legs had been almost fastened, the slimy
ooze of which, left by the now-receding tide, rendering
the effort to release himself a matter of greater difficulty
than usual. The grumbling continued, even after he
had gained the tussock.

“Thou a soldier!” cried one who rode up behind
him, and who spoke in terms of familiarity indicating
close companionship—“thou a soldier, Hunks, indeed!
What should make thee a soldier?”

“Am I not, Clough?” was the reply.

“And wherefore dost thou grumble, then?”

“Wherefore? Because, being a soldier, I am sent
upon any but a soldier's service. A dog might do this
duty—a dog that you had well beaten.”

“And what better service, Hunks, couldst thou have
to keep thee from grumbling? Art thou, now, not a
sorry bear with a sore head, that kindness cannot coax,
and crossing only can keep civil! Send thee on what
service Huck may, it is all the same; thou wilt grumble
at the toil, even when it likes thee best. What wouldst
thou have—what would please thee?”

“By Saint Jupiter, but he might ask, at least! He
might give a man a choice,” responded the other,
gruffly. “It's but a small favour I ask, to be suffered
to choose for myself whether I shall work for my master
on hill or in hole—with a free bit, or hand to hand,
close struggle with a hungry alligator in his wallow.”

“And thou wouldst choose the very service he now
puts thee to. What! do we not all know thee—and
who knows thee better than Huck? He sees thou art

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the best man for the swamp; that thy scent is keen
with the bloodhound, thine eye like the hawk's, and
thou art quick for fight as the colonel's bullpup. It is
because he knows thou art fond of this sort of venture
that he puts thee upon it; and what thou grumblest at,
therefore, it will be out of thine own wisdom to show,
even if thou didst wish it, in truth, which I believe
not.”

“It's a dog's life only, this scenting swamps for the
carrion they had better keep—wearing out good legs
and horses, and making soldiers do the duty of a hungry
dog. Rot it, but I'll resist after this! Let them send
others that are younger, and like it better. I'll give it
up—I'll do no more of it.”

“Say so to Huck, and lose command of the scouts—
the best game thou hast ever played at, if the baggage-wagons
speak true,” was the reply. “What! shalt thou
grumble to do what thou art best fitted for? What
wouldst thou be after—what other service would please
thee?”

“Thou mayst see me in a charge yet, Sergeant
Clough,” replied Travis, boastfully, “provided thou
hast blood enough to stop until it's over. When thou
hast seen this, thou wilt ask me no child's questions.
What! because I am good at the swamp, am I therefore
worth nothing on the highway? It were a sorry
soldier that could not take clear track and bush and bog
alike, when the case calls for it, and do good service
in all. But thou shalt see, some day, and grow
wiser.”

“Well, thou dost promise largely, like an old debtor;
but, to my mind, thou art just now where thou shouldst
be—in the swamps; for, truth to speak, thou lovest
them—thou lovest the wallow and the slough—the
thick ooze which the alligator loves, and the dry fernbank
where he makes his nest; thou lovest the terapin
because of his home, not less than of the good soup
which he gives us; and the ugly moccasin, and the toad,
and the frog—the brown lizard and the green—the
swamp-spider, with its ropy house and bagging black

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body—all these are favourites with thee, because thy
spirit craves for thee a home like that which they
abide in.”

“It is a goodly place, with all that company thou
speakest of: the air is pleasant to the sense, and the
noises—there is no music like the concert the frogs
make for thee at sunset.”

“Said I not? Why, man, thou quarrellest with kindness
when thou ravest at Huck for sending thee to the
swamp. Thou wert feverish and impatient this morning
until thou wert fairly in it, with its mud and water
plashing around thee; and now thou art here, with the
trees crowding upon us so thickly that the sun looks
not under them once in the whole year, thou creepest
like a terapin upon thy journey, as if thou didst greatly
fear thou wouldst too quickly get through it; a barren
fear, this, for we see but the beginning: the bog deepens,
and the day grows darker as we go. Thou art
slow, Travis.”

“Saint Jupiter, Master Clough, wouldst thou lead?
Thou art a better swamp-sucker than Ned Travis, and
he born, as I may say, in a bush and cradled in a bog,
and his first breeches, like mother Eve's petticoat,
made out of bulrushes! Go to, friend, and be modest!”

“Ay, when thou art wise, and can go without counsel.
Once more, Travis, but I do think thy snail's pace
were better mended.”

“Teach Goose Creek, would you? Talk not so
loudly, Sergeant Clough, of running through the Cypress,
or the gray-squirrel will look down and laugh.
He's up betimes this morning, and knows more of a
long leap through a broad swamp like this of the Ashley
than comes to thy wisdom. Speak before him with
becoming reverence, for he watches thee from the pinetop
above thee.”

The sergeant, who was an Englishman, looked
upward with due simplicity, and received in his face
the dismembered and decayed branch which the playful
animal threw down, as he leaped away from the tree
they were passing.

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“Now, d—n the rebel! That were a hanging matter
for one of Washington's cavalry.”

“Ay, could you catch him!” replied Travis, with a
laugh at the discomfiture of his companion, who busied
himself in freeing his face from the dust of the decayed
branch.

“See what thou gettest for thy stupidity. Think
you gray-jacket knew not all you were saying? He
did: not a word escaped him; and, believe it or not,
his tribe have quite as much understanding as we,
though, to be sure, they have not the same tongue to
make it known. It's a God's truth, now, that squirrel
has been outstanding sentinel for his company, just as
ours watches for us; and look where they go, all around
us, and all in the same direction! See to yon pine,
how full of them! It bends and shakes, big as it is, as
they leap off to the next tree. They are all off, just as
the sentinel gave them notice. Every now and then,
as we drew nigh, he piped up squeak after squeak, and
every one different, as much as to say, `Now they
come—nigher, nigher, nigher!'—and when he thought
it time to move, he tumbled the dry branch into your
open mouth, and made off with his last signals.”

“Pshaw! what nonsense you talk!”

“Nonsense! Saint Jupiter, but it's true as turpentine!
There's no truth, if that be not. Why, man, I go farther:
I do believe, in my conscience, that they understand
arithmetic and navigation. Don't you think he
told his fellows how many we were, and what route
over the water we were going to take? You see they
have taken a different direction altogether.”

“You think I swallow your fool stories?” said
Clough.

“Quite as easy to swallow, and better food than the
branch the squirrel threw thee: but if thou believe not,
I care not. Rot thee, for an infidel, having as little
belief as brains! Thou art worse than Turk or Hebrew,
and should have no water from me wert thou
famishing.”

“Thou canst scarce deny it here,” was the reply, as

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the squad, one after the other, struggled through a quagmire
that spread across the path.

“Nor would I here; I am charitable: take thy fill
of what is before thee. But hold up, men; we are on
the broad track. This tussock runs for a hundred yards,
widening to a fork; and I've a mind that you shall
go through the worst part of it, Sergeant Clough, that
you may get more wisdom in swamp-sucking. Close
up, men—up!”

They passed over the broad path in a few moments,
until they reached a point from which ran out another
route, clearly indicated upon the sky, by an opening
through the trees, which let in, for the first time after
their entrance, the unobstructed sunlight.

“To the right now, men—to the right! It's the
worst track, but carries us soonest to the heart of the
swamp, and we can pass it now without swimming:
the waters are going down, and it will not be so bad,
after all.”

“Is it worse, Travis, than what we have passed?”
inquired Clough, rather anxiously.

“Worse!” exclaimed Travis, turning shortly upon
the speaker, with a sneer; “Saint Jupiter! said I not
you should learn swamp-sucking? You'll drink before
you come out. But the water's fresh.”

“Fresh, here in the swamp?”

“Ay, fresh enough—fresh from the sea, unless the
tide's gone clean down. But on; do not fear; it looks
worse than it tastes. On, and follow me close!”

They dashed after their leader as he gave the word,
but their progress was much slower than before.

In the mean while, let us turn our eyes upon the
party in waiting for them. Following the suggestions
of his lieutenant, Humphries, Major Singleton had disposed
of his men at convenient distances for mutual
support along the more accessible ridge which the party
of Travis had originally pursued. The design had
been a good one; for it was not to be supposed that
one who had shown himself so careful in selecting the
least obstructed route, would willingly leave it, in

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preference to another, so indirect and difficult of passage
as that upon which Travis had now turned his horse.
The ambuscade had been well laid, and must have
been successful, but for this circumstance. Major
Singleton himself, being in advance, was the first to
perceive this change of movement, which, taking place
just when his anxieties were most aroused, was productive
of an exaggerated degree of disappointment.
He cried out to Humphries, who lurked in a low bush
on the opposite bank, and saw not so readily—

“They leave the track, Humphries! they have turned
off to the right—we are foiled!”

The lieutenant rose from his recumbent position,
and saw the truth of his commander's suggestion. To
effect a change of ambuscade at this moment was hopeless;
and there remained but one mode, and that was,
to persuade them to return to the path from which
they departed. At first, he thought to throw himself
immediately in their way; and, being well known, and
looked upon as loyal by all the dragoons, he thought
he might lure them back by misrepresentations of one
kind or another. This thought he abandoned, however,
as he still desired to keep himself from detection, which
he could not hope, should any of them escape to tell
the story.

“There is but one way, major,” he exclaimed, while
smearing his visage with the mud around him, and
leaping boldly forth on foot upon the broad path—
“there is but one way, sir: keep your men fast, while
I make myself visible to Travis. I will run upon the
bank, and make them hear me. They will follow the
tussock, and, by the time I am in cover, you will have
them between you. The rest of the work is yours.”

He waited not for an answer, but the next instant
was seen by Singleton coursing along the tussock
towards the route taken by Travis. When upon the
highest point, and perceptible to them, he broke a dried
stick, with a sharp, snapping sound, which reached the
quick ear of their leader. Travis turned instantly, and
ordered a halt.

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“Hold up, men—hold up a moment! See you nothing
to the left?”

All eyes were turned in the required direction, but
they failed to distinguish any object in particular, other
than belonged to the region.

“Look, Clough, your eyes are younger than mine—
look to the left, beyond the big water-oak, close by the
blasted pine—the very highest point of the tussock we
just left.”

“I see, I see!” cried one of the troopers: “it's a
man.”

“Now I have it! You are right, Wilkins—it's a
man—a stout fellow, and must be Frampton,” cried
Clough; “the very dog we seek.”

“No, 'tis not the man we seek,” was the reply of
Travis, who had been watching intently. “This is a
short stout man, not of more inches than myself; Frampton,
though stout, is tall. But he is our game, be he
who he may. All are outlaws here, and rebels for
the rope. Here, Corporal Dricks, have your string in
readiness: we shall doubtless need a cast of your
office, and the noose should be free for service. Ride
close, and be ready. Ha! he scents—he sees us!
He is on the wing, and we must be quick and cautious.
After him, Clough, to the left—right, Wilkins! Get
upon the tussock, and, if he keeps it, you have him.
Ride, boys! To the left, Clough—to the left! He
can't clear the pond, and we are sure of him!”

Half of the troops dashed after the suspicious person,
who was our acquaintance Humphries; the other half,
slowly returning, re-entered the old trail, and kept their
way towards the flying object and the pursuit. The
lieutenant found no difficulty in misleading his pursuers,
having once drawn them back to their original direction.
They urged the chase hotly upon him, but he knew
his course, and was cool and confident. Doubling
continually through bog and through brier—now behind
this, now under that clump of foliage or brush—he contrived
to boggle them continually in perpetual intricacies,
each more difficult than the other, until he not

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only led them into the very thick of the ambuscading
party, still maintaining his original lead upon them, but
he scattered them so far asunder, that mutual assistance
became impossible. It was then that, gathering himself
up for breath along the edge of a bank, he coolly
wiped the moisture from his brows, looking from side
to side, as he heard the splashing in the water or the
rustling in the brush of his bewildered pursuers. He,
meanwhile, fairly concealed from their sight by a thick
cluster of cypresses that rose out of the bay before him,
conceiving the time to have arrived for action, gave the
shrill whistle with which his men were familiar. The
pursuers heard it reverberate all around them from a
dozen echoes of the swamp; they gave back, and
there was a pause in the chase, as if by common consent.
The sound had something supernatural and
chilling in it; and the instinct of each, but a moment
before so hot upon the heels of the outlaw, was now to
regain his starting-place, and recover his security with
his breath. But retreat was not so easy, and prudence
counselled too late. They made the effort, however;
but to succeed was denied them. The word of command
reached their ears in another voice than that of
their own leader, and in the next instant came the sharp
cracking report of the rifle—two, three, four. Travis
went down in the first shot: they beheld his fall distinctly,
as he stood upon the highest point of the ridge,
which was visible for a hundred yards round. For a
moment more, the enemy remained invisible; but Major
Singleton now gave his orders shrilly and coolly—
“Steady, men—in file, open order—trot!” And then
came the rush of the charge, and the stragglers beheld
the flashing sabres dealing with the few troopers who
held the broad ridge of the tussock. The tories fought
well; but the surprise was too sudden, and too little
prepared for, and they fought at disadvantage. Still,
as they remembered the unsparing character of their
own warfare, and were conscious of innumerable outrages,
such as had driven Frampton to outlawry, they
stood their ground bravely enough. Parrying the first

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strokes of their assailants, who had every advantage,
they dashed aside from the path, and strove to escape
by plunging in every direction through the swamp.
But with the loss of the ridge, which Singleton with
his few troopers now traversed in all directions, they
lost all chance of extrication. They floundered from
slough to slough, while, dismounting and on foot, the
whigs pursued them. The cry for quarter on all hands
ended the combat, and the survivors were drawn forth
to become prisoners. They threw down their arms
generally, and were spared; one who resisted was cut
down by Davis, who had shown himself a true man in
close contest; and one strove to escape by turning back
upon his path, and plunging on through the swamp in
an opposite direction to that taken by the rest: but
there was an eye upon him, quickened by hate, and a
deadly hostility which nothing could blind—a footstep
which he could not evade. The fugitive was the sanguinary
corporal of Huck—a wretch who always carried
the cord at his saddle-bow for sudden executions,
and enjoyed nothing so well as its employment. His
pursuer was the maniac Frampton. That fierce man
had singled out this one antagonist, and throughout the
brief struggle, in which he bore an active part, had
never once withdrawn his glance from him. But for
this, the wretch might have escaped; and even then,
had not guilt or fear paralyzed his energy or judgment,
his chances might have been good; but he held too
long to his horse, and lost that time, in trying to urge
him along the track he had taken, which on foot might
have availed him more effectually. The animal became
entangled in some water-vines, and before he could get
him free, or even get from his back, the pursuer was
plunging into the swamp, with drawn sword waving
overhead, and but a few paces from him. Leaping
from his steed, which he left struggling, he made for
the opposite bank, and reached it before Frampton had
yet got through the slough. But even this advantage
did not serve him long. Though brave enough, the
corporal seemed at that moment to lack much of his

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wonted firmness. Probably he knew the pursuer, had
heard his story, and dreaded his vengeance. It was
not improbable, indeed, that he himself had been one
of those concerned in the assault upon Frampton's wife.
If so, the flight of the one and the concentrated pursuit
of the other were both natural enough. Guilt must
always despair its charm in the presence of the true
avenger. Still, for a moment, there was a show of
spirit. He wheeled, and confronted the pursuer with a
word of defiance; but the moment after, he turned again
in flight. He ran over the tussock upon which both
of them now stood, and, bounding through a pond that lay
in his way, made off for a close cover of cypresses that
grow at a little distance. Should he gain that cover,
his safety would most probably be certain, as he would
then have gained on Frampton, and had long since been
out of reach of the rest. But if the one ran with the
speed of fear, madness gave wings to the other. The
fugitive looked over his shoulder once as he flew, and
he could see in the eye of his pursuer that there
was no pity, but death; and utterly vain must be
his cry for quarter. Perhaps he felt a conviction of
this from a due consciousness of what he had deserved
from his own atrocities. The thought increased his
speed; but, though capable and elastic enough, he could
not escape the man who rushed behind him. Defying
wood, water, and every obstruction, the fierce wretch
pressed close upon the fugitive. The corporal felt the
splashing of the water from his adversary's feet; he
knew that the next moment must be followed by the
whirl of the sabre, and he sank motionless to the ground.
The blow went clean over him; but though it carried
Frampton beyond him, yet he did not fall. The maniac
soon recovered, and confronted the corporal, who now
found it impossible to fly: his hope was in fight only.
But what was his lifted weapon against that of his
opponent, wielded by his superior strength, made terrible
by madness! The sword was dashed aside—
dashed down in the heavy sweeping stroke with which
the other prefaced the conflict.

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“Mercy! mercy!” cried the corporal, as he saw that
it was all over. A howl like that of the wolf was the
only response, and the weapon bit through the bone as
the arm was unavailingly thrown up to resist it. The
stricken member hung only by the skin and a part of
the coat-sleeve. The steel was already in the air—

“Mercy, Frampton! have mercy—”

The speech was silenced, as, crushing through bone
and brain, the thick sword dug its way down into the
very eyes of the pleader. The avenger knelt upon the
senseless body, as it lay at his feet, and poured forth
above it a strain of impious thanksgiving to Heaven
for so much granted and gained of the desired vengeance.
His wild, wolfish laugh, at intervals while he
prayed, taught the rest of the party where to look for
him.

CHAPTER IX.

“It is all dim—the way still stretches out
Far in the distance. We may nothing see,
Till comes the season in the dawning light.”

It was an easy victory, and won without loss.
Wiping his bloody sword upon the mane of his steed,
Major Singleton rode up to his captives, who, by this
time, were all properly secured. Four persons had
fallen in the conflict, and among these was their leader,
Travis. He was shot dead upon the spot. Clough
was severely wounded in the breast, though perhaps
not mortally, and lay gasping, but without a groan,
upon the ground where he had fallen, and around which
the surviving prisoners were grouped. Three others
had fallen, either killed outright or mortally wounded:
two of these by the sabre, not including the corporal,
who fell by the hand of Frampton, and who was at
once rolled into the swamp. The prisoners, five in

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number, were natives, generally of the very lowest
class, and just the sort of men to fight, according to the
necessity of the case, on either side. Such, indeed,
were the tories throughout the state, with very few
exceptions. Without leading principles, and miserably
poor—not recognised, except as mercenaries, in the social
aristocracies which must always prevail in slaveholding
nations—they had no sympathy with the
more influential classes,—those who were the first to
resist the authority of England. The love of gain,
the thirst for rapine, and that marauding and gipsy habit
of life which was familiar to them, were all directly
appealed to in the tory mode of warfare. They were
ready on any side which offered them the greatest
chance for indulging in these habits; and the sudden
preponderance of British power after the fall of Charlestown
determined the major part of this class of people in
favour of the invaders. The tories forming Huck's
cavalry were all of this sort; and the small detachment
just overthrown by Singleton had no sympathy with
their leader, only as his known character promised them
plunder. Defeat had no attraction in their eyes; and,
as that is always the true cause which is triumphant,
they now freely tendered themselves, with clamorous
tongues, and to the no small chagrin of the wounded
Clough, as recruits for Singleton. The Briton denounced
their perfidy in fearless language, and threatened
them terribly with the vengeance of Huck and
Tarleton; but the remote fear is no fear with the vulgar.
They seldom think in advance of the necessity,
and the exhortation of their wounded officer had no
visible effect. They persisted in their determination
to fight on the right side, and earnestly asserted their
love of country, alleging that force only had placed
them in the ranks of the enemy. Major Singleton conferred
with Humphries on the course to be taken in
this matter. The latter knew most of the parties, but
had been prudent to keep from sight, and they had not
seen him, only in the brief glimpse which they had of
him in the pursuit, when, at such a distance,

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perpetually moving, and with his face well smeared with the
rank ooze from the creek around him, he must have been
unknown, except upon the narrowest examination, even
to the mother that had borne him. It was still his policy
to keep from sight in connection with his whig partisans;
for, passing in Dorchester as a loyal citizen—
a character in part obtained through his father's loudlyvoiced
attachment to the existing powers—he was of
far greater advantage to the cause of the country than
he possibly could have been even in active military service.
He obtained intelligence with singular adroitness,
conveyed it with despatch, and planned enterprises
upon what he knew, with no little tact and ingenuity.
To remain unknown, therefore, or only known
as he had been heretofore, in close connection with
loyalty alone, was clearly the policy of our lieutenant.

There was one man from whom Humphries seemed
willing to withhold his confidence. He counselled his
commander to accept the services of the remaining
four, recommending that they should be so distributed
among the men who had been tried, as to defeat any
concert between them, should they feel any motive to
disaffection. In this manner it was also thought a
proper bias would be given to their minds, which, as
they both knew, were sufficiently flexible to find but
little difficulty in conforming to any circumstances
which should for a moment take the shape of a necessity.

“But the fifth—the other fellow—the blear-eyed—
what of him? You say nothing of him, Humphries.”

Singleton pointed through the copse as he spoke,
where the individual referred to leaned against a tree,
a little apart from the rest; his head cast down, his
arms relaxed beside him, one leg at ease, while the
whole weight of his body rested upon the other. The
features of his face were dark and unprepossessing—
dark and sallow; his cheeks lank and colourless; a
small nose; retreating forehead, covered with long thin
black hair, that streamed from under a broad white hat,
something the worse for wear. A strange protrusion of

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his eyes gave his face a sinister expression, which was
not before lacking to produce distrust, or even dislike,
in the mind of the observer. Humphries gazed on
him a moment before he spoke, then, as if satisfied, he
proceeded to reply—

“I know nothing against the chap, major; but the
truth is, I don't like him. Indeed, I know nobody that
does. His right name is Blonay, but we all know
him better by the name of Goggle—a nickname which
he got on account of his eyes. Something has hurt
them when young, which, you see, makes him stare
when he looks at you.”

“Well, but we must not refuse him because he has
got a blear eye; we are too much in need of men to
stand upon trifles. Know you nothing against him?”

“The blood's bad that's in him. His father was a
horse-thief, and they do say, a mulatto or an Indian.
As for himself, the worst is, that we know nothing
about him; and that's no good sign, major, in a country
where everybody knows the business of everybody.
How he lives, and where and by what means he gets
his bread, is a secret. He will not work; but see
him when you will, you see him as you see him now—
one half of him sleeping, while the other half takes
the watch. Not that he can't move when the time
comes for it—or rather when he's in the humour for it.
Touch him close upon his goggle eye, and he's up in
arms in a moment. He will fight like a wildcat, too,
and that's in his favour; but the worst is, he fights
with a bad heart, and loves to remember injuries. I do
believe they keep him from sleep at night. He's not
like Carolinians in that; he can't knock at once and
have done with it, but he goes to bed to think about it,
and to plan when to knock, so as never to have done
with it. He loves to keep his wrongs alive, so that he
may always be revenging.”

“Still, I see nothing, lieutenant, that should make us
discourage his desires; and, truth to say, it is far
easier for us now to keep doubtful friends in our
ranks, moving with us, and continually under our eye,

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than positive enemies in our camp in the form of prisoners,
whom we are bound to keep guard over. We
can manage our allies if they show signs of bad faith,
although we risk something, doubtless, even by the partial
confidence. Better do this than break up our little
force watching those who profess themselves friends,
and may yet prove so.”

“You may be right, major, and I only speak perhaps
from an old prejudice; but keep an eye upon him, for
he certainly will keep one on you. Even now he is
looking slyly to this bush, although he can't see or hear
either of us, but, after the old fashion, to find out what
he can. If he were only honest, he'd be a spy among
a thousand.”

“I will see to him in particular, and if it be possible
to drill honesty into him, something may be got out of
him yet. We must take him.”

“Very good, sir;—and you now go back into the
camp?”

“Yes: we must put the wounded man into some
sort of care, though he will suffer, wanting attendance.”

“Leave that to me, sir. You take him into camp,
and I have two men to come out this very day, one of
whom is a sort of doctor—good as any one hereabout.
He used to drench horses in Dorchester; and some
of the grannies did say, that there were no drinks like
those made by Doctor Oakenburg—that was because
he put more of brandy in them than any thing else;
and if a Dorchester granny loves one thing more than
another, after opium, it is brandy; and sometimes,
liking them equally well, she takes both together. He,
major, and the old negro, with some one of the troop,
will be guard enough, and Frampton's son Lance can
stay with them in the swamp. He's quite too young to
be of much service, and will only learn what's bad,
going with the troop.”

“I have thought better of that, and shall endeavour
to attach the boy to myself, and probably, in the end,
place him at `The Oaks' with my uncle. But time
wears, and we must move for the camp. I shall take

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these men into service, and place the wounded man
under the charge of one of the troopers, and your doctor
can relieve him.”

“He comes to-day, with another—a fat overgrown
creature, just fit for the camp, though he fights well and
is true,” was the reply of Humphries.

Having thus counselled, the two proceeded to confer
apart upon other matters connected with their enterprise.
To visit “The Oaks” during the day, where his
uncle and sister resided, was the object of Singleton;
but his desire was also to intercept the supply of arms
and ammunition of which Huck had spoken as on their
way to Dorchester. They were looked for hourly, and
could not be very remote. It was determined, therefore,
to intercept them, if practicable, as an acquisition
of the last importance. To arrange their route, plan
the place of their next meeting, provide the means of intelligence,
and concert what local measures might
seem necessary in future, was the work of but little
time between the two; and this done, Humphries,
withdrawing silently from the cover in which this conference
had been carried on, unperceived by the rest,
made his way by a different route out of the swamp,
and keeping the forest all the way, was, after no long
time, safely in Dorchester—looking for all the world as
pacific and quiet as ever—without weapon of any
kind, as, with a wonted precaution, he had left his
sword in the woods, safely hidden, and his hands now
grasped only the common wagon-whip, which he
handled with a dexterity which seemed to indicate but
little acquaintance with any more dangerous or deadly
instruments.

Major Singleton, in the mean while, had returned to
his troop. They had been busied during his absence
in collecting the scattered horses and arms, and repairing
their own little losses. The captives were
loud in their desire to be received among them; and, as
rebellion loves company, the whigs were not unwilling
to receive an accession, even from their late enemies.
Major Singleton declared his acceptance of their

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services, taking care to address himself particularly to
the man Blonay, or, as they styled him more familiarly,
Goggle. An awkward touch of the hat acknowledged
this last courtesy, and one eye of Goggle, as he made
the movement, peered up into those of Singleton with
a searching and doubtful glance. The major did
not appear to notice him or them any farther, but,
giving directions for the disposal of the wounded sergeant,
Clough, so as to spare him as much pain as possible,
he led the way once more to the cover of the secluded
place, in the centre of the swamp, which had
been chosen as their camping-ground. Here they arrived
at length, and having completed his arrangements,
placing Clough in the charge of one of his dragoons,
and in as much comfort as possible, Major Singleton
gave the word, and the squad moved forward on
their way out of the swamp, and in the direction of
the village. But this course was only kept while he
yet remained in the swamp. As soon as he emerged
from it, he drew up his men, and then, for the first
time, perceived the absence of the elder Frampton.
The two sons had kept with the troop, and seemed
to know nothing of their father. The younger had ridden
close beside his commander, who had so willed it.
Nobody could give him any account of the absent man
after his removal from the body of the corporal whom
he had slain. He had disappeared suddenly then, it
was thought; and there were not wanting those who
insisted upon his absence from that time; but Singleton
remembered to have seen him after they had
reached the camp, and to have noted the singular
composedness of his features. But few farther inquiries
were made after the absentee, as the major
well knew that with a man in such a mood but little
could be done. He was, perhaps, perfectly satisfied
that nothing could have happened to him, from the
composure of the two sons, who, doubtless, were acquainted
with the father's movement. Conjecture succeeded
to inquiry, only interrupted by the order to
move on.

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The course of the troop lay now towards the Goose
Creek road. Major Singleton dared not carry his squad
along the Ashley without exposing himself, unnecessarily,
to unequal encounter; and, at Dorchester, with a
force far superior to his own. Pursuing a northerly direction
for a while, therefore, he placed himself at equal
distances between the Wassamasah and Dorchester
roads; then striking to the left, he passed over an
untravelled surface of country, broken with frequent
swamps, and crowded with luxuriant undergrowth. In
a few hours, however, he had gone over the ground
almost unseen, and certainly unobstructed. Davis was
his guide in this quarter, and he could not have had a
better. The discarded lover had given sufficient earnest
of his truth and valour, in the courage and perfect
coolness of his conduct in the preceding struggle; and
he now led the party with all the caution of the veteran,
and all the confidence of a thorough-bred soldier. The
road, like all in that country, was low and miry;
and the path taken for greater security, being little travelled,
was still more troubled with obstructions. They
reached the desired point at length, which was the
Goose Creek Bridge; then leaving it to the left, they
once more departed from the beaten track, and throwing
themselves directly across the country, were, after a
few hours, again upon the Dorchester road, and some
two or three miles below the garrison. They covered
themselves in the close forest by Archdale Hall, and
Singleton then proceeded to inspect the road. To his
great satisfaction, he saw that the wagons had not yet
made their appearance, and must be still below them.
Overjoyed at this, he despatched scouts to bring him
intelligence, and then proceeded to arrange an ambush
for the entrapping of the looked-for detachment.

The road, at the spot chosen for this purpose, was narrow—
but a single track, and that raised into a causeway
from a ditch on either side, at that time filled with
water, and scarcely passable without great difficulty.
The woods, growing close and thickly, formed a natural
defile, of which Singleton, with the eye of

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experience, soon availed himself. He divided his little force
into two equal bodies; and giving the command of one
of them to Davis, placed him upon the right of the
road in the route from Charlestown, while he himself
occupied the left. The former division lying in ambush
some thirty yards below, was ready, in the event of
a struggle between the baggage guard and Singleton's
troop, to which it was to be left, to secure the precious
charge which the guard had undertaken to defend, and
at the same time to cut off their retreat. Thus arranged,
and with the plan of conduct properly understood on all
hands, the parties lay in cover, impatiently awaiting
the approach of the enemy.

They had not long to wait; for scarcely had their
arrangements been well completed, before the scouts
came at full gallop along the path, crying loudly that
the enemy was at hand. A shot or two whistled over
the heads of the fugitives at the same moment, giving
full confirmation to their intelligence; and a few seconds
after, the rush of half a score of British dragoons was
heard upon their footsteps. Passing through the ambuscade
without pausing for an instant, the scouts kept on
their flight, bringing the pursuers fairly between the two
parties. Once enclosed, a shrill whistle from Singleton
announced the charge which he led in person; and
dashing out from his cover, he threw his men quickly
between the flying scouts and the assailants. In the
same moment the squad of Davis obeying the same
signal, as repeated by their leader, followed him as
he charged upon the force left in possession of the munition
wagons. The guard in this quarter seeing the
inequality of the force, and struck with the surprise,
offered but a feeble resistance, and were soon put to
flight. Davis followed them a little distance, and then
returned to the aid of Singleton. His approach and
attack upon the rear of the party with which his commander
had been contending, put an end to the fight—
the dragoons having lost three men killed and two
wounded. With the charge of Davis, they threw down
their arms and were made prisoners.

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The whole affair was over in the space of ten minutes.
In as little time the wagons were ransacked.
The swords and pistols were strewn upon the ground,
and each trooper made his selection without stint or
limit. In addition to this, each soldier was required to
carry an extra sword, and holsters with their contents;
and in this manner supplies were secured for a much
larger force than that which Singleton now commanded.
The rest were broken against the trees—muskets, pistols,
and swords sharing the same fate—while the wagons
themselves, carefully tumbled from their axles, and
their wheels torn apart, were thrown into the slough by
the road-side. The necessity which called for this
destruction of property, so valuable at the time, was the
subject of no small regret with the troopers. Even
Davis muttered to the major his desire that the wagons,
or at least one of them, should be preserved and
filled with spoils so highly important to the enterprise.
But Singleton knew better than to encumber his party,
whose utility consisted chiefly in the rapidity of its
movement, with such burdens, and peremptorily enforced
the order which destroyed the valuable residue. This
done, he gave orders to mount; and having carefully
secured his prisoners, the party moved at a brisk pace
along the road downward until they came within ten
miles of the city; then moving to the right, they crossed
Ashley ferry without molestation, and towards evening
had placed themselves in safety, with all their spoils,
in the close swamp thickets of the Stonoe river, just
where it inclines to the Ashley, and but a short distance
from Dorchester itself.

Here Singleton made his camp, within a few miles
of his uncle's plantation. He now felt secure for a
brief period, as he was taught to believe that the affections
of the people were with his cause, and the rapidity
of his proceedings must baffle any pursuit. Still he
knew that he could not hope to maintain this security
for any time. The audacity of the two efforts which
he had made that day, so nigh the garrison, could not
long be concealed, and must soon call out a superior

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force equal to his annihilation. This he well knew;
yet he required but a few days for all his purposes.
His object was twofold—the attainment of recruits,
and the arousing of his uncle, whose bravery was well
known, and whose influence in the country was considerable,
to a proper sense of his duty. The first of
these objects promised well, so far as opportunity had
been given him;—of the second he did not despair,
particularly as he well knew what must be the influence
upon Colonel Walton of the recent proclamation of
Sir Henry Clinton. He knew the stern sense of integrity
which the colonel insisted upon with the tenacity
of a professional moral disciplinarian; and he did not
err in the thought, that his sense of humanity was sufficiently
alive to prompt a due indignation at the many
atrocities hourly committed by the tory leaders under
the especial sanction of the British. Other motives
for the contemplated visit might not be wanting to his
mind, as he thought of his lovely cousin—the stately
and the beautiful Katharine Walton—one of those high-souled
creatures that awe while they attract; and, even
while they invite and captivate, control and discourage.
His sister, too—she was there; a meek, sad, but
uncomplaining girl, perishing of disease, without having
lived—one of the unrepining sufferers, whose melancholy
fortunes, so at variance with what we know of
their deservings, would lead us sometimes improperly to
doubt of that justice which we assume to mark all the
decrees of Providence. But let us not anticipate.

Having placed his camp in such security as he
thought necessary and was practicable, Major Singleton
towards sunset rode forth in the direction of Dorchester
Bridge to meet Humphries, as had been agreed upon
between them. The lieutenant was in waiting at the
time appointed, and came forward to meet his superior.

“Ride aside, Major Singleton, if you please. The
brush is best for us just now. There are strange birds
on our roost that we must sheer from.”

“What mean you, Humphries—what birds?”

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“British officers! Col. Proctor himself and another
have just gone by, and if I mistake not, on a visit to
`The Oaks.' They say he looks hard upon your
cousin, sir, the beautiful Miss Katharine.”

“Ha! do they say that?” responded Major Singleton,
with something like a start—“and she?” he continued,
inquiringly.

“They say nothing of her, whether she likes it or not;
but young ladies will be young ladies, major; and a
smart officer, with a king's commission in his pocket,
and a showy red coat on his back, is no small danger
to an easy heart.”

“No, indeed!” replied the other, in a tone which
seemed to have found nothing consolatory in his companion's
reflection, and in which there may have been
something of latent bitterness—“no, indeed!—such
attractions are at all times sweet with the sex, and seldom
utterly unsuccessful. They love the conquest,
always, even when they may despise the game. It's
with them all after this fashion, and the goodly outside
is a fair offset to worth and good manners. But how
shall we know, of a certainty, the destination of Proctor?”

“Only by dogging his footsteps, major. We may
do that with some safety, however, as I happen to know
the back track which hugs the river, and is seldom
travelled. This brings us close on the park, yet gives
us a good shelter all the way along the copse. We
shall take our watch, and yet be all the time hidden;
and where I shall carry you shall give us a fair peep
at all the grounds as well as the river.”

“That is well. And now of Dorchester: what stirs
in the village, and what of Huck? Do they know yet
of the affair of the swamp, or are they ever like to
know?”

“They know not yet, certainly; but Huck musters
strong, and talks of a drive to Camden. There is news,
too, which moves the garrison much. They talk of the
continentals from Virginia.”

“Do they? they must be De Kalb's. And what do

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they say on the subject? do they speak of him as at
hand?”

“Nothing much, but they look a deal, and the whigs
talk a little more boldly. This provokes Huck, who
threatens a start on the strength of it, and is hurrying
his recruits for that purpose. There is also some talk
of a force from North Carolina under Sumter, and they
have got wind of the last move of our Colonel Marion,
thereaway among Gainey's corps of tories, where you
cut them up in such fine style; but there's nothing certain,
and this I get out of Huck in curses now and then.
He's mighty anxious that I should join him, and I'm
thinking to do so, if it promises to give me a better
hold on him.”

“Think not of it, Humphries; it will be twice putting
your neck in the halter, and the good that it may
do is too doubtful to encourage such a risk.”

“He presses me mighty hard, major, and I must
keep out of his way or consent. He begins to wonder
why I do not join his troop, and with some reason too,
believing me to be a loyalist, for certainly, were I to
do so, it would be the very making of me.”

“Thou wouldst not turn traitor, Humphries?” replied
the other, looking sternly upon the speaker.

“Does Major Singleton ask the question now?” was
the reply, in a tone which had in it something of reproach.

“I should not, certainly, Humphries, knowing what
I do. Forgive me; but in these times there is so
much to make us suspect our neighbours, that suspicions
become natural to every mind. You I know, however,
and I have trusted you too long not to continue
in my confidence now. But how come on our recruits?”

“Tolerably: as you say, these are suspicious times,
major, and they are slow to trust. But the feeling is
good with us, and they only wait to see some of the
chances in our favour before they come out boldly in
the cause.”

“Now, out upon the calculating wretches! Will
they dare nothing, but always wait for the lead of others?

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Chances, indeed! as if true courage and a bold heart
did not always make their own. But what of the villagers?
How of that old tavern-keeper of whom you
spake—your father's rival?”

“But so no longer. Old Pryor, you mean. He is
a prime piece of stuff, and will not scruple to do what's
wanted. He was always true with us, though kept
down by those about him; yet he only wants to see
others in motion to move too. He'll do any thing now—
the more readily, as the Royal George, being entirely
loyal, does all the business; and poor Pryor, being all
along suspected, has not a customer left. He'd burn
the town, now, if we put it into his head?”

“Well, just now we lack no such spirit. May not
his rashness prompt him to too much speech?”

“No, sir; that's the beauty of rebellion with old
Pryor. It has hands and a weapon, but it wants
tongue. If he felt pain, and was disposed to tell
of it, his teeth would resist, and grin down the feeling.
No fear of him; he talks too little: and as for blabbing,
his wife might lie close, and listen all night, and
his dreams would be as speechless as his humour.
He locks up his thoughts in close jaws, and at best
only damns a bit when angered, and walks off with
his hands in his breeches-pocket.”

“A goodly comrade for a dark night! But let us
move. Dusk closes upon us, and we may travel now
with tolerable security. Our course is for the river?”

“Yes; a hundred yards will take us in sight of it,
and we keep it the whole way. But we must hug the
bush, as much out of sight there as if we were upon
the high-road. There are several boats, chiefly armed,
upon it now, besides the galley which runs up and
down—some that have brought supplies to the garrison.
Their shot would be troublesome, did they see us.”

They rode down the hill, entered a long copse, and
the river wound quietly on its way a little below them.
They were now on a line with the fortress of Dorchester;
the flag streamed gaudily from the staff,
and they could see through the bushes that several

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vessels of small burden were passing to and fro.
They sank back again into the woods, and kept on
their course in comparative silence, until, close upon
sunset, they found themselves at a few hundred yards
from “The Oaks;” the spacious and lofty dwelling
rising dimly out of the woods before them, while from
their feet the extensive grounds of the park spread
away in distance and final obscurity.

Leaving them to amuse themselves as they may, let
us now return to the Cypress Swamp, where we left
the wounded Clough under the charge of the dragoon
and negro. The injury he had received, though not,
perhaps, a fatal one, was yet serious enough to render
immediate attention highly important to his safety;
but in that precarious time surgeons were not readily
to be found, and the Americans, who were without
money, were not often indulged with their services.
The several corps of the leading partisans, such as
Marion, and Sumter, Pickens, Horry, &c., fought daily
in the swamps and along the highways, with the painful
conviction that, save by some lucky chance, their
wounds must depend entirely upon nature to be healed.
In this way, simply through want of tendance, hundreds
perished in that warfare of privation, whom, with a few
simple specifics, medical care would have sent again
into the combat, after a few days' nursing, hearty and
unimpaired. The present circumstances of Clough's
condition were not of a character to lead him to hope
for a better fortune, and he gave himself up despondingly
to his fate, after having made a brief effort to
bribe his keeper to assist in his escape. But attendance
was at hand, if we may so call it, and after a few
hours' suffering, the approach of Doctor Oakenburg
was announced to the patient.

The doctor was a mere culler of simples, a stuffer
of birds and reptiles, a digger of roots, a bark and
poultice doctor—in other words, a mere pretender.
He was wretchedly ignorant of every thing like medical
science, but he had learned to physic. He made
beverages which, if not always wholesome, were, at

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least, sometimes far from disagreeable to the country
housewives, who frequently took the nostrum for the
sake of the stimulant. Doctor Oakenburg knew perfectly
the want, if he cared little for the need, of his
neighbours; and duly heedful of those around him who
indulged in pipe and tobacco, he provided the bark and
the brandy. A few bitter roots and herbs constituted
his entire stock of medicines; and with these well
armed at all points and never unprovided, he had worked
out for himself no small reputation in that section of
country. But this good fortune lasted only for a season.
Some of his patients took their departure after the
established fashion; some, more inveterate with that
prejudice which distinguishes the bad subject, turned
their eyes on rival remedies; many were scattered
abroad and beyond the reach of our doctor by the
chances of war; and with a declining reputation and
wofully diminished practice, Oakenburg was fain,
though a timid creature, to link his own with the equally
doubtful fortunes of the partisan militia. This decision,
after some earnest argument, and the influence of a
more earnest necessity, Humphries at length persuaded
him to adopt, after having first assured him of the perfect
security and unharming character of the warfare in
which he was required to engage.

With a dress studiously disposed in order, a head
well plastered with pomatum, and sprinkled with the
powder so freely worn at the time, a ragged frill carefully
adjusted upon his bosom to conceal the injuries
of time, and an ostentatious exhibition of the shrunken
shank, garnished at the foot with monstrous buckles
that once might have passed for silver, Oakenburg
still persisted in exhibiting as many of the evidences
of the reduced gentleman as he possibly could preserve.
His manner was tidy, like his dress. His
snuff-box twinkled for ever between his fingers, one of
which seemed swollen by the monstrous paste ring
which enriched it; and his gait was dancing and elastic,
as if his toes had volunteered to do all the duty of
his feet. His mode of speech, too, was excessively

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finical and delicate—the words passing through his
lips with difficulty; for he dreaded to open them too
wide, lest certain deficiences in his jaws should become
too conspicuously notorious. These deficiencies
had the farther effect of giving him a lisping accent,
which not a little added to the pretty delicacies of his
other features.

He passed through the swamp with infinite difficulty,
and greatly to the detriment of his shoes and stockings.
Riding a small tackey (a little, inconsiderate animal,
that loves the swamp, and is usually born and bred in
it), he was compelled continually to be on the look-out
for, and defence against, the overhanging branches and
vines clustering about the trees, through which his
horse, in its own desire to clamber over the roots, continually
and most annoyingly bore him. In this toil he
was compelled to pay far less attention to his legs than
was due to their well-being; and it was not until they
were well drenched in the various bogs through which
he had gone, that he was enabled to see how dreadfully
he had neglected their even elevation to the saddle skirts—
a precaution absolutely necessary at all times in such
places, but more particularly when the rider is mounted
upon a short, squat animal, such as our worthy doctor
bestrode. He was under the guidance of an elderly,
drinking sort of person—one of the fat, beefy class,
whose worship of the belly-god has given an unhappy
distension to that ambitious though most erring member.
The man leered with his little eyes as he saw
the doctor plunging from pool to pool without lifting his
legs, but he was too fond of a joke to say any thing in
the way of warning. Indeed, any warning on the subject
of his dangling legs would most probably have
fallen upon unheeding ears; for Doctor Oakenburg
was too little of an equestrian not to feel the necessity,
while battling with his brute for their mutual guidance,
of keeping his pendulous members carefully balanced on
each side, to prevent any undue preponderance of one
over the other—a predicament of which he had much
seeming apprehension. In the mean time, the lively

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big-bellied man who rode beside him chuckled incontinently,
though in secret. He pretended great care of
his companion, and advised him to sundry changes of
direction, all for the worse, which the worthy doctor in
his tribulation did not scruple to adopt.

“Ah! Squire Porgy,” said he, complaining, though
in his most mincing manner, as they reached a spot of
dry land, upon which they stopped for a moment's rest—
“ah! Squire Porgy, this is but unclean travelling, and
full too of various peril. At one moment I did hear of
a plunging, dashing sound in the pond beside me, which
it came to my thought was an alligator—one of those
monstrous reptiles that are hurtful to children, and even
to men.”

“Ay, doctor, and make no bones of whipping off a
thigh-bone, at or least a leg: and you have been in
danger more than once to-day.”

The doctor looked down most wofully at his besmeared
pedestals; and the shudder which went over
his whole frame was perceptible to his companion,
whose chuckle it increased proportionably.

“And yet, Squire Porgy,” said he, looking round
him with a most wo-begone apprehension—“yet did
our friend Humphries assure me that our new occupation
was one of perfect security. `Perfect security'
were the precise words he used when he counselled
me to this undertaking.”

“Perfect security!” said Porgy, and the man laughed
out aloud. “Why, doctor, look there at the snake
winding over the bank before you—look at that, and
then talk of perfect security.”

The doctor turned his eyes to the designated point,
and beheld the long and beautiful volumes of the beaded
snake, as, slowly crossing their path with his pack of
linked jewels full in their view, he wound his way from
one bush into another, and gradually folded himself up
out of sight. The doctor, however, was not to be
alarmed by this survey. He had a passion for snakes;
and admiration suspended all his fear, as he gazed upon
the beautiful but dangerous reptile.

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“Now would I rejoice, Squire Porgy, were yon serpent
in my poor cabinet at Dorchester. He would
greatly beautify my collection.” And as the man of
simples spoke, he gazed on the retiring snake with envying
eye.

“Well, doctor, get down and chunk it. If it's worth
having, it's worth killing.”

“True, Master Porgy; but it would be greatly detrimental
to my shoes to alight in such a place as this,
for the thick mud would adhere—”

“Ay, and so would you, doctor—you'd stick—but
not the snake. But come, don't stand looking after
the bush, if you won't go into it. You can get snakes
enough in the swamp—ay, and without much seeking.
The place is full of them.”

“This of a certainty, Squire Porgy? know you this?”

“Ay, I know it of my own knowledge. You can see
them here almost any hour in the day, huddled up like
a coil of rope on the edge of the tussock, and looking
down at their own pretty figures in the water.”

“And you think the serpent has vanity of his person?”
inquired the doctor, gravely.

“Think—I don't think about it, doctor—I know it,”
replied the other, confidently. “And it stands to reason,
you see, that where there is beauty and brightness
there must be self-love and vanity. It's a poor fool
that don't know his own possession.”

“There is truly some reason, Squire Porgy, in what
you have said touching this matter; and the instinct is
a correct one which teaches the serpent, such as that
which we have just seen, to look into the stream as one
of the other sex into a mirror, to see that its jewels are
not displaced, and that its motion may not be awry, but
graceful. There is reason in it.”

“And truth. But we are nigh our quarters, and here
is a soldier waiting us.”

“A soldier, squire!—he is friendly, perhaps?”

The manner of the phrase was interrogatory, and
Porgy replied with his usual chuckle.

“Ay, ay, friendly enough, though dangerous if vexed.

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See what a sword he carries—and those pistols! I
would not risk much, doctor, to say, there are no less
than sixteen buckshot in each of those barkers.”

“My! you don't say so, squire! Yet did William
Humphries say to me that the duty was to be done in
perfect security.”

The last sentence fell from the doctor's lips in a sort
of comment to himself, but his companion replied—

“Ay, security as perfect, doctor, as war will admit
of. You talk of perfect security: there is no such
thing—no perfect security anywhere—and but little
security of any kind until dinner's well over. I feel the
uncertainty of life till then. Then, indeed, we may
know as much security as life knows. We have, at
least, secured what secures life. We may laugh at
danger then; and if we must meet it, why, at least we
shall not be compelled to meet it in that worst condition
of all—an empty stomach. I am a true Englishman
in that, though they do call me a rebel. I feel my
origin only when eating; and am never so well disposed
towards the enemy as when I'm engaged, tooth and nail,
in that savoury occupation, and with roast-beef. Would
that we had some of it now!”

The glance of Oakenburg, who was wretchedly
spare and lank, looked something of disgust as he
heard this speech of the gourmand, and listened to the
smack of his lips with which he concluded it.

He had no taste for corpulence, and probably this was
one of the silent impulses which taught him to admire
the gaunt and attenuated form of the snake. Porgy
did not heed his expression of countenance, but looking
up over head where the sun stood just above them peering
down imperfectly through the close umbrage, he exclaimed
to the soldier, while pushing his horse through
the creek which separated them—

“Hark you, Wilkins, boy, is it not high time to
feed? horse and man—man and horse, boy, all hungry
and athirst.”

“We shall find a bite for you, squire, before long—

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but here's a sick man the doctor must see to at once:
he's in a mighty bad way, I tell you.”

“A sick man, indeed!” and the doctor, thrusting
his hands into his pocket, drew forth a bottle, filled
with a dark thick liquid, which he shook violently until
it gathered into a foam upon the surface. Armed
with this, he approached the little bark shanty under
which reposed the form of the wounded Clough.

“You are hurt, worthy sir?” said the mediciner, inquiringly;
“you have not been in a condition of perfect
security—such as life requires. But lie quiet, I
pray you; be at ease, while I look into your injuries,”
said the doctor, condolingly, and proceeded to the
outstretched person of the wounded man with great deliberation.

“You need not look very far—here they are,” cried
Clough, faintly, but peevishly, in reply, as he pointed
to the wound in his side.

The doctor looked at the spot, shook his head,
clapped on a plaster of pine gum, administered a dose
of his nostrum, which the patient gulped at prodigiously,
and then telling him he would do well, repeated
his order to lie quiet and say nothing. Hurrying away
to his saddle-bags after this had been done, with the
utmost despatch he drew forth a pair of monstrous leggings,
which he bandaged carefully around his shrunken
pedestals. In a moment after he was upon his tackey,
armed with a stick, and hastening back upon the route
he had just passed over. Porgy, who was busy urging
the negro cook in the preparation of his dinner, cried out
to the dealer of simples, but received no answer. The
doctor had no thought but of the snake he had seen, for
whose conquest and capture he had now set forth, with
all the appetite of a boy after adventures, and all the
anxiety of an inveterate naturalist, to get at the properties
of the object he pursued. Meanwhile the new-comer,
Porgy, had considerably diverted the thought
of the trooper from attention to his charge; and laying
down his sabre between them, the sentinel threw
himself along the ground where Porgy had already

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stretched himself, and a little lively chat and good company
banished from his mind, for a season, the consideration
of his prisoner. His neglect furnished an opportunity
long watched and waited for by another. The
shanty in which Clough lay stood on the edge of the
island, and was one of those simple structures which
the Indian makes in his huntings. A stick rested at
either end between the crotch of a tree, and small saplings,
leaning against it on one side, were covered with
broad flakes of the pine bark. A few bushes, piled up
partially in front, completed the structure, which formed
no bad sample of the mode of hutting it, winter and
summer, in the swamps and forests of the South, by the
partisan warriors. In the rear of the fabric stood a
huge cypress, from the hollow of which, at the moment
when the sentinel and Porgy seemed most diverted, a
man might have been seen approaching. He cautiously
wound along on all-fours, keeping as much out of sight as
possible, until he reached the back of the hut; then lifting
from the saplings a couple of the largest pieces of
bark which covered them, he introduced his body without
noise into the tenement of the wounded man. Clough
was in a stupor—a half-dozy consciousness was upon
him—and he muttered something to the intruder, though
without any fixed object. The man replied not, but
approaching closely, put his hand upon the bandagings
of the wound, drawing them gently aside. The first
distinct perception which the prisoner had of his situation
was the agonizing sense of a new wound, as of
some sharp weapon driven directly into the passage
made by the old one. He writhed under the instrument
as it slanted deeper and deeper into his vitals,
but he had not strength to resist, and but little to cry
out. He would have done so, but the sound had
scarcely risen to his lips, when the murderer thrust a
tuft of grass into his mouth and stifled all complaint.
The knife went deeper—the whole frame of the assailant
was upon it, and all motion ceased on the part of
the sufferer with the single groan and distorted writhing
which followed the last agony. In a moment

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after, the stranger had departed by the way he came;
and it was not till he had reached the thick swamp
around, that the fearful laugh of the maniac Frampton,
for it was he, announced the success of his new effort
at revenge. The laugh reached Porgy and the dragoon—
they heard the groan also, but that was natural enough.
Nothing short of absolute necessity could have moved
either of them at that moment—the former being busied
with a rasher of bacon and a hoe-cake hot from the
fire, and the latter indulging in an extra swig of brandy
from a canteen which Porgy, with characteristic providence,
had brought well filled along with him.

CHAPTER X.

“Now, this were sorry wisdom, to persuade
My sword to mine own throat. If I must out,
Why should I out upon mine ancient friend,
And spare mine enemy?”

“The Oaks,” the dwelling-place of Colonel Walton,
was one of those old-time residences of the Carolina
planters to which, at this day, there attaches a sort
of human interest. A thousand local traditions hang
around them—a thousand stories of the olden time, and
of its associations of peril and adventure. The estate
formed one of the frontier-plantations upon the Ashley,
and was the site of a colonial barony. It had stood
sieges of the Indians in the wars of the Edistoes and
Yemassees; and, from a block-house station at first,
it had grown to be an elegant mansion, improved in
European style, remarkable for the length and deep
shade of its avenues of solemn oak, its general grace of
arrangement, and the lofty and considerate hospitality
of its proprietors. Such, from its first foundation to
the period of which we speak, had been its reputation;
and in no respect did the present owner depart from

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the good tastes and the frank manly character of his
ancestors.

Colonel Richard Walton was a gentleman in every
sense of the word: simple, unpretending, unobtrusive,
and always considerate, he was esteemed and beloved
by all around him. Born to the possession of large
estates, his mind had been exercised happily by education
and travel; and at the beginning of the revolutionary
struggle, he had been early found to advocate
the claims of his native colony. At the commencement
of the war he commanded a party of horse, and had
been concerned in some of the operations against Prevost,
in the rapid foray which that general made into
Carolina. When Charlestown fell before the arms of
Sir Henry Clinton, overawed as was the entire country
below the Santee by the immediate presence in force
of the British army, he had tendered his submission
along with the rest of the inhabitants, despairing of any
better fortune. The specious offers of amnesty made
by Clinton and Arbuthnot, in the character of commissioners
for restoring peace to the revolted colonies,
and which called for nothing but neutrality from the
inhabitants, had the effect of deceiving him, in common
with his neighbours. Nor was this submission so partial
as we have been taught to think it. To the southward
of Charlestown, the militia, without summons, sent in a
flag to the British garrison at Beaufort, and made their
submission. At Camden the inhabitants negotiated
their own terms of repose. In Ninety-Six the submission
was the same; and, indeed, with the exception of
the mountainous borders, all show of hostility ceased
throughout the colony—the people generally seeming
to prefer quiet on any terms, to a resistance which,
at that moment of despondency, seemed worse than
idle.

This considerate pliability secured him, as it was
thought, in all the immunities of the citizen, without
subjecting him to any of those military duties which,
in other respects, his majesty had a perfect right to
call for from his loyal subjects. Such, certainly, were

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the pledges of the British commanders—pledges made
with little reflection, or with designed subterfuge, and
violated with as little hesitation. They produced the
effect desired, in persuading to easy terms of arrangement
the people who might not have been conquered
but with great difficulty. Once disarmed and divided,
they were more easily overcome; and it was not long
after the first object had been obtained before measures
were adopted well calculated to effect the other.

Colonel Walton, though striving hard to convince
himself of the propriety of the course which he had
taken, remained still unsatisfied. He could not be assured
of the propriety of submission when he beheld,
as he did hourly, the rank oppression and injustice by
which the conquerors strove to preserve their ascendency
over the doubtful, while exercising it wantonly
among the weak. He could not but see how uncertain
was the tenure of his own hold upon the invaders, whom
nothing seemed to bind in the shape of solemn obligation.
The promised protection was that of the wolf,
and not the guardian dog; it destroyed its charge, and
not its enemy; and strove to ravage where it promised
to secure. As yet, it is true, none of these ills, in a
direct form, had fallen upon Colonel Walton; he had
suffered no abuses in his own person or family: on the
contrary, such were his wealth and influence, that it
had been thought not unwise, on the part of the conquerors,
to conciliate and sooth him. Still, the colonel
could not be insensible to the gradual approaches of
tyranny. He was not an unreflecting man; and as
he saw the wrongs done to others, his eyes became
duly open to the doubtful value of his own securities,
whenever the successes of the British throughout the
state should have become so general as to make them
independent of any individual influence. So thinking,
his mind gave a new stimulus to his conscience, which
now refused its sanction to the decision which, in a
moment of emergency and dismay, he had been persuaded
to adopt. His sympathies were too greatly
with the oppressed, and their sufferings were too

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immediately under his own eyes, to permit of this; and
gloomy with the consciousnes of his error—and the
more so as he esteemed it now irremediable—vexed
with his momentary weakness, and apprehensive of the
future—his mind grew sullen with circumstances—his
feelings sank; and, gradually withdrawing from all the
society around him, he solaced himself in his family
mansion with the small circle which widowhood, and
other privations of time, had spared him. Nor did
his grief pass without some alleviation in the company
of his daughter Katharine—she, the high-born, the
beautiful, the young—the admiration of her neighbourhood,
revelling in power, yet seemingly all unconscious
of its sway. The rest of his family in this retirement
consisted of a maiden sister, and a niece, Emily
Singleton, whom, but a short time before, he had
brought from Santee, in the hope that a change of air
might be of benefit to that life which she held by a
tenure the most fleeting and capricious.

He saw but few persons besides. Studiously estranging
himself, he had no visiters, unless we may
except the occasional calls of the commanding officer
of the British post at Dorchester. This visiter, to
Colonel Walton, appeared only as one doing an appointed
duty, and exercising upon these visits that kind
of surveillance over the people of the country which
seemed to be called for by his position. Colonel Proctor
had another object in his visits to “The Oaks.”
He sought to ingratiate himself into the favour of the
father, on account of his lovely daughter; and to the
charms of one, rather than the political feelings of the
other, were the eyes of the British officer properly
addressed. Katharine was not ignorant of her conquest,
for Proctor made no efforts to conceal the
impression which she had made upon his heart. The
maiden, however, gave him but small encouragement.
She gloried in the name of a rebel lady, and formed
one of that beautiful array, so richly shining in the story
of Carolina, who, defying danger, and heedless of privation,
spoke boldly in encouragement to those who

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yet continued to struggle for its liberties. She did not
conceal her sentiments; and whatever may have been
the personal attractions of Colonel Proctor, they were
wanting in force to her mind, as she associated him with
her own and the enemies of her country. Her reception
of her suitor was coldly courteous; and that which
her father gave him, though always studiously considerate
and gentle, Colonel Proctor, at the same time,
could not avoid perceiving was constrained and frigid—
quite unlike the warm and familiar hospitality which
otherwise marked and still marks, even to this day, the
gentry of that neighbourhood.

It was drawing to a close—that day of events in the
history of our little squad of partisans whose dwelling
was the Cypress Swamp. Humphries, who had engaged
to meet Major Singleton with some necessary
intelligence from Dorchester, was already upon his
way to the place of meeting, and had just passed out
of sight of Ashley River, when he heard the tramp of
horses moving over the bridge, and on the same track
with himself. He sank into cover as they passed,
and beheld Colonel Proctor and a Captain Dickson,
both on station at the garrison, on their way to “The
Oaks.” Humphries allowed them to pass; then renewing
his ride, soon effected the meeting with Major Singleton.
As we have already seen, their object was
“The Oaks” also; but the necessity of avoiding a
meeting with the British officers was obvious, and they
kept close in the wood, leaving the ground entirely to
their opponents.

Though, as we have said, rather a frequent visiter
at “The Oaks,” the present ride of Colonel Proctor in
that quarter had its usual stimulus dashed somewhat by
the sense of the business which occasioned it. Its
discharge was a matter of no little annoyance to the
Englishman, who was not less sensitive and generous
than brave. It was for the purpose of imparting to
Colonel Walton, in person, the contents of that not
yet notorious proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton, with
which he demanded the performance of military duty

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from the persons who had been paroled; and by means
of which, on departing from the province, he planted the
seeds of that revolting patriotism which finally overthrew
the authority he fondly imagined himself to have
successfully re-established.

Colonel Walton received his guests with his accustomed
urbanity: he received them alone; and the eyes
of Colonel Proctor looked round the apartment inquiringly,
but in vain, as if he desired another presence.
His host understood the glance perfectly, for he had
not been blind to the frequent evidences of attachment
which his visiter had shown towards his daughter; but
he took no heed of it; and, with a lofty reserve of
manner, which greatly added to the awkwardness of
the commission which the Englishman came to execute,
he simply confined himself to the occasional remark—
such only as was perfectly unavoidable with
one with whom politeness was habitual, and the predominant
feeling at variance with it, the result of a
calm and carefully regulated principle. It was only
with a steady resolution, at last, that Proctor was enabled
to bring his conversation into any thing like
consistency and order. He commenced, despairing of
any better opening, with the immediate matter which
he had in hand.

“Colonel Walton does not now visit Dorchester
so frequently as usual, nor does he often travel so far
as the city. May I ask if he has heard any late intelligence
of moment?”

Walton looked inquiringly at his guest, as if to
gather from his features something of that intelligence
which his words seemed to presage. But the expression
was unsatisfactory—perhaps that of care—so
Walton thought, and it gave him a hope of some
better fortune for his country than had usually attended
its arms heretofore.

“I have not, sir; I ride but little now, and have not
been in Dorchester for a week. Of what intelligence
do you speak, sir?”

“The proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton, sir—his

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proclamation on the subject of protections granted to the
militia of the province, those excepted made prisoners
in Charlestown.”

Colonel Walton looked bewildered; but still coldly,
and without a word, awaited the conclusion of Proctor's
statement. But the speaker paused for a moment, and
when he again spoke, the subject seemed to have been
somewhat changed.

“I am truly sorry, Colonel Walton, that it has not
been heretofore in your power to sympathize more
freely and openly with his majesty's arms in this warfare
against his rebellious subjects.”

“Stay, sir, if you please: these subjects, of whom
your phrase is rather unscrupulous, are my relatives
and countrymen; and their sentiments on this rebellion
have been and are my own, though I have adopted the
expedient of a stern necessity, and in this have suspended
the active demonstration of principles which I
am nevertheless in no haste to forget, and do not suppress.”

“Pardon me, sir; you will do me grace to believe I
mean nothing of offence. However erring your thought,
I must respect it as honest; but this respect does not
forbid that I should lament such a misfortune—a misfortune,
scarcely less so to his majesty than to you. It is
my sincere regret that you have heretofore found it less
than agreeable to unite your arms with those of our
army in the arrest of this unnatural struggle. The
commission proffered you by Sir Henry—”

“Was rejected, Colonel Proctor, and my opinions
then fairly avowed and seemingly respected. No
reference now to that subject need be made by either
of us.”

“Yet am I called upon to make it now, Colonel
Walton; and I do so with a hope that what is my
duty will not lose me, by its performance, the regard
of him to whom I speak. I am counselled to remind
you, sir, of that proposition by the present commander-in-chief
of his majesty's forces in the South, Earl
Cornwallis. The proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton,

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to which I have alluded, is of such a nature as opens
fresh ground for the renewal of that offer; and in this
packet I have instructions to that end, with a formal
enclosure of seal and signature, from his excellency
himself, which covers the commission to you, sir, in
your full rank, as engaged in the rebel army.”

“You will keep it, sir; again it is rejected. I cannot
lift arms against my countrymen; and though I
readily understand the necessity which requires you to
make the tender, you will permit me to say, that I hold
it only an equivocal form of insult.”

“Which, I again repeat, Colonel Walton, is foreign
to all intention on the part of the commander-in-chief.
For myself, I surely need make no such attestation.
He, sir, is persuaded to the offer simply as he knows
your worth and influence—he would secure your co-operation
in the good cause of loyalty, and at the same
time would soften what may seem the harsh features of
this proclamation.”

“And what is this proclamation, sir? Let me hear
that: the matter has been somewhat precipitately discussed
in advance of the text.”

“Surely, sir,” said Proctor, eagerly, as the language
of Colonel Walton's last remarks left a hope in his
mind that he might think differently on the perusal of
the document, which he now took from the hands of
his companion, Dickson—“surely, sir, and I hope you
will reconsider the resolve which I cannot help thinking
precipitately made.”

The listener simply bowed his head, and motioned
the other to proceed. Proctor obeyed; and, unfolding
the instrument, proceeded to convey its contents to
the ears of the astonished Carolinian. As he read, the
cheek of Colonel Walton glowed like fire—his eye
kindled—his pulsation increased—and when the insidious
decree, calling upon him to resume the arms which
he had cast aside when his country needed them, and lift
them in behalf of her enemies, was fairly comprehended
by his sense, his feelings had reached that
climax which despaired of all utterance. He started

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abruptly from his seat, and paced the room in strong
emotion; then suddenly approaching Proctor, he took
the paper from his hand, and read it with unwavering
attention. For a few moments after he had been
fully possessed of its contents, he made no remark;
then, with a strong effort, suppressing as much as possible
his aroused feelings, he addressed the Briton in
tones of inquiry which left it doubtful what, in reality,
those feelings were.

“And you desire that I should embrace this commission,
Colonel Proctor, which, if I understand it, gives
me command in a service which this proclamation is to
insist upon—am I right?”

“It is so, sir; you are right. Here is a colonel's
commission under his majesty, with power to appoint
your own officers. Most gladly would I place it in
your hands.”

“Sir—Colonel Proctor, this is the rankest villany—
villany and falsehood. By what right, sir, does Sir
Henry Clinton call upon us for military service, when
his terms of protection, granted by himself and Admiral
Arbuthnot, secured all those taking them in a condition
of neutrality?”

“It is not for me, Colonel Walton,” was Proctor's
reply—“it is not for me to discuss the commands of
my superiors. But does not the proclamation declare
these paroles to be null and void after the twentieth?”

“True. But by what right does your superior violate
his compact? Think you, sir, that the Carolinians
would have taken terms with invasion, the conditions
and maintenance of which have no better security
than the caprice of one of the parties? Think you, sir,
that I, at least, would have been so weak and foolish?”

“Perhaps, Colonel Walton—and I would not offend
by the suggestion,” replied the other, with much moderation—
“perhaps, sir, it was a singular stretch of
indulgence to grant terms at all to rebellion.”

“Ay, sir, you may call it by what name you please;
but the terms, having been once offered and accepted,
were to the full as binding between the law and the
rebel as between the prince and dutiful subjects.”

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“I may not argue, sir, the commands of my superior,”
rejoined the other, firmly, but calmly.

“I am not so bound, Colonel Proctor; it is matter
for close argument and solemn deliberation with me,
and it will be long, sir, before I shall bring myself to
lift arms against my countrymen.”

“There is a way of evading that necessity, Colonel
Walton,” said Proctor, eagerly.

The other looked at him inquiringly, though he evidently
did not hope for much from the suggested alternative.

“That difficulty, sir, may be overcome: his majesty
has need of troops in the West Indies; Lord Cornwallis,
with a due regard to the feelings of his dutiful
subjects of the colonies, has made arrangements for an
exchange of service. The Irish regiments will be
withdrawn from the West Indies, and those of loyal
Carolinians substituted. This frees you from all risk
of encountering with your friends and countrymen,
while at the same time it answers equally the purposes
of my commander.”

The soldier by profession saw nothing degrading,
nothing servile in the proposed compromise. The
matter had a different aspect in the eyes of the southern
gentleman. The proposition which would send him
from his family and friends, to engage in conflict with
and to keep down those to who he had no antipathy,
was scarcely less painful in its exactions than to take
up arms against his immediate neighbours. The suggestion,
too, which contemplated the substitution of
troops of foreign mercenaries, in the place of native
citizens, who were to be sent to other lands in the
same capacity, was inexpressibly offensive, as it directly
made him an agent for the increase of that power
which aimed at the destruction of his people and his
principles. The sense of ignominy grew stronger in
his breast as he heard it, and he paced the apartment
in unmitigated disorder.

“I am no hireling, Colonel Proctor; and the war,
hand to hand with my own sister's child, would be less

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shameful to me, however full of pain and misery, than
this alternative.”

“There is no other, sir, that I know of.”

“Ay, sir, but there is—there is another alternative,
Colonel Proctor; more than that, sir—there is a
remedy.”

The eyes of the speaker flashed, and Proctor saw
that they rested upon the broadsword which hung upon
the wall before them.

“What is that, sir?” inquired the Briton.

“In the sword, sir—in the strife—to take up arms—
to prepare for battle!” was the stern reply.

Either the other understood him not, with an obtuseness
not common with him, or he chose not to understand
him, as he replied—

“Why, that, sir, is what he seeks—it is what Lord
Cornwallis desires, and what, sir, would, permit me to
say, be to me, individually, the greatest pleasure. Your
co-operation here, sir, would do more towards quieting
discontent than any other influence.”

The manner of Walton was unusually grave and
deliberate.

“You have mistaken me, Colonel Proctor. When
I spoke of taking up the sword, sir, I spoke of an alternative.
I meant not to take up the sword to fight your
battles, but my own. If this necessity is to be fixed
upon me, sir, I shall have no loss to know my duty.”

“Sir—Colonel Walton—beware! As a British
officer, in his majesty's commission, I must not listen
to this language. You will remember, sir, that I am
in command of this garrison, and of the neighbouring
country—bound to repress every show of disaffection,
and with the power to determine, in the last resort,
without restraint, should my judgment hold it necessary.
I would not willingly be harsh; and you will spare me,
sir, from hearing those sentiments uttered which become
not the ears of a loyal subject.”

“I am a free man, Colonel Proctor—I would be one,
at least. Things I must call by their right names;
and, as such, I do not hesitate to pronounce this decree

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a most dishonest and criminal proceeding, which should
call up every honest hand in retribution. Sir Henry
Clinton has done this day what he will long be sorry
for.”

“And what, permit me to add, Colonel Walton—
what I myself am sorry for. But it is not for me to
question the propriety of that which my duty calls upon
me to enforce.”

“And pray, sir, what are the penalties of disobedience
to this mandate?”

“Sequestration of property and imprisonment, at the
discretion of the several commandants of stations.”

“Poor Kate!—But it is well it is no worse.” The
words fell unconsciously from the lips of the speaker:
he half-strode over the floor; then, turning upon Proctor,
demanded once more to look upon the proclamation.
He again read it carefully.

“Twenty days, Colonel Proctor, I see, have been
allowed by Sir Henry Clinton for deliberation in a
matter which leaves so little choice. So much is
scarcely necessary; you shall have my answer before
that time is over. Meanwhile, sir, let us not again
speak of the subject until that period.”

“A painful subject, sir, which I shall gladly forbear,”
said Proctor, rising; “and I will hope, at the same time,
that Colonel Walton thinks not unkindly of the bearer of
troublesome intelligence.”

“God forbid, sir! I am no malignant. You have
done your duty with all tenderness, and I thank you
for it. Our enemies are not always so considerate.”

“No enemies, I trust, sir. I am in hopes that, upon
reflection, you will not find it so difficult to reconcile
yourself to what, at the first blush, may seem so unpleasant.”

“No more, sir—no more on the subject,” was the
quick, but calm reply. “Will you do me grace, gentlemen,
in a glass of Madeira—some I can recommend?”

They drank; and seeing through the window the
forms of the young ladies, Colonel Proctor proposed

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surface, while his companion, like a true scout, wandered
off in other parts of the grove with the hope to
obtain intelligence, or at least to watch the movements
of the British officers, whose presence had prevented
their own approach to the dwelling.

As Singleton gazed around upon the prospect, the
whole scene grew fresh under his eye; and though
many years had elapsed since, in the buoyancy and
thoughtlessness of boyhood, he had rambled over it,
yet gradually old acquaintances grew again familiar to
his glance. The tree he knew again under which he
had formerly played. The lawn spread freely onward,
as of old, over which, in sweet company, he had once
gambolled—the little clump of shrubs, here and there,
still grew, as he had once known them; and his heart
grew softened amid its many cares, as his memory
brought to him those treasures of the past, which were
all his own when nothing of strife was in his fortunes.
What a god is memory, to keep in life—to endow with
an unslumbering vitality beyond that of our own nature—
its unconscious company—the things that seem only
born for its enjoyment—that have no tongues to make
themselves felt—and no claim upon it, only as they
have ministered, ignorant of their own value, to the
tastes and necessities of a superior! How more than
dear—how valuable are our recollections! How like
so many volumes, in which time has written on his
passage the history of the affections and the hopes.
Their names may be trampled upon in our passion,
blotted with our tears, thrown aside in our thoughtlessness,
but nothing of their sacred traces may be obliterated.
They are with us, for good or for evil, for
ever! They last us when the father and the mother
of our boyhood are gone. They bring them back as in
infancy. We are again at their knee—we prattle at
their feet—we see them smile upon, and we know
that they love us. How dear is such an assurance!
How sweetly, when the world has gone wrong with
us, when the lover is a heedless indifferent, when the
friend has been tried and found wanting, do they cluster

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before our eyes as if they knew our desire, and strove to
minister to our necessities. True, they call forth our
tears, but they take the weight from our hearts. They
are never false to us,—better, far better, were we
more frequently true to them!

Such were the musings of Singleton, as, reclined
along the roots of the old tree, and sheltered by its
branches, his eye took in, and his memory revived, the
thousand scenes which he had once known of boyish
frolic, when life wore, if not a better aspect of hope
to his infant mind, at least a far less unpleasant show
of its many privations. Not a tree grew before him
which he did not remember for some little prank, or
incident; and a thousand circumstances were linked
with the various objects that, once familiar, were still
unforgotten. Nothing seemed to have undergone a
change—nothing seemed to have been impaired; the
touches of time upon the old oak had rather mellowed
into a fitting solemnity the aspect of that to which we
should scarcely ever look for a different expression.
While he yet mused, mingling in his mind the waters
of those sweet and bitter thoughts which make up the
life-tide of the wide ocean of memory, the dusk of
evening came on, soft in its solemnity, and unoppressive
even in its gloom, under the sweet sky and unmolested
zephyr, casting its pleasant shadows along the edges
of the grove. The moon, at the same time rising
stealthily among the tree-tops in the east, was seeking
to pale her ineffectual fires while yet some traces of
the sun were still bright in waving lines and fragments
upon the opposite horizon. Along the river, which
had a beating murmur upon the low banks, the breeze
skimmed playfully and fresh; and what with its pleasant
chidings, the hum of the tree-tops bending beneath
its embrace, and the still more certain appreciation
by his memory of the genius of the place, the
feeling of Singleton's bosom grew heightened in its
tone of melancholy, and a more passionate emphasis of
thought broke forth in his half-muttered soliloquy:—

“How I remember as I look; it is not only the

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woods and the grounds—the river and the spot—but the
very skies are there; and that very wind, and the murmuring
voices of the trees, are all the same. Nothing—
nothing changed. All as of old, but the one—all but
she—she, the laughing child, the confiding playmate;
and not as now, the capricious woman—the imperious
heart, scorning where she once soothed, denying
where she was once so happy to bestow. Such is her
change—a change which the speechless nature itself
rebukes. She recks not now, as of old, whether her
word carries with it the sting or the sweet—it is not now
in her thought to ask whether pain or pleasure follows
the thoughtless slight or the scornful pleasantry.
The victim suffers, but she recks not of his grief. Yet
is she not an insensible—not proud, not scornful. Let
me do her justice in this. Let me not wrong her but
to think it. What but love, kindness, and all affection
is her tendance upon poor Emily. To her, is she not
all meekness, all love, all forbearance? To my uncle,
too, no daughter could be more dutiful, more affectionate,
more solicitously watchful. To all, to all but
me! To me, only, the proud, the capricious, the indifferent.
And yet, none love her like me; I must
love on in spite of pride, and scorn, and indifference—
I cannot choose but love her.”

The musings of Major Singleton had for their object
his fair cousin, the beautiful Kate—according to
his account, a most capricious damsel in some respects,
though well enough, it would appear, in others.
We shall see for ourselves, as we proceed. Meanwhile,
the return of Humphries from his scouting
expedition arrests our farther speculation upon this
topic, along with the soliloquy of our companion,
whose thoughts were now turned into another channel,
as he demanded from his lieutenant an account of his
discoveries.

“And what of the Britons, Humphries? are they
yet in saddle, and when may we hope to approach the
dwelling? I have not been used to skulk like a beaten
hound around the house of my mother's brother, not

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daring to come forward, and, I am free to confess, the
necessity makes me melancholy.”

“Very apt to do so, major, but you have to bear it
a little longer. The horses of the officers have been
brought up into the court, and the boy is in waiting, but
the riders have not made their appearance. I suppose
they stop for a last swig at the squire's Madeira. He
keeps a prime stock on hand, they say, though I've
never had the good fortune to taste any of it.”

“You shall do so to-night, Humphries, and grow
wiser, unless your British Colonel's potations exceed
a southern gentleman's capacity to meet him. But
you knew my uncle long before coming down from
Santee with him.”

“To be sure I did, sir. I used to see him frequently
in the village; but since the fall of Charlestown
he has kept close to the plantation. They say he
goes nowhere now, except it be down towards Caneacre
and Horse Savannah, and along the Stonoe, where
he has acquaintance. I 'spose he has reason enough
to lie close, for he has too much wealth not to be an
object, and the tories keep a sharp look out on him.
Let him be suspected, and they'd have a pretty drive
at the old plate, and the negroes would soon be in the
Charlestown market, and then off to the West Indies.
Colonel Proctor is watchful too, and visits the squire
quite too frequently not to have some object.”

“Said you not that Kate, his daughter, Miss Walton,
was the object. Object enough, I should think,
for a hungry adventurer, sent out to make his fortune
in alliance with the very blood he seeks to shed. Kate
would be a pleasant acquisition for a younger son.”

There was something of bitterness in the tone of
the speaker on this subject, which told somewhat of
the strength of those suspicions in his mind, to which,
without intending so much, Humphries, in a previous remark,
had actually given the direction. The latter saw
this, and with a deliberate tact, not so much the work
of his education as of a natural delicacy, careful not
to startle the nice jealousies of Singleton, he hastened

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to remove the impression which unwittingly he had
made. Without laying any stress upon what he said,
and with an expression of countenance the most indifferent,
he proceeded to reply as follows to the remark
of his companion:—

“Why, major, it would be a pleasant windfall to
Proctor could he get Miss Walton; but there's a mighty
small chance of that, if folks say true. He goes there
often enough, that's certain, but he doesn't see her half
the time. She keeps her chamber or takes herself off
in the carriage when she hears of his coming; and his
chance is slim even to meet with her, let 'lone to get
her.”

There was a tremulous lightness in Singleton's tone
as he spoke to this in oblique language—

“And yet Proctor has attractions, has he not? I
have somewhere heard so—a fine person, good features,
even handsome. He is young, too.”

“Few better looking men, sir, and making due allowance
for an enemy, a clever sort of fellow enough.
A good officer, too, that knows what he's about, and
quite a polite, fair-spoken gentleman.”

“Indeed! attractions quite enough, it would seem,
to persuade any young lady into civility. And yet,
you say—”

“Hist, major! `Talk of the —' Ask pardon, sir;
but drop behind this bush. Here comes the lady herself
with your sister, I believe, though I can't say at
this distance. They've been walking through the oaks,
and, as you see, Proctor keeps the house.”

The two sank into cover as the young ladies came
through the grove, bending their way towards the very
spot where Singleton had been reclining. The place
was a favourite with all, and the ramble in this quarter
was quite a regular custom of the afternoon with the
fair heiress of Colonel Walton in particular. As she
approached, they saw the lofty carriage, the graceful
height, and the symmetrical person of our heroine—
her movement bespeaking for her that degree of consideration
which few ever looked upon her and withheld.

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Her dress was white, and simple, rather more in the
fashion of the present than of that time, when a lady's
body was hooped in like a ship's, by successive layers
of cordage and timber; and when her headgear rose
into a pyramid, tower upon tower, a massy and Babel-like
structure, well stuccoed, to keep its place, by the
pastes and pomatums of the day. With her dress,
the nicest stickler for the proper simplicities of good
taste would have found no cause of complaint. Setting
off her figure to advantage, it did not unpleasantly
confine it, and, as for her soft brown hair, it was free
to wanton in the winds, save where a strip of velvet
restrained it around her brows. Yet this simplicity
indicated no improper indifference on the part of the
lady to her personal appearance. On the contrary, it
was the art which concealed itself—the felicitous
taste, and the just estimate of a mind capable of conceiving
proper standards of fitness—that achieved so
much in the inexpressive yet attractive simplicity of
her costume. She knew that the elevated and intellectual
forehead needed no mountainous height of
hair for its proper effect. She compelled hers accordingly—
simply parting it in front—to play capriciously
behind; and, “heedful of beauty, the same
woman still,” the tresses that streamed so luxuriantly
about her neck, terminated in a hundred sylph-like
locks, exceedingly natural to behold, but which cost
her some half-hour's industrious application daily at
the toilet. Her eye was dark, richly brilliant in its
expression, though we look into its depths vainly for
that evidence of caprice and a wanton love of its exercise
which Singleton had rather insisted upon as
her characteristic. Her face was finely formed, delicately
clear and white, slightly pale, but marked still
with an appearance of perfect health, which preserved
that just medium the eye of taste loves to rest upon,
in which the rose rises not into the gaudy richness of
mere vulgar health, and is yet sufficiently present to
keep the cheek from falling into the opposite extreme,

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the autumnal sickness of aspect, which, wanting in
the other, it is so very apt to assume.

Not so the companion beside her. Pale and
shadowy, the young girl, younger than herself, who
hung upon her arm, was one of the doomed victims of
consumption—that insidious death that sleeps with us,
and smiles with us—insidiously winds about us to lay
waste, and looks most lovely when most determined
to destroy. She was small and naturally slight of
person, but the artful disease under which she suffered
had made her more so; and her wasted form, the
evident fatigue of her movement, not to speak of the
pain and difficulty of her breathing, were all so many
proofs that the tenure of her life was insecure, and her
term brief. Yet few were ever more ready for this
final trial than the young lady before us. The heart
of Emily Singleton was as pure as her eyes were
gentle. Her affections were true, and her thoughts
had been long since turned only to heaven. Her own
condition had never been concealed from her, nor was
she disposed to shrink from its consideration. Doomed
to a brief existence, she wasted not the hours in painful
repinings at a fate so stern; but still regarding it as
inevitable, she prepared as calmly as possible to encounter
it. Fortunately, she had no strong passions
aroused and concentrated, binding her to the earth.
Love—that quick, angry, and eating fever of the mind—
had never touched the heart that, gentle from the first,
had been restrained from the indulgence of such a feeling
by the due consciousness of that destiny which
could not admit of its realization. Her mood had grown
loftier, sublimer, in due proportion with the check
which this consciousness had maintained upon her
sensibilities. She had become spiritualized in mind,
even as she had grown attenuated in person; and with
no murmurings, and but few regrets, her thoughts
were now only busied with those heavenward contemplations
which take the pang from death, and disarm
parting of many of its privations. Singleton looked

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forth from his cover upon the form of his sister, while
the tears gathered in big drops into his eyes.

“So pure, so early doomed! Oh, my sweet sister!—
and when that comes, then am I indeed alone.
Poor Emily!”

Thus muttering to himself, as they came near, he
was about to emerge into sight and address them,
when, at the instant, Humphries caught his wrist, and
whispered—

“Stir not—move not. Proctor approaches, with
Colonel Walton and another. Our hope is in lying
close.”

The ladies turned to meet the new-comers. The
two British officers seemed already acquainted with
them, since they now advanced without any introduction.
Proctor, with the ease of a well-bred gentleman,
placed himself beside the fair heiress of the place, to
whom he tendered his arm; while his companion, Captain
Dickson of the guards, made a similar tender to
Emily. The latter quietly took the arm of Dickson,
releasing that of her cousin at the same moment.
But Kate seemed not disposed to avail herself of
her example. Civilly declining Proctor's offer, with
great composure she placed her arm within that of her
father, and the walk was continued. None of this had
escaped the notice of Major Singleton, whose place
of concealment was close beside the path; and, without
taking too many liberties with his confidence, we may
say that his feelings were those of pleasure as he
witnessed this proceeding of his cousin.

“I take no aid from mine enemy, Colonel Proctor—
certainly never when I can do without it. You will
excuse me, therefore; but I should regard your uniform
as having received its unnaturally deep red from
the veins of my countrymen.”

“So much a rebel as that, Miss Walton! It is
well for us that the same spirit does not prevail among
your warriors. What would have been our chances of
success had such been the case?”

“You think your conquest then complete, Colonel

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Proctor—you think that our people will always sleep
under oppression, and return you thanks for blows,
and homage for chastisement. Believe so—it is quite
as well.”

“Do the ladies of Carolina all entertain this spirit,
Miss Walton? Will none of them take the aid of
the gallant knight that claims service at their hands?
or is it, as I believe, that she stands alone in this rebel
attitude, an exception to her countrywomen?”

“Nay; I cannot now answer you this question.
We see few of my countrywomen or countrymen now,
thanks to our enemies; and I have learned to forbear
asking what they need or desire. It is enough for me
that when I desire the arm of a good knight, I can have
him at need without resorting to that of an enemy!”

“Indeed!” replied the other, with some show of
curiosity—“indeed, you are fortunate; but your reference
is now to your father?”

“My father?—Oh, no! although, as now, I not unfrequently
claim his aid in preference to that of my foe.”

“Why your foe, Miss Walton? Have we not
brought you peace? There is no strife now in Carolina.”

“Peace, indeed! the peace of fear, that is kept from
action by chains and the dread of punishment! Call
you that peace? It is a peace that is false and cannot
last. You will see.”

“Be it as you say. Still we are no enemies—we
who serve your monarch as our own, and simply enforce
those laws which we are all bound in common to
obey.”

“No monarch of mine, if you please. I care not a
straw for him, and don't understand, and never could,
the pretensions of your kings and princes, your divine
rights, and your established and immutable systems of
human government, humanity itself being mutable,
hourly undergoing change, and hourly in advance of
government.”

“Why, this is to be a rebel; but we shall not dispute,
Miss Walton. It is well for us, as I have said

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before, that such are not the sentiments of your warriors;
else, stimulated, as they must have been, by the
pleadings of lips like yours, they must have been invincible.
It will not indicate too much simplicity, if I
marvel that their utterance hitherto has availed so little
in bringing your men into the field. We have not
easily found our foes in a country in which, indeed, it
is our chief desire to find friends only.”

“It follows from this, Colonel Proctor, that there is
only so much more safety for his majesty's more loyal
subjects.”

“You are incorrigible, Miss Walton.”

“No, sir; only too indulgent—too like my countrymen—
dreading the combat which I yet see is a necessity.”

“If so, why has there been so little opposition?”

“Perhaps, sir, you will not always ask the question.”

“You still have hopes, then, of the rebel cause.”

“My country's cause, Colonel Proctor, if you please.
I still have hopes; and I trust that his majesty's arms
may not long have the regret of continuing a warfare
so little stimulating to their enterprise, and so little
calculated to yield them honour.”

The British colonel bowed at the equivocal sentiment,
and after a pause of a few moments the lady
proceeded—

“And yet, Colonel Proctor, not to speak too freely
of matters of which my sex can know so little, I must
say, knowing as I do the spirit of some among my
countrymen—I must say, it has greatly surprised me
that your conquests should have been usually so easy.”

“That need not surprise you, Miss Walton; you
remember that ours are British soldiers”—smiling,
and with a bow, was the response of the colonel.

“By which I am to understand, on the authority of
one of the parties, its own invincibility. It is with
your corps, I believe, that the sentiment runs, though
they do not—`we never retreat, we die.' Unquestionable
authority, surely; and it may be that such is the
case. Few persons think more highly of British

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vallour than the Carolinians. Father, you, I know, think
extravagantly of it; and cousin Robert, too: I have
heard you both speak in terms which fully sustain you,
Colonel Proctor, in what might be called the self-complaisance
which just now assigned the cause of your
success.”

Colouring somewhat, and with a grave tone of voice,
that was not his wont, Colonel Proctor replied—

“There is truth in what I have told you, Miss
Walton; the British soldier fights with a perfect faith
in his invincibility, and this faith enables him to realize
it. The first lesson of the good officer is to prepare
the minds of his men with this confidence, not only in
their own valour, but in their own good fortune.”

“And yet, Colonel Proctor, I am not so sure that the
brave young men I have known, such as cousin Robert—
the major, for he is a major, father—so Emily
says—I am not so sure that they will fight the less
against you on that account. Robert I know too well
to believe that he has any fears, though he thinks as
highly of British valour as anybody else.”

“Who is this Robert, Miss Walton, of whom you
appear to think so highly?”

There was something of pique in the manner and
language of Proctor as he made the inquiry, and with
a singular change in her own manner, in which she
took her loftiest attitude and looked her sternest expression,
Katharine Walton replied—

“A relative, sir, a near relative; Robert Singleton—
Major Robert Singleton, I should say—a gentleman in
the commission of Governor Rutledge.”

“Ha! a major, too, and in the rebel army!” said
the other. “Well, Miss Walton, I may have the
honour, and hope some day to have the pleasure, to
meet with your cousin.”

The manner of the speaker was respectful, but
there was a something of sarcasm—so Katharine
thought—in his tones, and her reply was immediate.

“We need say nothing of the pleasure to either
party from the meeting, Colonel Proctor; but if you do

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meet with him, knowing Robert as I do, you will most
probably, if you have time, remember this conversation.”

Proctor bit his lip. He could not misunderstand the
sinister meaning of her reply, but he said nothing;
and Colonel Walton, who had striven to check the
conversation at moments when he became conscious
of its tenor, now gladly engaged his guest on other
and more legitimate topics. He had been abstracted
during much of the time occupied by his daughter and
Proctor in their rather brusque dialogue; but even in
the more spirited portions of it, nothing was said by
the maiden that was not a familiar sentiment in the
mouths of those Carolinian ladies, who were proud to
share with their countrymen in the opprobrious epithet
of rebel, conferred on them in no stinted terms by their
invaders. Meanwhile Major Singleton, in his cover,
to whose ears portions of the dialogue had come, was
no little gladdened by what he had heard, and could not
forbear muttering to himself—“Now, bless the girl!
she is a jewel of a thousand.” But the dark was now
rapidly settling down upon the spot, and the dews, beginning
to fall, warned Kate of her duty to her invalid
cousin. Withdrawing her arm from her father, she
approached Emily, and reminded her of the propriety
of returning to the dwelling. Her feeble lips parted
in a murmured reply, all gentleness and dependence—

“Yes, Kate, you are right. I have been wishing it,
for I am rather tired. Do fix this handkerchief, cousin,
higher and close to my neck—there, that will do.”

She still retained Dickson's arm, while she passed
one of her hands through that of her cousin. In this
manner, followed by Colonels Walton and Proctor at
a little distance, the party moved away and returned to
the dwelling. Glad of his release from the close imprisonment
of his bush, the major now came forward
with Humphries, who, after a brief interval, stole along
by the inner fence, in the close shadow of the trees,
and with cautious movement reached a position which
enabled him to see when the British officers took their

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departure. His delay to return, though not long protracted,
for the guests only waited to see the ladies
safely seated and to make their adieus, was, however,
an age to his companion. Singleton was impatient to
present himself to his fair cousin, whose dialogue with
Proctor had given him all the gratification which a
lover must always feel, who hears from the lips of her
he loves, not only those sentiments which his own
sense approves, but the general language of regard for
himself, even so slight and passing as that which had
fallen from his cousin in reference to him. She had
spoken in a tone and manner which was common, indeed,
to the better informed, the more elevated and
refined of the Carolina ladies at that period; when,
as full of patriotic daring as its sons, they warmed and
stimulated their adventurous courage, and undertook
missions of peril and privation, which are now on record
in honourable evidence of their fearlessness, sensibility,
and love of country. It was not long after this,
when his trusty lieutenant returned to him, giving him
the pleasing intelligence of the departure of Proctor
and his companion. Waiting for no messenger, Singleton
at once hurried to the dwelling of his uncle, and
leaving Humphries in the hall, in the passage-way
leading to the upper apartments the first person he met
was Kate.

“Why Robert, cousin Robert, is it you!”

The heart of the youth had been so much warmed
towards her by what he had heard in the previous dialogue,
that his manner and language had in them much
more of passionate warmth than was altogether customary
even with him.

“Dear, dear Kate, how I rejoice to see you!”

“Bless me, cousin, how affectionate you have become
all at once! There's no end to you—there—have
done with your squeezing. Hold my hand quietly, as
if you had no wish to carry off the fingers, and I will
conduct you to your sister.”

“And Emily?”

He urged the question in an under-tone, and the eyes

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of his cousin were filled with tears as she replied
hastily—

“Is nigher heaven every day—but come.”

As they walked to an inner apartment, he told her
of his previous concealment, and the partial use he
had made of his ears while her chat with Proctor had
been going on.

“And you heard—what?”

“Not much, Kate; only that you have not deserted
your country yet, when so many are traitors to her.”

The light was not sufficient to enable him to see it,
but there was a rich flush upon the cheek of his companion
as he repeated some portions of the conversation
he had heard, which would have made him better
satisfied that her capriciousness was not so very permanent
in its nature. In a few moments they were in
the apartment where, extended upon a sofa, lay the
slight and shadowy person of Emily Singleton. Her
brother was beside her in an instant, and she was
wrapped in his arms.

“Emily—dear, dear sister—my only—my all!” he
exclaimed, as he pressed his lips warmly upon her
cheek.

“Dear Robert, you are come! I am glad, but release
me now—there.”

She breathed more freely,released from his embrace,
and he then gazed upon her with a painful sort of
pleasure, her look was so clear, so dazzling, so spiritual,
so unnaturally life-like.

“Sit by me,” she said. He drew a low bench, and
while he took his seat upon it, Katharine left the
room. Emily put her hand into that of her brother,
and looked into his face without speaking for several
minutes. His voice, too, was husky when he spoke,
so that, when his cousin had returned to the apartment,
though all feelings between them had been perfectly
understood, but few words had been said.

“Sit closer, brother—sit,” she said to him, fondly,
and motioned him to draw the bench beside her.
He did so, and in her feeble tones many were the

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questions which the dying girl addressed to her companion.
All the domestic associations of her home
on the Santee—the home of her childhood and its
pleasures, when she had hopes and dreams of the future,
and disease had not yet shown upon her system.
To these questions his answers were made
with difficulty; many things had occurred, since her
departure, which would have been too trying for her
to hear. She found his replies unsatisfactory, therefore,
and she pressed them almost reproachfully—

“And you have told me nothing of old mommer,[3]
Robert: is she not well? does she not miss me?
did she not wish to come? And Frill, the pointer—
the poor dog—I wonder who feeds him now. I wish
you could have brought mommer with you, Robert—I
should like to have her attend on me, she knows my
ways and wishes so much better than anybody else.
I should not want her long.” And though she concluded
her desire with a reference to her approaching
fate, the sigh which followed was inaudible to her
brother.

“But you are well attended here, Emily, my dear.
Cousin Kate—”

“Is a sister, and all that I could desire, and I am as
well attended as I could be anywhere; but it is thus that
we repine. I only wished for mommer, as we wish
for an old-time prospect which has grown so familiar
to our eyes that it seems to form a part of the sight:
so, indeed, though every thing is beautiful and

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delightful about `The Oaks,' I still long to ramble over our
old walks among the `Hills.”'

The brow of Singleton blackened as she thus passingly
alluded to the beautiful estate of his fathers, but
he said nothing, and she proceeded in her inquiries—

“And the garden, Robert—my garden, you know.
Do, when you go back, see that Luke keeps the box
trimmed, and the hedge; the morning I left it, it looked
very luxuriant. I was too hurried to give him orders,
but do you attend to it when you return. He is quite
too apt to leave it to itself.”

There was much in these simple matters to distress
her brother, of which she was fortunately ignorant.
How could he say to the dying girl, that her mommer,
severely beaten by the tories, had fled into the swamps
for shelter?—that her favourite dog, Frill, had been
shot down, as he ran, by the same brutal wretches?—
that the mansion-house of her parents, her favourite
garden, had been devastated by fire, applied by the
same cruel hands?—that Luke the gardener, and all
the slaves who remained unstolen, had fled for safety
into the thick recesses of the Santee?—how could he
tell her this? The ruin which had harrowed his own soul
almost to madness, would have been instant death to
her; and though the tears were with difficulty kept
back from his eyes, he replied calmly, and with sufficient
evasion successfully to deceive the sufferer.
At this moment Katharine re-entered the apartment,
and relieved him by her presence. He rose from the
bench, and prepared to attend upon his uncle, who as
yet remained in his chamber unapprized of his arrival.
He bent down, and his lips pressed once more upon
the brow of his sister. She put her hand into his,
and looked into his face for several minutes without
speaking; and that look—so pure, so bright, so fond—
so becoming of heaven, yet so hopeless of earth—he
could bear the gaze no longer; the emotion rose shiveringly
in his soul—the tears could be no longer kept
from gushing forth, and he hurried from her sight to
conceal them.

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“Oh, why—why,” he said, in a burst of passionate
emotion, as he hurried below—“wherefore, great
Father of Mercies, wherefore is this doom? Why
should the good and the beautiful so early perish—why
should they perish at all? Sad, sad, that the creature
so made to love and be beloved, should have lived in
affliction, and died without having the feelings once exercised,
which in it have been so sweet and innocent.
Even death is beautiful and soft, seen in her eyes, and
gathering in words that come from her lips like the
dropping of so much music from heaven. Poor Emily!”

eaf358v1.n3

[3] In all native Carolina families there are two or more favourite
domestic slaves, between whom and their owners there exists a
degree of regard which does not fall short in its character and effects
of the most endearing relationship. One of these persons is usually
the negro woman who has charge of the children from their infancy.
The word “mommer,” probably a corruption of mamma, is that by
which they commonly distinguish her; and it is not unusual to hear
the word thus employed in reference to the ancient nurse, by those
who have long since become parents themselves. The male negro
who teaches young master to ride, and whose common duty it is to
attend upon him, is, in the same spirit, styled “daddy” by his unsophisticated
pupil. Nor is this a partial fact. Perhaps it would be
perfectly safe to assert, that there are at least two or three negroes
in every Carolina family, between whom and their owners this agreeable
relationship exists.

CHAPTER XII.

“The time is come; thy chances of escape
Grow narrow, and thou hast, to save thyself,
But one resolve. Take oath with us and live.”

Colonel Walton, upon the departure of his guests,
retired to an inner apartment. His spirits, depressed
enough before, were now considerably more so. Mingled
feelings were at strife in his bosom—doubts and
fears, hopes and misgivings—a sense of degradation—
a more unpleasant consciousness of shame. The
difficulties of his situation grew and gathered before
his eyes the more he surveyed them; they called for
deliberate thought, yet they also demanded early and
seasonable determination. The time allowed him for
decision by the ruling powers was brief, and the matter
to be decided involved, in addition to the personal
risks of life and liberty, the probable forfeiture of an
immense estate, and the beggary, in consequence, of
an only and beloved daughter. To save these, in part,
from what he conceived otherwise to be inevitable
ruin, he had originally laid aside his arms. He was
now taught, in the strongest lights, the error of which
he had been guilty in yielding so readily to

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circumstances—placing himself so completely, not only in
the power of his enemy, but in the wrong; in having
foregone that fine sense of national honour, without
which the citizen merits not the name, and has no
real claim upon the protection of his country. This
sacrifice he had made without realizing, in its place,
that very security of person and property, its pledged
equivalent, which had been the price of its surrender.
Bitterly, in that moment of self-examination, did he reproach
himself with the unmanly error. Truly did
he feel, by his present situation, that he who submits
to tyranny arms it; and by not opposing it, weakens
that power,—better principled, or with better courage
than himself,—which battles with it to the last.

The exigency grew more and more involved the
more he thought upon it. He could see but one alternative
left him,—that which he had already hinted to
Colonel Proctor, of again lifting his sword; and, if compelled
to use it, of doing so for the only cause which
he could consider legitimate—that of his country. Yet,
how hopeless, how rash and ill-advised, at that moment,
seemed the adoption of such an alternative! The
people of the colony had all submitted; so it seemed,
at least, in the absence of all opposition to the advancing
armies of the British. They scoured the country
on every side. They planted posts, the better to overawe
the disaffected and confirm their conquests, in
every conspicuous or populous region; and though
tyrannizing everywhere with reckless rule and a rod
of iron, the people seemed to prefer a lot so burdensome
and wretched, rather than exchange it for a strife
having not one solitary hope to recommend it. Such
was the condition of things in Carolina at the time of
which we write, just after the parting proclamation of
Sir Henry Clinton, when, upon transferring the southern
command to Lord Cornwallis, he adopted this mode
of strengthening his successor by the employment of
the native militia. Colonel Walton was not a coward,
but he deliberated carefully upon all adventure involving
peril in its progress. The circumstances in which

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the colony stood at that period were too obvious not to
be considered; and desperate and degrading as were
the requirements of the proclamation, he saw no mode
of escape from them. What if he drew the sword?
would he not draw it alone? Where should he find
support? To what spot should he turn—where strike—
where make head against the enemy?—where, except
in the remoter colonies, where a doubtful struggle
was still maintained—doubtful in its results, and only
exposing its defenders there to the same fate he was
now about to encounter in his native soil? The prospect
grew brighter a short time after, when Sumter
came plunging down from North Carolina with the
fierce rapidity of flame; when Marion emerged from
his swamps on the Peedee and Black River, with the
subtle certainty which belongs to skill and caution
mingled with determined and fearless valour; and
when, like our hero Major Singleton, a hundred brave
young partisan leaders, starting suddenly up, with their
little squads, on every side throughout the country,
prepared to take terrible vengeance for the thousand
wantonly inflicted sufferings which their friends and
families had been made to bear at the hands of their
enemies.

Leaving his companion, Humphries, comfortably
cared for in the hall, along with Miss Barbara Walton,
the maiden sister of the colonel, Major Singleton proceeded
at once to the apartment where his uncle continued
to chafe in his many bewilderments of situation.
He found him pacing hurriedly along the room, his
strides duly increasing in length with the increasing
confusion of his thoughts. These occasionally found
their way to his lips in soliloquizing musings, and now
and then took on them a shape of passionate denunciation.
Too much absorbed for the time to notice the
approach of his nephew, he continued to mutter over
his discontents, and in this way conveyed to the major
a knowledge of his precise feelings. Familiar as he
was with his uncle's character, Major Singleton had
properly estimated the effect upon him of Clinton's

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proclamation, and he now came forward seasonably to
his assistance. The colonel turned as he drew nigh,
and for a moment the pleasurable emotion with which
he met the child of his sister, and one who had long
been a very great favourite with himself, drove away
many of the troublesome thoughts which had been
busy with his mind.

“Ah, Robert!—my dear boy! when did you arrive,
and how?”

“On horseback, sir. I reached Dorchester yesterday.”

“Indeed! so long—and only now a visiter of `The
Oaks?' You surely mean to lodge with us, Robert?”

“Thank you, uncle; but that I dare not do. I
should not feel myself altogether safe here.”

“Not safe in my house! What mean you, nephew?
Whence the danger—what have you to fear?”

“Nothing to fear, if I avoid the danger. You forget,
sir, that I have not the security of British favour—I
have not the talisman of Clinton's protection—and if
suspected to be Major Singleton, I should risk the rope
as a rebel.”

“True, true—but how left you things at Santee?
What are the prospects of a crop?”

“Such as the storm leaves us, good uncle. The
tories have been sowing fire in my fields, and left it to
ripen in lieu of corn and provender.”

“God bless me, my son!—how was that?”

“They suspected me, hearing that I was from home—
made free with my plate, burnt the mansion, barn,
and a few other of the buildings, drove the negroes
into the swamp, and sent their horses first, and then
the fire, into the cornfields. They have done some
business there after their usual fashion.”

The colonel strode over the floor, his hands upon his
brows, speechless for a time, but looking his deep
interest in the narrative he had heard, probably with
more earnestness, as he darkly saw the destiny of his
own fine dwelling and plantation in it. His nephew

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surveyed him with exemplary composure before he
continued the dialogue.

“Yes; it was fortunate that poor Emily came away
in season. A week later, and Heaven only knows
what might have been her sufferings at the hands of
the wretches.”

“And where is this to end, Robert? What is to be
done? Are we to have no relief from Congress?—
will Washington do nothing for us?”

“Can you do nothing for Washington? Methinks,
uncle, Hercules might give you some advice quite as
fitting as that he gave to the wagoner. There is no
helping one's neighbour to freedom. Men must make
themselves free—they must have the will for it. The
laws and the strong arm, unless they grow out of their
own will, never yet gave, and never will give, any
people their liberty. Have you not thought of this,
sir, before?”

“Why, what would you have us do?—what can we
do, hemmed in as we are, wanting arms and ammunition,
and with a superior force watching us?”

“Do!—ay, you may well ask what can you do.
What has anybody ever yet done, that set forth by asking
such a question? But come, we will to supper first;
there stands our summoner. We will try aunt Barbara's
coffee, of which I have an old memory, and
after that we will talk of what we can do in this matter.
Coffee is a good stimulant, that wonderfully helps
one's courage.”

Following the black, who had thrice summoned
them without receiving any attention, they descended
to the supper-table, spread out after the southern
fashion, with the hundred dainties of the region,—rice
waffles and johnny-cake, hominy, and those delicacies
of the pantry in the shape of sweetmeats and preserves,
which speak of a wholesome household economy,
the fashion of which is not yet gone from the
same neighbourhood. There, presiding in all the dignity
of starched coif, ruff, and wimple, sat stiffly the
antique person of Miss Barbara Walton, the maiden

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sister of the colonel; there, also, in his homespun coat
turned up at the sleeves, and with hands that were not
idle, our old acquaintance, Humphries, listening patiently,
all the while, to a bitter complaint of Miss
Barbara about the diminished and daily diminishing
number of her brother's best cows, the loss of which
could only be ascribed to the tories. Beside him sat
the fair Kate Walton, amused with the efforts which
Humphries made, while equally desirous to do the supper
justice, and to appear attentive to the ancient lady.
And there, reclining on a sofa at some little distance
from the table, lay the attenuated figure of Emily Singleton—
pale as a white rose, and, as if her thoughts
were fast claiming kindred with heaven, almost as silent
as one. Major Singleton had a seat assigned him fronting
his cousin; and the little chit-chat which followed
his and his uncle's entrance was duly suspended with
the progress of the repast. To travellers who had
toiled so much during the day as Singleton and his
lieutenant, the supper was an item of importance, and
we need not say that it received full justice at their
hands. It was only when roused into consciousness
by the very absence of all speech around them, that
the soldiers looked up, in a brief pause in their progress,
and found that they only had been busy. This
fact offered no stop, however, to their continued industry—
to that of Humphries, at least.

“Them are mighty nice waffles, now, major; they'd
please you, I reckon.”

Cuffee, one of the black waiters, with the proper
instinct of a good house-servant, at once placed the
dish before the speaker himself, and his plate received
a new supply. Singleton kept him company, and the
host trifled with his coffee, in order to do the same.
Tea was anti-republican then, and only the tories
drank it. Finding that a cessation had really taken
place, Miss Barbara commenced her interrogatories,
which, with sundry others put by his cousin Kate,
Major Singleton soon answered. These matters, however,
chiefly concerned old friends and acquaintances,

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little domestic anecdotes, and such other subjects as
the ladies usually delight to engage in. More serious
thoughts were in Colonel Walton's mind, and his questions
had reference to the public and to the country—
the war and its prospects.

“And now, Robert, your news, your news. You
look as if you had much more in your budget of far
more importance. Pray, out with it, and refresh us.
We are only half alive here, good nephew.”

“Do you live at all here, uncle, and how? How
much breath is permitted you by your masters for your
daily allowance? and, by-the-way, the next question
naturally is—how go on the confiscations? You still
keep `The Oaks,' I see; but how long—how long?”

The nephew had touched the key to a harsh note;
and bitter, indeed, was the tone and manner of Colonel
Walton, as he replied—

“Ay, how long—how long, indeed, am I to keep in
the home of my fathers—the old barony, one of the
very first in the colony? God only knows how soon
the court of sequestration will find it better suited to a
stranger rule; and I must prepare myself, I suppose,
for some such change. I cannot hope to escape very
long, when so many suffer confiscation around me.”

“Fear not for `The Oaks,' uncle, so long as you
keep cool, submit, swear freely, and subscribe humbly.
Send now and then a trim present of venison and turkey
to the captain's quarters, and occasionally volunteer
to hang a poor countryman, who loves war to
the knife better than degradation to the chain. There
can be no difficulty in keeping `The Oaks,' uncle, if
you only continue to keep your temper.”

“Nay, Robert, sarcasm is unnecessary now, and
with me: I need no reproaches of yours to make me
feel in this matter.”

“What, uncle, are you in that vein? Have your
eyes been opened to the light at last?”

“Somewhat, Robert—but a truce to this for the
present. Let us have your intelligence from Santee.
They talk here of some risings in that quarter, but we

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have no particulars, and know nothing of the success
of either party. There is also some story of approaching
continentals. Has Congress really given us an
army? and who is to command it? Speak, boy; out
with your budget.”

“Thank you, good mine uncle; but how know I
that I unfold my budget to a friend, and not to an enemy?
What security do you give me that I talk not
with a devout and loyal subject of his majesty—so
very much a lover of the divine right of kings, that he
would freely lend a hand to run up his own nephew
to a swinging bough, the better to compel the same
faith in others?”

“Pshaw! Robert, you speak idly: you mean not to
suppose me a tory?” The brow of Colonel Walton
darkened awfully as he spoke.

“I have little faith in neutrals,” was the calm reply;
“I hold to the goodly whig proverb, `He who is not
for me, is against me.' Pardon me, therefore, uncle,
if I prefer—I who am a whig—to speak to you, who
are neither whig nor Englishman, after such a fashion
as shall not make you the keeper of unnecessary secrets,
and expose a good cause to overthrow, and its
friends to injury.”

The taunt thus uttered with a most provoking and
biting dryness of phrase, operated strongly upon the
mind of the colonel, already acted upon, in no small
degree, by his own previous rebukings of conscience to
the same effect. He exclaimed, bitterly, as, rising from
the supper-table, he strode away under the momentary
impulse—

“Ay, by heaven! but your words are true. Who
should esteem the neutral, when his country is in danger,
and when her people are writhing under oppression?
True, though bitter—more bitter, as it is true.
Robert Singleton, thou hast given me a keen stroke,
boy, but I have deserved it. Thou hast spoken nothing
but the truth.”

“Now, indeed, uncle, I rejoice to see you, and in
this humour. You have felt the stroke at last, but it

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is not my speech that has done it, uncle of mine. It
is the proclamation of Sir Henry Clinton.”

The youth fixed his eye keenly, as he spoke, upon
the face of Colonel Walton, while his glance indicated
a sort of triumphant joy, finely contrasted with the disquietude
and vexing indignation strongly legible upon
the face of his uncle.

“You are right there, too, Robert. I confess not
to have thought so seriously upon this matter—not,
certainly, so much to the point—as after hearing the
contents of that dishonourable instrument of Sir Henry
Clinton—God curse him for it!”

“God bless him for it, I say, if for nothing else that
he has done,” immediately rejoined the nephew. “My
prayers have been heard in that; and this proclamation
of the tyrant is the very best thing that he could have
done for our cause and country, and the very thing that
I have most prayed for.”

“Indeed! Major Singleton, you surprise me. What
should there be so very grateful to you—so worthy of
your prayers and acknowledgment—in this proceeding
of Sir Henry Clinton?” inquired the other, with something
more of stiffness and hauteur in his manner.

“Much, Colonel Walton, very much. As a true
patriot, and a lover of his country at every hazard, I
prayed that the time might soon come, when the
oppressor should put his foot—ay, and the foot of his
menials, too—on the necks of those selfish or spiritless,
those too little wise, or too little honourable, who have
been so very ready to hug his knee, and yield up to a
base love for security their manly character and honest
independence. Verily, they meet with their reward.
Let them feel the scourge and the chain, until, beaten
and degraded, the stern necessity shall stimulate them
to the duties they have so neglected. I rejoice in their
desperation—I rejoice when I hear them groan beneath
the oppression—not only because they merit such reward
but because it makes them stronger in our cause.”

“How know you that?” quickly said the other.

“How know I that? Let me answer that question

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by another more direct. Will Colonel Walton be able
any longer to keep the quiet security of his plantation,
to hug his grounds, save his crops, and keep his negroes
from the West Indies, without military service—
active military service, and against his countrymen
too—against his avowed principles?”

The colonel strode the room impatiently. The
other continued—

“No, no, good uncle, you have no help. Earl
Cornwallis compels you to your duty. You must
buckle on the sword—you must take up arms for, or
against, your people, and in either case at the expense
of all that comfortable quiet for which you have already
made quite too many sacrifices. I know you too well
to suppose that you can fight against our people—your
people; and I am glad therefore that you are forced
into the field. How many thousands are in your condition!
how many that look up to you, influenced by
your example! Will these not be be moved in like
manner and by like necessities? You will see—we
shall have an army of native citizens before many
days.”

“Perhaps so, Robert, and I am not too timid to
wish that such may be its effect. But is it not a dishonourable
deception that he has practised in this
movement? Did not the protections promise us immunity
in this particular?”

“No, sir—I think not. I see nothing that Clinton
has done in this so very grievous. Your protection
secured you, as a citizen, to conform to the duties of the
citizen, and to protect you as such. One of the duties
of the citizen is the performance of militia service.”

“Granted, Robert—but commutable by fine. I am
not unwilling to pay this fine; but Clinton's proclamation
insists only on the duty.”

“And I am glad of it. Uncle, uncle, do you not
see the dishonourable character of such an argument?
Your conscience forbids that you should serve against
your country, but you avoid this actual service in your
own person, by paying the money which buys a

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mercenary to do the same duty. You will not do murder
with your own hand, but you pay another to perform
the crime. Shame! shame, I say!”

“Not so, Robert; we know not, and I believe not,
that the money is so appropriated. It becomes the
spoil of the leaders, and simply helps them to fortune.”

“Granted, and the sterner argument against you is
yet to come. You are wealthy, and avail yourself of
your good fortune to buy yourself out of a danger to
which the poor man must submit. By what right
would you escape from and evade your duties, when he,
as a citizen, having the same, must submit to their performance?
His conscience, like your own, teaches
him that to fight for his country and against her invaders
is his first duty. You evade your duty by the
help of your better fortune, and leave him, as in the
present instance, either to perish hopelessly in unequal
contest—unequal through your defection—or to take up
arms in a battle to which his principles are foreign.
Such is the effect of this most unpatriotic reservation,
which, on the score of your money, you have presumed
to make. You sacrifice your country doubly, when
you contribute to violate the conscience of its citizens.
The duties of the rich man—the leading, influential man—
are those chiefly of example. What is our safety, and
where would be the safety of any nation—its freedom
or its glory—if, when danger came, its rich citizens
made terms with the invader which sacrificed the poor?
Such is your case—such your proceeding exactly.
There is now, thank Heaven, but one alternative that
Clinton's proclamation has left you.”

“That is the sword—I know it, I feel it, Robert.”

“Touch it not, touch it not, uncle, I pray you, if
you can help it,” cried the feeble girl who lay gasping
on the sofa. Her eyes were illuminated with a holy
fire; her cheeks, pale, almost transparent, shone, white
and glittering, with a spiritual glory, from the pillow on
which her head was resting; while one of her long,
taper fingers was stretched forward with an adjuring

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earnestness. She had been a silent listener with the
rest to the warm and deeply important dialogue which
had been going on. The novelty of the difficulty, for
they had not heard of the proclamation before, had kept
them dumb until that moment, when Colonel Walton,
as one having come to a settled conclusion, had referred
to the sword as a last alternative. The gentle spirit
of Emily Singleton, quick, sensitive, though frail and
fleeting, then poured forth its feeble notes, in order to
arrest the decision.

“Oh, touch not the sword, uncle, I pray you—the
keen sword, that cuts away the happy life, and murders
the blessed, and the blessing, peace—the peace of the
innocent, the peace of the young and good. Oh,
Robert, wherefore have you come with these fierce
words? Is there to be no end to strife—the bloody and
the brutal strife—the slaying of men—the trampling
of God's creatures in the dust?”

“Why, sister—dear Emily—but how can we help
it? We must fight our enemies, or they will trample
on us the more.”

“I see not that: better let them rob and plunder;
but take not life, risk not life. Life is holy. None
should take life but him who gives it, since to take
life takes away from man, not only the privilege to
breathe, but the privilege to repent of sins, to repair
injustice, to make himself fit for immortality. When
you slay your enemy, you send him not merely from one
world—you send him into another—and which? Oh,
brother, dear brother, wherefore would you engage in
this horrid war? What blessing so great will it bring
you, as to take from you the thought of the butchery you
must go through to secure it? Oh, turn not away,
Robert, but hear me! I would not vex you, nor would
I now speak of things beyond my poor ability; but can
you not avoid this fighting, this hewing down of man,
this defacing of God's image, this defiling and death
of the goodliest work of Heaven? I know, Robert,
you have a true heart, and love not such an

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employment—say to me, and I will believe you—can you
not avoid it?”

She sank back nearly exhausted. Her breath flickered,
and the glow which now overspread her cheek,
was, if possible, more threatening in its aspect than
the death-like paleness which habitually rested there.
Her prostration called for the quick attention of her
cousin, and as Katharine Walton bent over her, and
her brother knelt beside her, a momentary fear came
upon them both, that the effort she had made had
destroyed her. But a deep sigh indicated the returning
consciousness, and the strange, spiritual light ascended
once more into and rekindled her eyes. She saw who
were immediately beside her; and there was something
of a smile of joy, as she beheld the two, so closely
associated, whom, of all the world, she desired to see
even more immediately linked together. Katharine
understood the glance, and rising from her kneeling
position, extricated her hand, which lay partly under
that of Robert, on the back of the sofa. The movement
recalled the thoughts of Emily from the new direction
which they had taken, and she now recurred
to the unfinished topic.

“I will trust your assurance, brother, as I know your
gentleness of feeling. May you not escape this bloody
employment? for my poor thought fails to perceive
the good or the glory which can come of the distresses
of humanity.”

“It would be shame, Emily, deep shame and dishonour,
to avoid it; and, indeed, it may not be avoided.
The persecutor pursues when you fly, and he tramples
even more freely when you resist not. It is in the
nature of injustice and wrong, to grow insolent with
impunity; and the dishonour must rest on him, who,
being himself strong, looks unmoved on the sufferings
of the weak, and withholds his succour. Believe me,
dear Emily, I love not this strife; but defence of our
country is war under God's own sanction, since it
seeks to maintain free from blood and from injustice
the home which he has given to the peaceful.”

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“It is painful, very painful, to think so; yet so it
must be, if you have said it. God prosper you in your
cause, Robert, and his eye be upon you!”

He could only reply by earnestly pressing his lips
upon her cold forehead, as with painful eyes he watched
her progress to her chamber, supported by the arms
of his lovely cousin.

CHAPTER XIII.

“I may not listen now. How should we hear
The song of birds, when, in the stormy sky,
Rolls the rude thunder?”

The ladies had retired, but it was not easy for
Singleton and his uncle to resume the topic which
had previously engaged them. There was a visible
damp upon their spirits—the elastic nephew, the hesitating
colonel, the rough, honest, and direct Humphries,
all felt the passionate force of Emily's exhortation,
though its argument necessarily failed upon them.
There had been quite too much that was awing in her
speech and manner—as if death were speaking through
the lips of life. Their thoughts had been elevated by
her language to a theme infinitely beyond the hourly
and the earthly. The high-souled emphasis with
which she had insisted upon the integrity of human
life, as essential to the due preparation for the future
immortality, had touched the sensibility of those
whose vocation was at hostility with the doctrine
which she taught; and though, from the very nature
of things, they could not obey her exhortations, they
yet could not fail to meditate upon, and to feel them.
Thus impressed, silent and unobserving, it was a relief
to all, when Major Singleton reminded Humphries of
the promise which he had presumed to make him,
touching the old Madeira in his uncle's garret. He
briefly told the latter of the circumstance alluded to,

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and the prompt orders of Colonel Walton soon brought
the excellence of his wines to the impartial test to
which Humphries proposed to subject them. The
lieutenant smacked his lips satisfactorily. It was not
often that his fortune had indulged him with such a
beverage. Corn whiskey, at best, had been his liquor
in the swamps; and, even in his father's tavern, the
tastes were not sufficiently high, of those who patronised
that establishment, to call for other than the
cheapest qualities. A brief dialogue about the favourite
wines—a sly reference on the part of Singleton, to the
drinking capacities of his British guests, and a hypocritical
sort of condolence upon the privations to
which his uncle must be subjected, in consequence of
the proclamation, soon brought the latter back to the
legitimate topic.

“But what news, Robert, do you bring us? What
of the continentals—is it true that we are to have an
army from Virginia, or is it mere rumour?—a thing to
give us hope, only the more completely to depress and
mortify? Speak out, man, and none of your inuendoes—
you know, well enough, that I am with you, body
and soul.”

“I believe you will be, uncle, but you certainly are
not yet. With the hope, however, to make you so
more completely, I will give you news that shall cheer
you up, if you have the heart to hope for a favourable
change of things. It is no mere rumour, sir, touching
the northern army. Congress has remembered us at
last, and the continentals are actually under way, and
by this time must be on the borders of North Carolina.”

“Indeed! that is well,” cried the colonel, chuckling,
and rubbing his hands—“this is good news, indeed,
my nephew, and may help us somewhat out of our
difficulties.”

“Not so, Colonel Walton, if it please you. It
will help you out of no difficulties, if you are not
willing to lend a hand for that purpose. Congress

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cannot afford an army—it can only give us the nucleus
for one; some fifteen hundred men at the utmost, and
but half of these continentals. We have the Delaware
and Maryland lines—brave troops, indeed—among the
very bravest that Washington commands—but few,
too few for our purposes, unless we ourselves turn
out.”

“Who commands them, Robert?”

“De Kalb on the march; but, if we need men, and
if our arms are few, the name of our commander is a
host for us. The conqueror of Burgoyne at Saratoga
has been ordered from Virginia to lead them.”

“What, Gates! that is brave news, truly—brave
news—and we shall do well to wish them success in
another glass of Madeira. Come, Mr. Humphries—
come, sir—you see Proctor has left us some of the
genuine stuff yet—enough for friends, at least.”

“Ay, sir,” said Humphries, drinking, “and this
news of the continentals promises that we have enough
also for our enemies.”

“Bravo! I hope so; I think so. Nephew, drink,
drink—and say, what has been the effect of this intelligence
upon the people? How has it wrought upon
the Santee?”

“Everywhere well, uncle, and as it should, unless
it be immediately in your neighbourhood, where you
breathe by sufferance only. Everywhere well, sir.
The people are roused, inspirited, full of hope and
animation. The country is alive with a new sentiment.
Nor is its influence confined only to the hopes of
friends; it has had its effect upon the fears of enemies.
Rawdon already feels it, and has drawn in all his outposts.
He keeps now those of Ninety Six, Camden,
and Augusta only. He is concentrating his force
against the coming of Gates, whose first blow must be
against his lordship. This concentration has given
opportunity to our people, and opportunity gives them
courage. The Santee and the Peedee countries are
full of whigs, only wanting imbodiment to prove

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effective. Colonel Sumter has returned from North
Carolina, with a growing troop which threatens Ninety
Six itself.”

“And Marion?”

“Ay, Marion—from him I bring you better news
yet, when I tell you that I left him on Britton's Neck,
where we stood upon the bodies of half of Gainey's
tories, whom we had just defeated with bloody slaughter.
Gainey himself wounded, and his troop for the
time dispersed.”

“Better and better, Robert; and I rejoice me that
you had a hand in the business. But what, in all this
time, of that sanguinary rider, Tarleton? What keeps
him quiet—what is he doing? Surely, with a taste like
his, the very knowledge of these risings should be
grateful.”

“Doubtless they will be, when he gets wind of
them; but he is now with the cavalry of the legion,
somewhere in the neighbourhood of Rocky Mount,
where Sumter is said to be looking after him. Thus,
you see, we are all engaged or preparing—all but you,
of the parishes. You either hug the knees of your
invaders, or sleep on, to avoid the sense of shame:
all but your Washington, who, I am told, still contrives
to keep his horse together, though sadly cut up
while under White and Baylor.”

“True, true,—our people here are but too much
disposed to submission. They have given up in
despair long since.”

“I reckon that's a small mistake, colonel—I beg
pardon, sir, but I rather think it's not exactly as you
say. I don't think our people any more willing to
submit, than the people on Black River and Pedee,
but it's all because we han't got leaders; that's the
reason, colonel. I know of my own knowledge there's
any number will turn out, if you'll only crook a finger,
and show 'em the track, but it's not reasonable to
expect poor men, who have never ruled before, to take
the lead of great people in time of danger.”

Humphries spoke up, and spoke justly for the

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honour of his neighbours. Singleton continued, when
his lieutenant concluded—

“He speaks truly, Colonel Walton, as I can testify.
What if I tell you that your people—here, under your
own eye—are not only ready to take up arms, but that
many of them are in arms—more, sir—that they have
already done service in your own neighbourhood, and
are ready to do more—that a promising squad, under
my command, now lies on the Stonoe-savannah and
that, in a few days, I hope to join Colonel Marion with
a troop of fifty men gathered from among your own
parishioners! These are the people who are so willing
to submit, according to your account; pray you,
uncle, never write their history.”

“Robert, you surprise me.”

“Pleasantly, I hope, mine uncle—it is the truth.
The whole was planned by Colonel Marion, from
whom I have this duty in charge. Disguised, he has
been through your parish. Disguised, he sat at your
board, in the character of a tory commissary, and
your scornful treatment persuaded him to hope that
you might be brought into action. Are you staggered
now?”

The colonel was dumb when he heard this narrative;
and Major Singleton then proceeded to give a brief
account of the little events of recent occurrence in
the neighbourhood, as we have already narrated them,
subsequently to his assumption of command in the
Cypress Swamp. The story, though it gave him
pleasure, was a sad rebuke to Colonel Walton's patriotism.
He scarcely heard him to the end.

“Now, Heaven help me, Robert, but I take shame to
myself, that you, almost a stranger upon the Ashley,
should have thus taken the lead out of my own hand,
as I may say, and among my own people.”

“It is not too late, uncle, to amend the error. You
may yet help greatly to finish what has been tolerably
well begun.”

“No—it is not too late. I can do much with Dorchester
and Goose Creek. I have influence throughout

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St. Paul's, and great part of St George's. Cane
Acre will come out, to a man.”

Rapidly moving to and fro along the apartment,
Colonel Walton enumerated to himself, in under tones,
the various sections of country in his knowledge
which he thought might be moved at his instigation.
His nephew did not suffer the mood of his uncle to
relax.

“Now is the time, uncle—now is the time, if ever.
Your name will do every thing in this quarter; and
you may conjecture for yourself, what the shame must
be, if others achieve the work which you touched not.
You have now a glorious opportunity at this season.
Tarleton, whom they so much dread, being absent,
Wemyss in another direction, and your garrison so
weak at Dorchester that they cannot easily spare a
detachment. Besides, the approach of Gates promises
sufficient employ to all the force which Rawdon and
Cornwallis can bring up.”

“The thing looks well,” said Walton, musingly.

“Never better, if the heart be firm. Now is the
time if ever—beat up recruits—sound, stimulate your
neighbours, and dash up with as smart a force as you
can possibly muster to join with the army from Virginia.
They will receive you joyfully, and your corps must
increase with every mile in your progress.”

“Would I were on the way; but the beginning is
yet to be made, and on what plea shall I seek to persuade
others, without authority, and known as one
having taken a protection?”

“That latter difficulty is cured by the assumption of
a new character. Destroy the one accursed instrument,
and, in its place, I am proud to hand you a badge of
honour and of confidence. Look on this paper and
peruse this letter. The one is from his excellency,
Governor Rutledge—the other from Colonel Marion.
Read—read!”

Walton unfolded the envelope, and the commission
of Governor Rutledge as colonel of state militia met
his eye: the letter from Colonel Marion was an

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invitation to the service—a brief, manly, modest letter;
such as could only come from Marion—so calm, so
unassuming, yet so conclusive in its exhortations.

“You see, uncle,” said the major, when he saw
that the other had concluded the perusal of the documents—
“you see, I come not unprovided. Both
Rutledge and Marion hold your name of sufficient importance
to our cause to desire its influence; and they
would have you, on any terms, emancipate yourself
from the villanous bondage—for it is no less—into
which you have fallen. Here, now, you have an opportunity,
by an honourable, and, let me add, an atoning
transaction, of returning to the service of your country.
Do not let it pass you. Let me not think, my dear
uncle, that my word, pledged for you to Marion, when
I undertook and craved this commission, was pledged
in vain, and is now forfeited.”

This warm appeal of Singleton, in the utterance
of which he had discarded all that asperity which
had kept pace with much of his share in the previous
dialogue, was soothing to his uncle's spirit. He was
moved; and slowly again, though unconsciously, he
read over the letter of Marion. So high a compliment
from the gallant partisan was flattering in the extreme;
and the trust of Governor Rutledge, under his late
smitings of conscience, was healing and grateful.
For a few moments he spoke not; but at length approaching
his nephew, he seized his hand, and at
once avowed the pleasure it gave him, to avail himself
of the privileges which the commission conferred upon
him.

“I will be no longer wanting to my country, Robert.
I will do my duty. This paper gives me power to
enrol men, to form troops, and to act against the
enemy, and find my sanction in the commission of the
executive. I will do so. I will pause no longer, and,
spite of the sacrifice, will act as it requires.”

The countenance of Major Singleton, and that of
Humphries, no less, glowed with an honest pleasure,
as the former replied—

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“Spoken as it should be, Colonel Walton—spoken
as it should be. The decision comes late, but not too
late. It is redeeming, and God grant that it be as
prosperous to all as it is surely proper and praiseworthy.”

“So I believe it, or I would not now adopt it: but,
Robert, know you not that such a decision makes me
a beggar? Sequestration—”

“Now, out upon it, uncle! why will you still ballast
your good works with a weight which shall for ever
keep them from heaven's sight? You are no niggard—
you live profusely—care not for money: wherefore
this reference to wealth in comparison with honour and
honourable duty?”

“The wealth is nothing, Robert; but I have a
strange love for these old groves—this family mansion,
descended to me like a sacred trust through so many
hands and ancestors. I would not that they should be
lost.”

The youth looked sternly at the speaker for a
few moments in silence, but the fierce emotion at
length found its way to his lips in tones of like indignation
with that which sparkled from his eyes.

“Now, by heaven, uncle, had I known of this—had
I dreamed that thou hadst weighed, for an instant, the
fine sense of honour in the scales against thy love of this
thy dwelling-place—my own hand should have applied
the torch to its shingles. Dearly as I have loved this
old mansion, I myself would have freely kindled the
flame which should have burned it to the ground. I
would have watched the fire as it swept through these
old trees, scathing and scattering the branches under
which I had a thousand times played—I would have
beheld their ruin with a pleasurable emotion; and as
they fell successively to the earth which they once sheltered,
I would have shouted in triumph, that I saved you
from the dishonourable bargain which you have made
for their protection so long.”

“But Kate—Kate, Robert; my sweet child—my
only child!”

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It was all the father said, but it was enough, if not
to convince, at least to silence, the indignant speaker.
Her good was, indeed, a consideration; and when
Singleton reflected upon the tender care which had
kept her from privation and sorrow all her life hitherto,
he could not help feeling how natural was such a consideration
to the mind of such a father.

But the emotion had subsided—the more visible
portions of it, at least; and Colonel Walton, his
nephew and Humphries, engaged in various conversation,
chiefly devoted to the labours that lay before
them. Having gained his object, however, Major
Singleton was in no mood to remain much longer.
His duties were various; his little squad required his
attention, as he well knew how little subordination
could be had from raw militiamen, unless in the continued
and controlling presence of their commander.
The hour was growing late, and some portion of his
time was due to his sister and the ladies, who awaited
his coming in the snug back or family parlour, into
which none but the select few ever found admission.

Leaving Humphries in the charge of Colonel Walton,
our hero approached the quiet sanctuary with peculiar
emotions. There was a soft melancholy pervading
the little circle. The moral influence of such a condition
as that of Emily Singleton was touchingly felt
by all around her. The high-spirited, the proud
Katharine Walton grew meek and humble, when she
gazed upon the sufferer, dying by a protracted and a
painful death, in the midst of youth, rich in beauty,
and with a superiority of mind which might well
awaken admiration in the other, and envy in her own
sex. Yet she was dying with the mind alive, but unexercised;
a heart warm with a true affection, yet
utterly unappropriated; sensibilities touching and
charming, which had only lived, that memory might
mourn the more over those sweets of character so well
known to enjoyment, yet so little enjoying. It was a
thought to make the proud heart humble; and Kate
looked upon her cousin with tearful eyes. She sat

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at her feet, saying no word, while the brother of the
dying girl, taking a place beside her, lifted her head
upon his bosom, where she seemed pleased that it
should lie, while he pressed his lips fondly and frequently
to her forehead. In murmured tones, unheard
by the rest, she carried on with him a little dialogue,
half playful, half tender, in which she pressed him on
the subject of his love for her cousin. The mention
of Kate's name, a little louder than she usually spoke,
called for the latter's attention, who looked up, and a
suffusion of her cheek seemed to show a something of
consciousness in her mind of what had been the subject
between them. The eye of Emily caught the
glance, and a smile of archness played over her lips
for an instant, but soon made way for that earnest
and settled melancholy of look which was now its
habitual expression. They continued to converse
together, the others only now and then mingling in the
dialogue, on those various little matters belonging to
her old home and its associates, which a young and
gentle nature like hers would be apt to remember.
Sometimes, so feeble was her utterance that Robert
was compelled to place his ear to her lips the better to
take in what she said. It was at one of these moments
that a severe clap of thunder recalled the major to a
sense of his duties. The sudden concussion startled
the nervous maiden, and Kate came to her assistance,
so that his hand was brought once more in contact with
that of the woman he loved, in the performance of an
office almost too sacredly stern to permit of the show of
that other emotion which he yet felt—how strangely!—
in his bosom. The blood tingled and glowed in his
veins, and she, too—she withdrew her fingers the
moment her service could well be dispensed with.
Another roll of the thunder, and a message from
Humphries warned him of the necessity of tearing
himself from a scene only too painfully fascinating.
He took an affectionate leave of his aunt, and pressing
the lips of his sister fondly, her last words to him
were comprised in a whisper—

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“Spare life—save life, Robert: God bless you! and
come back to me soon.”

Kate encountered him in the passage-way. Her
look was something troubled, and her visible emotion
might have been grateful to the vanity of our hero,
did he not see how unusually covered with gloom were
the features of her face.

“Dear Kate—sweet cousin—I must leave you
now.”

“I know it, Robert—I know more: you have persuaded
my father to break his protection.”

“I have done my best towards it, Kate; but if he
has resolved, the impulse was as much his own as
from me. He could not well have avoided it in the
end, situated as he was.”

“Perhaps not, Robert; still, your persuasions have
been the most immediately urgent; and though I dread
the result, I cannot well blame you for what you have
done. I now wish to know from you, what are the
chances in favour of his successful action. I would
at least console myself by their recapitulation when
he is absent, and perhaps in danger.”

Major Singleton gave a promising account of the
prospects before them; such, indeed, as they appeared
at that time to the sanguine Americans, and needing but
little exaggeration. She seemed satisfied, and he then
proceeded to entreat her upon a subject purely selfish.

“Speak not now—not now on such a matter. Have
we not enough, Robert, to trouble us? Danger and
death, grief and many apprehensions hang over us,
and will not suffer such idle thoughts,” was the reply.

“These are no idle thoughts, Kate, since they
belong so closely to our happiness. Say to me, then,
only say that you love me.”

“I love you, indeed—to be sure I do, as a cousin
and as a friend; but really you ask too much when
you crave for more. I have no time, no feeling, for
love in these moments.”

“Nay, be serious, Kate, and say. We know not

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how soon our situation may change. I am hourly
exposed in a hazardous service—I may perish; and I
would, before such an event, be secure in the hope
that I may look to you for that love which would make
me happy when living, or—”

She stopped him with a cool, sarcastic speech, concluding
the sentence for him in a manner most annoying—

“Drop a tear for me when I am dead.”

She saw that he looked displeased, and immediately
after, with an art peculiarly her own, she diverted his
anger.

“Nay, dear cousin, forgive me; but you looked the
conclusion, and so pathetically, I thought it not improbable
that its utterance would find you speechless.
Be not so tragic, I pray you; I am serious enough as it
is—soberly serious, not tragically so. Be reasonable
for a while, and reflect that these very vicissitudes of
your present mode of life, should discourage you from
pressing this matter. I do not know whether I love
you or not, except as a relation. It requires time to
make up one's mind on the subject, and trust me I shall
think of it in season. But, just now, I cannot—and
hear me, Robert, firmly and honestly I tell you, while
these difficulties last, while my father's life is in danger,
and while your sister lies in my arms helpless
and dying, I not only cannot, but will not, answer
you. Forbear the subject, then, I pray you, for a better
season; and remember, when I speak to you thus, I
speak to you as a woman, with some pretensions to
good sense, who will try to think upon her affections
as calmly as upon the most simple and domestic
necessity of her life. Be satisfied then that you will
have justice.”

Another summons from Humphries below, and a
sudden rush of wind along the casement, warned him
of the necessity of concluding the interview. He had
barely time to press her hand to his lips when she
hurried him down to her father. A few brief words at

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parting, a solemn renewal of their pledges, and, in
a few moments, the two partisans were on horse,
speeding down the long avenue on the way to their
encampment.

CHAPTER XIV.

“'Tis a wild night, yet there are those abroad,
The storm offends not. 'Tis but oppression hides,
While fear, the scourge of conscience, lifts a whip,
Beyond his best capacity to fly.”

The evening, which had been beautiful before, had
undergone a change. The moon was obscured, and
gigantic shadows, dense and winged, hurried with deeptoned
cries along the heavens, as if in angry pursuit.
Occasionally, in sudden gusts, the winds moaned
heavily among the pines; a cooling freshness impregnated
the atmosphere, and repeated flashes of sharpest
lightning imparted to the prospect a splendour which
illuminated, while increasing the perils of that path
which our adventurers were now pursuing. Large
drops, at moments, fell from the driving clouds, and
every thing promised the coming on of one of those
sudden and severe thunder-storms, so common to the
early summer of the South.

Singleton looked up anxiously at the wild confusion
of sky and forest around him. The woods seemed to
apprehend the danger, and the melancholy sighing of
their branches appeared to indicate an instinct consciousness,
which had its moral likeness to the feeling
in the bosom of the observer. How many of these
mighty pines were to be prostrated under that approaching
tempest! how many beautiful vines, which had
clung to them like affections that only desire an
object to fasten upon, would share in their ruin! How
could Singleton overlook the analogy between the

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fortune of his family and friends, and that which his
imagination depicted as the probable fortune of the
forest?

“We shall have it before long, Humphries, for you
see the black horns yonder in the break before us. I
begin to feel the warm breath of the hurricane already,
and we must look out for some smaller woods. I like
not these high pines in a storm like this, so use
your memory, man, and lead on to some less likely to
attract the lightning. Ha!—we must speed—we have
lingered too long. Why did you not hurry me? you
should have known how difficult it was for me to hurry
myself in such a situation.”

This was spoken by Singleton at moments when the
gusts permitted him to be heard, and when the irregular
route suffered his companion to keep beside him.
The lieutenant answered promptly—

“That was the very reason why I did not wish to
hurry you, major. I knew you hadn't seen your
folks for a mighty long spell, and so I couldn't find it
in my heart to break in upon you, though I felt dubious
that the storm would be soon upon us.”

“A bad reason for a soldier. Friends and family are
scarcely desirable at such a time as this, since we can
seldom see them, or only see their suffering. Ha!—
that was sharp!”

“Yes, sir, but at some distance. We are among
the stunted oaks now, which are rather squat, and not
so likely to give as the pines. There aint so much of
'em, you see. Keep a look out, sir, or the branches
will pull you from your horse. The road here is
pretty much overgrown, and the vines crowd thick
upon it.”

“A word in season,” exclaimed Singleton, as he
drew back before an overhanging branch which had
been bent by the wind, and was thrust entirely across
his path. A few moments were spent in rounding the
obstruction, and the storm grew heavier; the winds no
longer laboured among the trees, but rushed along with
a force which flattened their elastic tops, so that it

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either swept clear through them, or laid them prostrate
for ever. A stronger hold, a positive straining in their
effort, became necessary now, with both riders, in order
to secure themselves firmly in their saddles; while
their horses, with uplifted ears, and an occasional snort,
in this manner, not less than by a shiver of their whole
frames, betrayed their own apprehensions, and, as it
were, appealed to their masters for protection.

“The dumb beast knows where to look, after all,
major: he knows that man is most able, you see, to
take care of him, though man wants his keeper too.
But the beast don't know that. He's like the good
soldier that minds his own captain, and looks to him
only, though the captain himself has a general from
whom he gets his orders. Now, say what you will,
major, there's reason in the horse—the good horse, I
mean, for some horses that I've straddled in my time
have shown themselves mighty foolish and unreasonable.”

Humphries stroked the neck of his steed fondly,
and coaxed him by an affectionate word, as he uttered
himself thus generally, though perhaps with little philosophy.
He seemed desirous of assuring the steed
that he held him of the better class, and favoured him
accordingly. Singleton assented to the notion of his
companion, who did not, however, see the smile which
accompanied his answer.

“Yes, yes, Humphries, the horse knows his master,
and is the least able or willing of all animals to do
without him. I would we had ours in safety now: I
would these five miles were well over.”

“It's a tough ride; but that's so much the better,
major—the less apt we are to be troubled with the
tories.”

“I should rather plunge through a crowd of them,
now, in a charge against superior cavalry, than take it
in such a night as this, when the wind lifts you, at
every bound, half out of your saddle, and, but for the
lightning, which comes quite too nigh to be at all times
pleasant, your face would make momentary

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acquaintance with boughs and branches, vines and thorns,
that give no notice and leave their mark at every brush.
A charge were far less difficult.”

“Almost as safe, sir, that's certain, and not more
unpleasant. But let us hold up, Major, for a while,
and push for the thicket. We shall now have the
worst of the hurricane. See the edge of it yonder—
how black! and now—only hear the roaring!”

“Yes, it comes. I feel it on my cheek. It sends
a breath like fire before it, sultry and thick, as if it
had been sweeping all day over beds of the hottest
sand. Lead the way, Humphries.”

“Here, sir,—follow close and quick. There's a
clump of forest, with nothing but small trees, lying to
the left—now, sir, that flash will show it to you—
there we can be snug till the storm passes over. It
has a long body and it shakes it mightily, but it goes
too fast to stay long in its journey, and a few minutes,
sir—a few minutes is all we want. Mind the vine there,
sir; and there, to your left, is a gully, where an old
tree's roots have come up. Now, major, the sooner
we dismount and squat with our horses the better.”

They had now reached the spot to which Humphries
had pointed—a thick undergrowth of small timber—
of pine, the stunted oak, black-jack, and hickory—
few of sufficient size to feel the force of the tempest,
or prove very conspicuous conductors of the
lightning. Obeying the suggestion and following the
example of his companion, Singleton dismounted, and
the two placed themselves and their horses as much
upon the sheltered side of the clump as possible, yet
sufficiently far to escape any danger from its overthrow.
Here they awaited the coming of the tempest.
The experienced woodman alone could have spoken
for its approach. A moment's pause had intervened,
when the suddenly aroused elements seemed as suddenly
to have sunk into grim repose. A slight sighing
of the wind only, as it wound sluggishly along the distant
wood, had its warning, and the dense blackness
of the imbodied storm was only evident at moments

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when the occasional rush of the lightning made visible
its gloomy terrors.

“It's making ready for a charge, major: it's just
like a good captain, sir, that calls in his scouts
and sentries, and orders all things to keep quiet, and
without beat of drum gets all fixed to spring out from
the bush upon them that's coming. It won't be long
now, sir, before we get it; but just now it's still as
the grave. It's waiting for its outriders—them long
streaky white clouds it sent out an hour ago, like so
many scouts. They're a-coming up now, and when
they all get up together—then look out for the squall.
Quiet, now, Mossfoot—quiet now, creature—don't be
frightened—it's not a-going to hurt you, nag—not a bit.”

Humphries patted his favourite while speaking, and
strove to sooth and quiet the impatience which both
horses exhibited. This was in that strange pause of
the storm which is its most remarkable feature in the
South—that singular interregnum of the winds, when,
after giving repeated notice of their most terrific action,
they seem almost to forget their purpose, and
for a few moments appear to slumber in their inactivity.
But the pause was only momentary, and was now
at an end. In another instant, they heard the rush and
the roar, as of a thousand wild steeds of the desert
ploughing the sands; then followed the mournful howling
of the trees—the shrieking of the lashed winds,
as if, under the influence of some fierce demon who
enjoyed his triumph, they plunged through the forest,
wailing at their own destructive progress, yet compelled
unswervingly to hurry forward. They twisted
the pine from its place, snapping it as a reed, while
its heavy fall to the ground which it had so long sheltered,
called up, even amid the roar of the tempest,
a thousand echoes from the forest. The branches of
the wood were prostrated like so much heather, wrested
and swept from the tree which yielded them without
a struggle to the blast; and the crouching horses
and riders below were in an instant covered with a
cloud of fragments. These were the precursors

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merely: then came the arrowy flight and form of the
hurricane itself—its actual bulk—its imbodied power,
pressing along through the forest in a gyratory progress,
not fifty yards wide, never distending in width, yet
capriciously winding from right to left and left to right,
in a zigzag direction, as if a playful spirit thus strove
to mix with all the terrors of destruction the sportive
mood of the most idle fancy. In this progress, the whole
wood in its path underwent prostration—the thick,
proud pine, the deep-rooted and unbending oak, the
small cedar and the pliant shrub, torn, dismembered
of their fine proportions; some, only by a timely yielding
to the pressure, passed over with little injury, as if too
much scorned by the assailant for assault. The
larger trees in the neighbourhood of the spot where our
partisans had taken shelter, shared the harsher fortune
generally, for they were in the very track of the tempest.
Too sturdy and massive to yield, they withheld their
homage, and were either snapped off relentlessly and
short, or were torn and twisted up from their very
roots. The poor horses, with eyes staring in the direction
of the storm, with ears erect, and manes flying in
the wind, stood trembling in every joint, too much terrified,
or too conscious of their helplessness, to attempt
to fly. All around the crouching party, the woods
seemed for several seconds absolutely flattened. Huge
trees were prostrated, and their branches were clustering
thickly, and almost forming a prison around them;
leaving it doubtful, as the huge body rolled over their
heads, whether they could ever make their escape
from the enclosure. Rush after rush of the trooping
winds went over them, keeping them immoveable in
their crowded shelter and position—each succeeding
troop wilder and weightier than the last, until at length
a sullen, bellowing murmur, which before they had not
heard, announced the greater weight of the hurricane
to be overthrowing the forests in the distance. The
chief danger had overblown. Gradually the warm,
oppressive breath passed off; the air again grew suddenly
cool, and a gush of heavy drops came falling

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from the heavens, as if they too had been just released
from the intolerable pressure which had burdened
earth. Moaning pitifully, the prostrated trees
and shrubs, those which had survived the storm, though
shorn by its embraces, gradually, and seemingly with
painful effort, once more elevated themselves to their
old position. Their sighings, as they did so, were
almost human to the ears of our crouching warriors,
whom their movement in part released. Far and near,
the moaning of the forest around them was strangely,
but not unpleasantly, heightened in its effect upon their
senses, by the distant and decaying roar of the past
and far travelling hurricane, as, ploughing the deep
woods and laying waste all in its progress, it rushed
on to a meeting with the kindred storms that gather
about the gloomy god of Cape Hatteras, and stir and
foam along his waters of the Atlantic.

“Well, I'm glad it's no worse, major,” cried Humphries,
rising and shaking himself from the brush with
which he was covered.

“The danger is now over, though it was mighty
close to our haunches. Look, now, at this pine, split
all to shivers, and the top not five feet from Mossfoot's
quarters. The poor beast would ha' been in a sad
fix a little to the left there.”

Extricating themselves, they helped their steeds
out of the brush, though with some difficulty—soothing
them all the while with words of encouragement. As
Humphries had already remarked in his rude fashion,
the horse, at such moments, feels and acknowledges
his dependence upon man, looks to him for the bridle,
and flies to him for protection. They were almost
passive in the hands of their masters, and under the
unsubsided fear would have followed them, like tame
dogs, in any direction.

The storm, though diminished of its terrors, still
continued; but this did not discourage the troopers.
They were soon mounted, and once more upon their
way. The darkness, in part, had been dissipated by
the hurricane. It had swept on to other regions,

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leaving behind it only detached masses of wind and
rain-clouds sluggishly hanging, or fitfully flying along
the sky. These, though still sufficient to defeat the
light of the moon, could not altogether prevent a straggling
ray which peeped out timidly at pauses in the
storm; and which, though it could not illumine, still
contrived to diminish somewhat the gloomy and forbidding
character of the scene. Such gleams in the natural,
are like the assurances of hope in the moral world—
they speak of to-morrow—they promise us that the
clouds must pass away—they cheer, when there is
little left to charm.

The path over which the partisans journeyed had
been little used, and was greatly overgrown. They
could move but slowly, therefore, in the imperfect
light; and, but for the frequent flashes of lightning, it
might have been doubtful, though Humphries knew
the country, whether they could have found their way.
But the same agent which gave them light, had nearly
destroyed them. While Humphries, descending from
his steed, which he led by the bridle, was looking
about for a by-path that he expected to find in the
neighbourhood, a sudden stroke of the lightning, and
the overwhelming blaze which seemed to kindle all
around them, and remained for several seconds stationary,
drove back the now doubly terrified steeds,
and almost blinded their riders. That of Singleton
sunk upon his haunches, while Mossfoot, in her terror,
dragged Humphries, who still grasped firmly his bridle,
to some little distance in the woods. Sudden
blackness succeeded, save in one spot, where a tree
had been smitten by the fluid, and was now blazing
along the oozy gum at its sides. The line of fire was
drawn along the tree, up and down—a bright flame, that
showed them more of the track they were pursuing
than they had seen before. In the first moment
following the cessation of the fiercer blaze made by the
lightning, and when the tree first began to extend a certain
light, Singleton thought he saw through the copse
the outline of a human form, on foot, moving quickly

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along the road above him. He called quickly to
Humphries, but the lieutenant was busy with his steed,
and did not seem to hear. Again was the object visible,
and Singleton then cried out—

“Who goes there?—ho!”

No answer; and the fugitive only seemed to increase
his speed, turning aside to the denser woods, as if
he strove to elude observation. The challenge was
repeated.

“What, ho! there—who goes? Speak, or I shoot.”

He detached one of his pistols from the holster as he
spoke, and cocked it to be in readiness. Still no answer,
the person addressed moving more quickly than ever.
With the sight, with an instinct like lightning, the partisan
put spurs to his steed, and drove fearlessly through
the bush in pursuit. The fugitive now took fairly to
his heels, leaping over a fallen tree, fully in sight of his
pursuer. In a moment after, the steed went after
him—Humphries, by this time in saddle, closely following
on the heels of his commander. For a moment
the object was lost to sight, but in the next he
appeared again.

“Stand!” was the cry, and with it the shot. The
ball rushed into the bush, which seemed to shelter
the flying man, and where they had last seen him—they
bounded to the spot, but nothing was to be seen.

“He was here—you saw him, Humphries, did you
not?”

“A bit of him, major—a small chance of him behind
the bush, but too little a mark for them pistols.”

“He is there—there!” and catching another glimpse
of the fugitive, Singleton led the pursuit, again firing
as he flew, and, without pausing to wait the result,
leaping down to the spot where he appeared to them.
The pursuit was equally fruitless with the aim. The
place was bare. They had plunged into a hollow, and
found themselves in a sort of ditch, almost knee deep
in water. They looked about vainly, Humphries leading
the search with unusual earnestness.

“I like not, major, that the fellow should escape.

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Why should he stand a shot, rather than refuse to halt,
and answer to a civil question? I'm dubious, major,
there's something wrong in it; and he came from the
direction leading to our camp.”

“Ha! are you sure of that, Humphries?—think you
so?”

“Ay, sir—the pine that was struck marks the by-path
through which I should have carried you in
daylight. It is the shortest, though the worst; and he
could not have been far from it when you started him.
Ah! I have it now. A mile from this is the house of
old Mother Blonay, the dam of that fellow Goggle.
We will ride there, major, if you say so.”

“With what object, Humphries? what has she to
do with it?”

“I suspect the fugitive to be Goggle, the chap I
warned you not to take into the troop. Better we had
hung him up, for he's not one to depend upon. All
his blood's bad: his father—him they call so, at least—
was a horse-thief; and some say, that he has a cross
in his blood. As for that, it's clear to me, that Goggle
is a half-breed Indian, or mestizo, or something. Anybody
that looks on Goggle will say so; and then the
nature of the beast is so like an Indian—why, sir,
he's got no more feeling than a pine stump.”

“And with what motive would you ride to his
mother's?”

“Why, sir, if this skulking chap be Goggle, he's
either been there, or is on his way there; and if so,
be sure he's after mischief. Proctor or Huck at the
garrison will soon have him among them, and he'll get
his pay in English guineas for desertion. Now, sir,
it's easy to see if he's been there, for I s'pose the old
hag don't mind to tell us.”

“Lead on! A mile, you say?”

“A short mile; and if he's not been there yet, he
must be about somewhere, and we may get something
out of the old woman, who passes for a witch about
here, and tells fortunes, and can show you where to
find stolen cattle; and they do say, major, though I

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never believed it—they do say,” and the tones of his
voice fell as he spoke—“they do say she can put the
bad mouth upon people; and there's not a few that lay
all their aches and complaints to her door.”

“Indeed!” was the reply of Singleton; “indeed!
that is a sight worth seeing; and so let us ride, Humphries,
and get out of this swamp thicket with all possible
speed.”

“A long leap, major, will be sure to do it. But
better we move slowly. I don't want to lose our
chance at this rascal for something; and who knows
but we may catch him there. He's a great skunk,
now, major, that same Goggle; and though hanging's
much too good for him, yet, them pistols would have
pleased me better had they lodged the ball more
closely.”

CHAPTER XV.

“A hag that hell has work for—a born slave
To an o'ercoming evil—venomous, vile,
Snake-like, that hugs the bush and bites the heel.”

The troopers had not been well gone, before the
fugitive they had so vainly pursued stood upon the
very spot which they had left. He rose from the mire
of the creek, in which he had not paused to imbed
himself when the search was hottest and close upon
him. The conjecture of Humphries was correct, and
Goggle or Blonay was the person they had chased.
He had left his post in the bivouac when the storm
came on, and was then upon his way to his mother's
cabin. From that spot his farther course was to the
British garrison with his intelligence. His determination
in this respect, however, underwent a change, as
we shall see in the progress of the narrative.

Never had better knowledge of character been

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shown than in the estimate made by Humphries of
that of the deserter. Goggle was as warped in morals
as he was blear in vision; a wretch aptly fitted for the
horse-thief, the tory, and murderer. His objects were
evil generally, and he had no scruples as to the means
by which to secure them. Equally indifferent to him
what commandment he violated in these practices; for,
with little regard from society, he had no sympathy with
it, and only obeyed its laws as he feared and would
avoid their penalties. He hated society accordingly
as he was compelled to fear it. He looked upon it as a
victim to be destroyed with the opportunity, as a spoil
to be appropriated with the desire for its attainment;
and the moods of such a nature were impatient for
exercise, even upon occasions when he could hope no
addition to his pleasure or his profit from their indulgence.

Squat in the ooze and water of the creek, while the
horse of Singleton at one moment almost stood over
him, he had drawn breath with difficulty through the
leaves of a bush growing upon the edge of the ditch
in which his head had found concealment; and in this
perilous situation his savage spirit actually prompted
him to thrust his knife into the belly of the animal.
He had drawn it for this purpose from his belt, while
his hands and body were under water. Its point was
already turned upward when Singleton moved away
from the dangerous proximity. Here he listened to
the dialogue which the two carried on concerning
him; and, even in that predicament of dirt and danger
in which he lay, his mind brooded over a thousand
modes by which he should enjoy his malignant appetite,
that craved for revenge upon them both. When
they were fairly gone, he rose from the mire and ascended
cautiously to the bank; shook himself like a
water-dog, while he almost shivered in the saturated
garments which he wore; then rubbed and grumbled
over the rifle which he had taken with him into the
mire, and which came out as full of its ooze and water
as himself.

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“So ho!” said he, as he shook himself free from
the mud—“So ho! they are gone to old Moll's to
look after me, eh! Now would I like to put this bullet
into that Dorchester skunk, Humphries, d—n him.
I am of bad blood, am I!—my father a horse-thief and a
mulatto, and I only fit for hanging! The words must
be paid for; and Moll must answer for some of them.
She is my mother, that's clear—she shall tell me this
night who my father is; for, Blonay, or Goggle, or the
devil, I will know. She shall put me off no longer.
No! though she tells me the worst—though she tells
me that I am the spawn of Jack Drayton's driver, as
once before I've heard it.”

Thus muttering, he looked to his flint and inspected
the priming of his rifle. With much chagrin he found
the powder saturated with water, and the charge useless.
He searched his pockets, but his flask was gone.
He had purposed the murder of Humphries or Singleton
had this not been the case. He now without hesitation
took the track after them, and it was not long
before he came in sight of the miserable clay and log
hovel in which his mother, odious and dreaded as she
was, passed fitly her existence. This spot was dreary
in the extreme: a few cheerless pines rose around it,
and the thick fennel waved its equally bald, though
more crowded forms in uncurbed vegetation among
them. The hovel stood in a hollow, considerably
below the surrounding level, and the little glimmer of
light piercing from between the logs only made its
location seem more cheerless to the observer.

Blonay—or, as we shall hereafter call him, according
to the fashion of the country, Goggle—cautiously approached
a jungle, in which he hid himself, about a
stone's throw from the hovel. There he watched, as
well as he might, in the imperfect light of the evening,
for the appearance of the troopers. Though mounted,
they had not yet succeeded in reaching the spot, which,
familiar to him from childhood, he well knew to find
in the darkest night, and by a route the most direct.
He was there before them, snug in his cover, and coolly

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looking out for their coming. More than once he
threw up the pan of his rifle, carefully keeping it from
its usual click by the intervention of his finger, and
cursed within himself his ill fortune, as he found
the powder, saturated with water, a soft paste beneath
his touch. He thrust his hand into his pocket, seeking
there for some straggling grains, of which in the emergency
he might avail himself; but he looked fruitlessly,
and was compelled to forego the hope of a shot, so
much desired, at one or other of the persons now
emerging from the wood before him.

The barking of a cur warned the indweller of visiters
but without offering any obstacle to their advance.
Humphries proceeded first, and motioning his companion
to keep his saddle, fastened his horse to a
bough, and treading lightly, looked through the crevices
of the logs, upon the old crone within. Though
in June, a warm season at all times in Carolina, the
old woman partook too much of the habits of the very
low in that region to be without a fire; and with the
taste of the negro, she was now bending over a huge light
wood blaze, with a pipe of rude structure and no small
dimensions in her mouth, from which the occasional
puff went forth, filling the apartment with the unpleasant
effluvia of the vilest leaf-tobacco; while her body
and head swung ever to and fro, with a regular
seesaw motion, that seemed an habitual exercise.
Her thin, shrivelled, and darkly yellow features, were
hag-like and discouraging. The skin was tightly
drawn across the face, and the high cheek-bones, and
the nose, seemed disposed to break through the slender
restraints of their covering. Her eyes were small and
sunken, of a light gray, and had a lively twinkle, that
did not accord with the wretched and decayed aspect
of her other features. Her forehead was small, and
clustered with grisly hair of mixed white and black,
disordered and unbound, but still short, and with the
appearance of having but lately undergone clipping at
the extremities. These features, stern in themselves,
were greatly heightened in their general expression

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by the severe mouth and sharp chin below them.
The upper lip was flat, undeveloped entirely, while
the lower was thrust forth in a thick curl, and, closely
rising and clinging to the other, somewhat lifted her
glance into a sort of insolent authority, which, sometimes
accompanying aroused feeling, or an elevated
mood of mind, might look like dignified superiority.
The dress which she wore was of the poorest sort,
the commonest white homespun of the country, probably
her own manufacture, and so indifferently made,
that it hung about her like a sack, and gave a full
view of the bronzed and skinny neck and bosom,
which a regard to her appearance might have prompted
her to conceal. Beside her a couple of cats of mammoth
size kept up a drowsy hum, entirely undisturbed
by the yelping of the cur, which, from his little kennel
at one end of the hovel, maintained a continuous clamour
at the approach of Humphries. The old woman
simply turned her head, for a moment, to the entrance,
took the pipe from her mouth, and, discharging the
volume of smoke which followed it, cried harshly to
the dog, as if in encouragement. Her call was
answered by Humphries, who, rapping at the door,
spoke civilly to the inmate.

“Now, open the door, good mother. We are friends,
who would speak with you. We have been caught
inthe storm, and want you to give us house-room till
it's over.”

“Friends ye may be, and ye may not. Down by
the dry branch, and through the old road to mother
Blonay's, is no walk that friends often take; and if ye
be travellers, go ye on, for there's no accommodation
for ye, and but little here ye would eat. It's a poor
country y'are in, strangers, and nothing short of Dorchester,
or it may be Rantoule's, will serve your turn
for a tavern.”

“Now, out upon you, mother! would you keep a
shut door upon us, and the rain still pouring?” cried
Humphries, sharply.

“Ye have been in it over long to mind it now, I'm

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thinking, and ye'd better ride it out. I have nothing
for ye, if ye would rob. I'm but a lone woman, and
a poor; and have no plate, no silver, no fine watch, nor
rings, nor any thing that is worth your taking. Go to
“The Oaks,” or Middleton Place, or the old hall at
Archdale, or any of the fine houses; they have plenty
of good picking there.”

“Now, how pleasantly the old hag tells us to go and
steal, and she looking down, as a body may say, into
the very throat of the grave that's gaping after her.”
The old woman, meanwhile, as if satisfied with what
she had done, resumed her pipe, and recommenced
her motion, to and fro, over the blaze. Humphries
was for a smart application of the foot to the frail door
that kept him out, but to this his companion refused
assent.

“Confound the old hag, major; she will play with
us after this fashion all the night. I know her of old,
and that's the only way to serve her. Nothing but
kicks for that breed; civility is thrown away upon
them.”

“No, no—you are rash; let me speak.—I say, my
good woman, we are desirous of entrance; we have
business, and would speak with you.”

“Business with me! and it's a gentleman's voice
too! Maybe he would have a love-charm, since there
are such fools; or he has an enemy, and would have
a bad mouth put upon him, shall make him shrivel up
and die by inches, without any disease. I have
worked in this business, and may do more. Well,
there's good wages for it, and no danger. Who shall
see, when I beg in the rich man's kitchen, that I put
the poison leaf in the soup, or stir the crumbs with the
parching coffee, or sprinkle the powder with the corn
flour, or knead it up with the dough? It's a safe
business enough, and the pay is good, though it goes
over soon for the way it comes.”

“Come, come, my good woman,” cried Singleton
impatiently, as the old beldam thus muttered to herself
the various secrets of her capacity, and strove to

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conjecture the nature of the business which her visiters
had with her. “Come, come, my good woman, let
us in; we are hurried, and have no little to do before
daylight.”

“Good woman, indeed! Well, many's the one
been called good with as little reason. Yes, sir,
coming: my old limbs are feeble; I do not move as
I used to when I was young.”

Thus apologizing, with her pipe in one hand, while
the other undid the entrance, Mother Blonay admitted
her visiters.

“So, you have been young once, mother?” said
Humphries, while entering.

The old woman darted a glance upon him—a steadfast
glance from her little gray eyes, and the stout and
fearless trooper felt a chill go through his veins on
the instant. He knew the estimate put upon her
throughout the neighbourhood, as one possessed of the
evil eye, or rather the evil mouth; one whose word
brought blight among the cattle, and whom the negroes
feared with a superstitious dread, as able to bring sickness
and pestilence—a gnawing disease that ate away
silently, until, without any visible complaint, the victim
perished hopelessly. Their fears had been adopted
in part by the whites of the lower class in the same
region, and Humphries, though a bold and sensible
fellow, had heard of too many dreadful influences
ascribed to her, not to be unpleasantly startled with
the peculiar intensity of the stare which she put upon
him.

“Young!” she said, in reply; “yes, I have been
young, and I felt my youth. I knew it, and I enjoyed
it. But I have outlived it, and you see me now. You
are young, too, Bill Humphries; may you live to have
the same question asked you which you put to me.”

“A cold wish, Mother Blonay; a bitter cold wish,
since you should know, by your own feelings, how
hard it will be to outlive activity and love, and the
young people that come about us. It's a sad season
that, mother, and may I die before it comes. But,

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talking of young people, mother, reminds me that you
are not so lonesome as you say. You have your son,
now, Goggle.”

“If his eye is blear, Bill Humphries, it's not the
part of good manners to speak of it to his mother.
The curse of a blear eye, and a blind eye, may fall
upon you yet, and upon yours—ay, down to your
children's children, for any thing we know.”

“That's true, mother—none of us can say. I meant
no harm, but as everybody calls him Goggle—”

“The redbug be upon everybody that so calls him!
The boy has a name by law.”

“Well, well, mother, do not be angry, and wish no
sores upon your neighbour's shins that you can't wish
off. The redbugs and the June-flies are bad enough
already, without orders; and people do say you are
quite too free in sending such plagues upon them, for
little cause, or for no cause at all.”

“It's a blessing that I can do it, Bill Humphries, or
idle rowdies, such as yourself, would harry the old
woman to death for their sport. It's a blessing and
a protection that I can make the yellowjacket and the
redbug leave their poison stings in the tender flesh,
so that the jester that laughs at the old and suffering
shall learn some suffering too.”

“Quite a hard punishment for such an offence.
But, mother, they say you do more; that you have the
spell of the bad mouth, that brings long sickness and
sudden death, and many awful troubles; and some that
don't wish you well, say you love to use it.”

“Do they say so?—then they say not amiss. Think
you, Bill Humphries, that I should not fight with him
who hates me, and would destroy me if he could? I
do; and the bad mouth of Mother Blonay upon you,
shall make the bones in your skin ache for long
months after, I tell you.”

“I beg, for God's sake, that you'll not put your bad
mouth upon me, good mother,” exclaimed Humphries,
with ludicrous rapidity, as if he half feared the immediate
exercise of the faculty upon him. The old

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woman seemed pleased with this tacit acknowledgment
of her power, and she now twisted her chair
about so as to place herself directly in front of Singleton.
He, meanwhile, had been closely scrutinizing
the apartment, which was in no respects better than
those of the commonest negro-houses of the low
country. The floor was the native soil. The wind
was excluded by clay, loosely thrust between the crevices
of the logs; and an old scaffolding of poles, supporting
a few rails crossing each other, sustained the
mattress of moss, upon which the woman slept, unassisted
seemingly, and entirely alone. A few gourds,
or calabashes, hung from the roof, which was scantily
shingled: these contained seeds of various kinds,
bunches of dried thyme, sage, and other herbs and
plants; and some which, by a close analysis of their
properties, would be found to contain a sufficient solution
of the source from whence came her spells of
power over her neighbours, whether for good or evil.

Singleton had employed himself in noticing all these
several objects, and the probability is that the quick
eye of the old woman had discovered his occupation.
She turned her chair so as to place herself directly
before him, and the glance of her eye confronting his,
compelled him to a similar change of position. The
docile cats, with a sluggish effort, changed their
ground also; and after circling thrice their new places
of repose, before laying themselves down upon it, they
soon resumed their even and self-satisfied slumberous
hum, which the movement of their mistress had interrupted.
A moment of silence intervened, during which
Dame Blonay employed herself in examining Singleton's
person and countenance. He was unknown
to her, and a curious desire to make the acquaintance
of new faces, is, perhaps, as much the characteristic
of age as garrulity. Memory, in this way, becomes
stirred up actively, and the decaying mind delights in
such a survey, that it may liken the stranger to some
well known individual of former days. It is thus that

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the present time continually supplies with aliment
the past from which it receives so much of its own.
The close survey did not please Singleton, who at
length interrupted it by resuming the subject where
Humphries had discontinued it. With becoming gravity,
he asked her the question which follows, on the extent
of her powers—

“And so, dame, you really believe that you possess
the power of doing what you say you can do?”

“Ay, sir, and a great deal more. I can dry up the
blood in the veins of youth; I can put the staggering
weakness into the bones and sinews of the strong man;
I can make the heart shrink that is brave—I can put
pain there instead of pleasure.”

“Indeed! if you can do this, dame, you can certainly
do much more than most of your neighbours.
But is it not strange, mother, that these powers are all
for evil? Have you no faculty for conferring good—
for cheering the heart instead of distressing it, and
giving pleasure instead of pain?”

“Ay! I can avenge you upon your enemy!” As
she spoke, her form suspended its waving motion, was
bent forward in eagerness, and her eye glistened,
while her look seemed to say, “Is not that the capacity
you would have me serve you in?”

“That, also, is a power of evil, dame, and not of
good. I spoke of good, not evil.”

“Not that!” she muttered, with an air of disappointment,
while drawing herself back and resuming her
croning movement. “Not that! is not revenge sweet,
young master—very sweet, when you have been robbed
and wronged for years; trampled in the dust; laughed
and sneered at; hunted and hated: is not the moment
of revenge sweet? When you see your enemy writhing
in pain, you put your ear down and listen to his suffering,
and your heart, that used to beat only with its
own sorrow, you feel is throbbing with a strange,
sweet joy at his—is it not sweet, my master?”

“Ay, sweet, dame, but, I fear me, still evil; still not

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good; still harmful to man. Have you no better
powers in your collection? none to give strength and
youth, and bring back health?”

She pointed to a bunch of the smaller snake-roots
which lay in the corner, but with much seeming indifference,
as if the cure of disease formed but an humble
portion of her mystery and labours.

“And your art gives you power over affections, and
brings pleasure sometimes, mother?”

“Is it love?—the love of the young woman—hard to
please, difficult to see, cold to sweet words—that you
would win, my young master?”

She again bent her head towards him, and suspended
her motion, as if now hopeful that, in this reference,
she had found out the true quest of the seeker. A
warm glow overspread the cheek of Singleton, as in
answering the inquiry correctly he must necessarily
have confessed that such a desire was in his bosom,
though certainly without any resort to such practices
as might be looked for in her suggestion.

“Ay, indeed, such an art would be something to me
now, could it avail for any purpose—could it soften the
stern, and warm the cold, and make the hard to please
easy—but I look not for your aid, mother, to do all
this.”

“I can do it—fear me not,” said the old woman,
assuringly.

“It may be, but I choose not that thou shouldst.
I must toil for myself in this matter, and the only art
I may use must be that which I shall not be ashamed
of. But we have another quest, dame; and upon this
we would have you speak honestly. You have a
son?”

The old woman looked earnestly at the speaker; and,
as at that moment the sabre swung off from his knee,
clattering its end upon the floor, she started apprehensively,
and it could be seen that she trembled. She
spoke after the pause of an instant.

“Sure, captain—Ned, Ned Blonay is my son.

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What would you tell me? He has met with no
harm?”

“None, mother—none that I can speak of,” said
Humphries quickly; “not that he may not have it if
he does not mind his tracks But tell us—when was
he here last, mother? Was he not here to-night? and
when do you look for him again?”

The apprehensions of the woman had passed off;
she resumed her seesaw motion, and answered indifferently.

“The boy is his own master, Bill Humphries; it
is not for an old woman like me to say for Ned Blonay.”

“What! are you not witch enough to manage your
own son? Tell that to them that don't know you both
better. I say to you, Mother Blonay, that story wont
pass muster. You have seen Goggle to-night.”

“And I say, Bill Humphries, that the tongue lies that
says it, though it never lied before. Go—you're a foulspoken
fellow, and your bones will ache yet for that
same speech. Goggle—Goggle—Goggle! as if it
wasn't curse enough to be blear-eyed without having
every dirty field-tackey whickering about it.”

“Our object is not to offend, my good woman, but to
ask a civil question. My companion only employs
a name by which your son is generally distinguished
among the people. You must not allow him to anger
you, therefore, but answer a question or two civilly,
and we shall leave you.”

“You have smooth words, captain, and I know what
good-breeding is. I have lived among decent people,
and I know very well how to behave like one if they
would let me; but when such ill-spoken creatures as
Bill Humphries ask me questions, it's ten to one I
don't think it worth while to answer them; and answer
I will not, except with curses, when they speak nicknames
for my child. I know the boy is ugly and
blear-eyed. I know that his skin is yellow and shrivelled
like my own, but he has suckled at these withered
paps, and he is my child; and the more others hate

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and abuse him, the more I love him—the more I will
take up for him.”

“Now, Mother Blonay, you needn't make such a
fuss about the matter. You know I meant no harm.
Confound the fellow, I don't care whether he has eyes
or not; sure I am, I know the name which people
give him without minding the blear. I only want you
to say what you've done with him.”

“You are too quick—too violent, Humphries, with
the old woman,” said Singleton in a whisper.

“Major, don't I know her. The old hag—I see
through her now, jist as easy as I ever saw through
any thing in my life. I'll lay now she knows all
about the skunk.”

“Perhaps so, but if she does, this is not the way to
get at her information.”

“But little hope of that now, since she's got her
back up. Confound Goggle! if I had him under a
stout hickory I reckon I'd make her talk to another
tune.”

This was loud enough for the old woman, who replied—

“Yes—you'd beat with blows and whips a far better
man than yourself. But go your ways, and see what
will come of this night's work. I have curses, have I?—
if I have, you shall hear them. I have a bad mouth,
have I?—you shall feel it. Hearken, Bill Humphries!
I am old and weak, but I am strong enough to come to
you where you are, and whisper in your ears. As what
I say will do you no pleasure, you shall hear it.”

And, tottering forward from her seat, she bent down
to the chair upon which he sat, and though he moved
away in an instant, he was not quick enough to avoid
the momentary contact of her protruded and hag-like
lip with his ear, that shrunk from the touch as with an
instinct of its own. She whispered but two words,
and they were loudly enough uttered for Singleton to
hear as well as Humphries. “Your sister—Bella
Humphries!”

The trooper started up as if he had been shot;

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staggered he certainly was, and his eyes glared confusedly
upon those which she piercingly fixed upon
him with a hellish leer. She shook her long bony
finger at him, and her body, though now erect, maintained
its waving motion just as when she had been
seated. Recovering in a moment, he advanced, exclaiming—

“You old hag of hell! what do you mean by that?
What of Bella? what of my sister?”

“Goggle—Goggle—Goggle—that of her! that of
her!” was all the reply; and this was followed by a
low chuckling laugh, which had in it something exceedingly
annoying even to Singleton himself. The trooper
was ferocious, and with clenched fist seemed about to
strike. This, when she saw, seemed to produce in
her even a greater degree of resolution. Instead of
shrinking, she advanced, folded her arms upon her
breast, and there was a deep organ-like solemnity in
her tone as she exclaimed—

“Now may the veins dry up, and the flesh wither,
and the sinews shrink, and the marrow leave the
bones! Strike the old woman, now, Bill Humphries,—
strike, if you dare!”

Singleton had already passed between the parties,
not, however, before he had been able to see the prodigious
effect which her adjuration had produced upon
the trooper. His form was fixed in the advancing
position in which he stood when she addressed him.
His lips were colourless, and his eyes were fastened
upon her own with a steadiness which was that of
paralysis, and not of decision. She, on the other hand,
seemed instinct with life—a subtle, concentrated life.
The appearance of decrepitude had gone, the eye had
stronger fire, the limbs seemed firm on the instant, and
there was something exceedingly high and commanding
in her position. A moment after, she sank back
in her chair almost exhausted—the two cats purring
around, having stood at her side, as if bent to cooperate
in her defence, on the first approach of Humphries.
He now recovered from the superstitious awe

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which had momentarily possessed him; and heartily
ashamed of the show of violence to which her mysterious
speech had provoked him, began to apologize
for it to Singleton.

“I know it's wrong, major, and I wasn't exactly in
my sober senses, or I wouldn't have done it. But
there's no telling how she provoked me; and the fact
is, what she said worries me no little now; and I
must know what she meant.—I say, mother—Mother
Blonay!”

Her eyes were fixed upon his with a dull, inexpressive
glare, that seemed to indicate the smallest possible
degree of consciousness.

“She is now exhausted, and cannot understand you;
certainly not to satisfy your inquiries,” said Singleton.

The trooper made one or two efforts more, but she
refused all answer, and showed her determination to
be silent by turning her face from them to the wall.
Finding nothing was to be got out of her, Singleton
placed beside her upon the chair a note of the continental
currency, of large amount but for its depreciated
value; then, without more words, they left the hovel to
its wretched tenant, both much relieved upon emerging
into the open air. The severity of the storm had
now greatly subsided; the rain still continued falling,
however, and, hopeless of any farther discoveries of
the fugitive they had pursued, and as ignorant of his
character as at first, they moved onward, rapidly
pushing for their bivouac at the head of the Stonoe.

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CHAPTER XVI.

“Commune with him, and fear not. Foul though he be,
Thy destiny is kindred with his own,
And that secures thee.”

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They had scarcely gone from sight, when Goggle
entered the dwelling. The old hag started from her
seeming stupor, and all her features underwent a
change. She fondled upon her son with all the feeble
drivelling of age; called him by various affectionate
diminutives, and busied herself, in spite of her infirmities,
waddling about from corner to corner of the hut,
to administer to his desires, which were by no means
few. He, on the other hand, manifested the most
brutal indifference to all her regards, shook her off
rudely as she hung upon his shoulders, and, with a boisterous
manner, and a speech coupled with an oath,
demanded his supper, at the same time throwing himself,
with an air of extreme indolence, along the bed.

“And, Neddy dear, what has kept you so late?
Where have you been, and whence come you last?”
were the repeated questions of the old woman.

“A'drat it! mother—will you never be done asking
questions? It's not so late, I'm sure.”

“Later than you said; much later, by two hours,
boy.”

“Well, if it is, what then? It's well you have me
at all, for I've had a narrow chance of it. Swow! but
the bullets rung over my ears too close for comfort.”

“You don't say so, Ned! What! that stark, bull-head,
Humphries, has he shot at you, Ned, my son?”

“Him or Singleton, d—n 'em! But I have a hitch
on him now that shall swing him. He plays 'possum
no longer with Huck, if you have a tongue in your
head, mother.”

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“Who—I? What am I to do, Ned, boy? Is it to
put Bill Humphries in trouble? If it's that, I have the
heart to do it, if it's only for his talk to-night.”

“Yes, I heard it.”

“You! Why, where were you, Ned?”

“There.” He pointed to the end of the hovel,
where, snugly concealed on the outside, his eye, piercing
through a hole between the logs, had witnessed
all that had taken place in the apartment while the
partisans held it.

“And you heard and saw all?” said the old woman.
“You heard his foul speech, and you saw him lift his
hand to strike me because I spoke to him as he deserved!
But he dared not—no, he dared not! But
who was the other, Ned?”

“His name's Singleton, and he's a major of the continentals—
that's all I know about him. He took me
prisoner with some others of Travis's, and I joined his
troop, rather than fare worse. This gives me picking
on both sides; for since I've joined we've had smart
work in skirmishing; and down at Archdale Hall we
made a splash at Huck's baggage-wagons, and got good
spoil. See, here's a watch—true gold!—was this
morning in a red-coat's fob, 's now in mine.”

“It's good gold, and heavy, my son;—will give you
yellow-boys enough.”

“Ay, could we sell—but that's the devil. It comes
from a British pocket, and we can't venture to offer it
to any of their colour. As for the continentals, they
haven't got any but their ragged currency, and that nobody
wants. We must keep the watch for a good
chance, for that and other reasons. I took it from a
prisoner by sleight of hand, and it must not be known
that I have it, on either side. Proctor would punish,
and the young fellow Singleton, who has an eye like a
hawk, he would not stop to give me a swinging bough
if he thought I took it from one of his prisoners.”

“Give it to me, boy; I'll save you that risk.”

“You shall do more, mother; but first get the supper.
I'm hellish hungry, and tired out with the chase

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I've had. A'drat it! my bones are chilled with the
mud and water.”

“There's a change in the chest, boy, beside you.
Put the wet clothes off.”

“It's too troublesome, and they'd only get wet too;
for I must start back to the camp directly.”

“What camp?”

“Singleton's—down at Slick Ford on the Stonoe
head. I must be there, and let him see me, or he'll
suspicion me, and move off. You will have to carry the
message to Proctor.”

“What, boy! will you go back and put your neck
in danger? Suppose he finds you missing?”

“Well, I'll tell him the truth, so far as the truth will
answer the purpose of a lie. I'll say I came to see
you, and, having done so, have come back to my duty.
They cannot find fault, for the troopers every now and
then start off without leave or license. I'm only a volunteer,
you see.”

“Take care, boy; you will try the long lane once
too often. They suspect you, now, I know from the
askings of that fellow Humphries; and him too, the
other—what's his name?—he, too, asked closely after
you.”

“Singleton. I heard him.”

“What Singleton is that, boy? Any kin to the
Singletons hereaway in St. Paul's?”

“No, I believe not. He's from the `High Hills,'
they say, though he has friends at `The Oaks.' It
was there he went to-night. But the supper, mother—
is it all ready?”

“Sit and eat, boy. There's hoecake and bacon, and
some cold collards.”

“Any rum?” he inquired, rising sluggishly from the
bed, and approaching the little table which, while the
preceding dialogue had been going on, his mother had
supplied with the condiments enumerated. She handed
him the jug, from which, undiluted, he drank freely,
following the stronger liquid with a moderate draught
from the gourd of water which she handed him at the

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same moment. While he ate, he muttered occasionally
to his mother, who hung around him all the while in
close attendance, regarding the besmeared, sallow, and
disfigured wretch with as much affection as if he had
been the very choicest of all God's creatures. Such
is the heart, erring continually in its appropriation of
sympathies, which, though intrinsically they may be
valueless, are yet singularly in proof of that care of
nature, which permits no being to go utterly unblest by
its regard, and denies the homestead, however lowly,
none of its soothing and its sunshine.

Goggle had eaten, and now, like a gorged snake,
he threw himself once more at length upon the couch
that stood in the corner, grumbling, as he did so—

“A'drat it! I hate to go out again! But I must—I
must go back to camp, to blind Singleton; and as for
that fellow Humphries, hear you, mother—I was in the
ditch by Coburn's corner when he came upon me, and
just about to cross it. They called out, and crack,
crack went their pistols, and the balls both times
whizzed close above my head. It was then they gave
chase, and I lay close, and hugged the hollow. Singleton's
horse stood right across me, and I expected
his hoofs every moment upon my back.”

“You don't say so, Neddy!”

“Ay, but I do—but that's not it. The danger was
something, to be sure, but even then I could listen—I
could listen—I could hear all they said; and I had
reason to listen, too, for it was of me Humphries
spoke. The keen chap suspected me to be the man
they chased, though they could not make me out; and
so he spoke of me. Can you count up what he said,
mother?”

“No, Neddy; how should I?”

“What! and you tell fortunes, too, and bewitch, so
that all of them call you cattle-charmer, yet you can't
tell what Bill Humphries spoke about then!”

“No, sure not: some foul speech, I reckon, considering
he spoke it.”

“Ay, foul speech enough, if you knew. But the

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long and short of it, mother, is this, and I put the question
to you plainly, and expect you to answer plainly—”

“What do you mean, my son?”

“Ay, that's it—I'm your son, I believe that; but tell
me, and tell me truly—who was my father? It was
of that that Humphries spoke. He spoke for all the
country round, and something, too, I've heard of before.
He said I was no better than my father; that he
was a horse-thief, and, what was worse, that I had a
cross in my blood. Speak, now, mother—speak out
truly, for you see I'm in no passion; for, whether it's
true or not, I will have it out of him that spoke it, before
long, some way or other. If it's true, so much
the worse for him, for I can't cut your throat, mother—
I can't drink your blood; but what I can do, I will,
and that is, have the blood of the man that knows and
speaks of your misdoings.”

That affectionate tenderness of manner which she
had heretofore shown throughout the interview, passed
away entirely with this inquiry of Goggle. She was
no longer the mother of her son. A haggard scorn was
in every feature—a hellish revival of angry passions,
of demoniac hate, and a phrensied appetite. As she
looked upon the inquirer, who, putting such a question,
yet lay, and seemingly without emotion, sluggishly at
length upon the couch, her ire seemed scarcely restrainable—
her figure seemed to dilate in every part—
and, striding across the floor with a rapid movement,
hostile seemingly to the generally enfeebled appearance
of her frame, she stood directly before, and looking
down upon him—

“And are you bent to hearken to such foul words
of your own mother, bringing them home to my ears,
when your bullet should have gone through the head
of the speaker?”

“All in good time, mother. The bullet should have
gone through his head but for an accident. But it's
well it did not. He would have died then in a moment.
When I kill him, now, he shall feel himself dying, I
warrant.”

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“It is well, boy. Such a foul speaker should have
a death of terror—he deserves it.”

“Ay, but that's neither here nor there, mother,—
you have not answered my question. Speak out; was
I born lawfully?”

“Lawfully!—and what care you, Ned Blonay, about
the lawfulness or the unlawfulness of your birth—you
who hourly fight against the laws—who rob, who burn,
who murder, whenever a chance offers, and care not?
Is it not your pleasure to break the laws—to live on
the profits and the property of others? Whence came
the purse you brought here last week, but from the
red-coat who travelled with you as a friend, and you,
all the time, receiving pay from his people? Whence
came this watch you just now put into my hands,
but from your prisoner? and the hog of which you ate
for supper, your own rifle shot it in the swamp, although
you saw the double fork in the ear, and the brand on
its quarter, which told you it belonged to Squire Walton,
at `The Oaks?'—what do you care about the laws,
then, that you would have me answer your question?”

“Nothing; I don't care that for all the laws in the
country—not that! But still I wish to know the truth
of this matter. It's for my pleasure. I like to know
the truth; whether I mind it or not is another thing.”

“Your pleasure, boy—your pleasure! and what if I
tell you that Humphries spoke true—that you are—”

“A bastard! speak it out—I want to hear it; and it
will give me pleasure—I love that which provokes me.
I can smile when one does me an injury—smile all the
time I bear it quietly, for I think of the time when I'm
to take pay for it. You don't understand this, perhaps,
and I can't give you any reason to make it more plain.
But so I do—and when Humphries had done speaking,
I would have given something handsome to have had
him talk it over again. When I have him in my power,
he shall do so.”

“The Indian blood!” was the involuntary exclamation
of the old woman.

“Ha! what's that, mother?”

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“Ask me not.”

“Ay, but I will—I must; and hear me once for all—
you tell me the truth, on the instant, or you never see
my face again. I'll go to the Indies with Sir Charles
Montague, that's making up a regiment in Charlestown
for that country.”

“Beware, boy—ask me not—any thing else. You
will hate me if I tell you. You will leave me for ever.”

“No—don't be afraid. Come, speak out, and say—
was my father's name Blonay?”

“Blonay was my lawful husband, boy, when you
were born,” said the woman, evasively.

“Ay, that may be well enough,” he exclaimed, “yet
I be no son of his. Speak the truth, mother, and no
two bites of a cherry. Out with it all—you can't vex
me by telling it. Look here—see this wound on my
arm—when it begins to heal, I rub it until it unscars
and grows red and angry again. I like the pain of it.
It's strange, I know, but it's my pleasure; and so I look
to be pleased with the story you shall tell me. Was
Blonay my father?”

“He was not.”

“Good!—who was?”

“Ask no more.”

“Ay, but I will—I must have it all—so speak on.”

“I will not speak it aloud—I will not. I have
sworn it.”

“You must unswear it. I cannot be trifled with.
You must tell me the secret of my birth, and all. I
care not how dark, how foul, how unlawful—you must
suppress nothing. This night must give me the knowledge
which I have wanted before—this night you speak
it freely, or lose me for ever.”

The woman paced the apartment convulsively, undergoing,
at every moment, some new transition, from
anger and impatience to entreaty and humbleness.
Now she denounced the curiosity of her son, and now
she implored his forgiveness. But she cursed or implored
in vain. He lay coolly and sluggishly, utterly
unmoved, at length, upon the bed; heedless of all her

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words, and now and then simply assuring her that
nothing would suffice but the true narrative of all that he
wished to know. Finding evasion hopeless, the old
woman seemed to recover her own coolness and
strength with the resolve which she had taken, and
after a little pause for preparation, she began.

“Ned Blonay, it is now twenty-nine years since you
were born—”

“Not quite, mother, not quite,—twenty-eight and
some seven months. Let's see, November, you remember,
was my birthday, and then I was but twenty-eight;
but go on, it's not important—”

“Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, it matters not which—
you were born lawfully the son of John Blonay, and
as such he knew and believed you. Your true father
was an Indian of the Catawba nation, who passed
through the Cypress the year before on his way to the
city.”

“Go on—the particulars.”

“Ask not that—not that, boy; I pray ye—”

“All—all.”

“I will not—I cannot—it was my badness. I will
not speak it aloud for worlds.”

“Speak it you must, but you may whisper it in my
ears. Stoop—”

She did so, passively as it were, and in a low tone,
broken only by her own pauses and his occasional
exclamations, she poured into his ear a dark, foul
narrative of criminal intercourse, provoked on her part
by a diseased appetite, resulting, as it would seem in
punishment, in the birth of a monster like himself.
Yet he listened to it, if not passively, at least without
any show of emotion or indignation; and as she finished,
and hurrying away from him threw herself into
her old seat, and covered her face with her hands, he
simply thrust his fingers into the long straight black
hair depending over his eyes, which seemed to carry
confirmatory evidence enough for the support of
the story to which he had listened. He made no
other movement, but seemed, for a while, busy in

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reflection. She every now and then looked towards him
doubtfully, and with an aspect which had in it something
of apprehension. At length, rising, though with
an air of effort, from his couch, he took a paper
from his pocket which he studied a little while by the
blaze in the chimney, then approaching her, he spoke
in language utterly unaffected by what he had heard—

“Hark ye, mother: I shall now go back to the camp.
It's something of a risk, but nothing risk, nothing gain;
and if I run a risk, it's for something. I go back to blind
Singleton, for I shall tell him all the truth about my
coming here. He won't do any thing more than scold
a little, for the thing's common; but if he should—”

“What, my son?—speak!”

“No,” he muttered to himself, “no danger of that—
he dare not. But you come, mother,—come to Slick
Ford by sunrise, and see what you can. You'll be able
to prove I was with you after the storm, and that'll clear
me; then you can go to Dorchester, make all haste, and
with this paper, see Proctor, and put it in his own
hands yourself. There's some news in it he will be
glad to pay for. It tells him something about the camp;
and that about Col. Walton, shall make him fly from
`The Oaks,' as an old owl from the burning cypress.
You can also tell him what you see at Singleton's, and so
use your eyes when you come there. Mind, too, if you
see Huck or any of his men, keep dark. He would
chouse you out of all the pay, and get the guineas for
himself; and you might whistle for your share.”

He gave her a dirty paper as he spoke, in which he
had carefully noted down every particular relating to his
new service, the force, the deeds, and the camp of
Singleton—all that he thought would be of value to the
enemy. She heard him, but did not approve of his
return to the camp. The conference with Singleton
and Humphries, together with the undisguised hostility
of the latter, had filled her mind with troublesome apprehensions;
and she warned her son accordingly; but
he took little heed of her counsel.

“I'm bent upon it, mother, for it's a good business.

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You come—that's all, and say when and where you've
seen me to-night. Come soon—by sunrise, and I'll
get off clear, and stand a better chance of being
trusted by the commander.”

“And Bill Humphries?”

“Ah! he must have his swing. Let him. The dog
swallows his legs at last, and so will he. I only wait
the time, and shall then shut up his mouth in a way shall
be a lesson to him for ever—in a way he shan't forget,
and shan't remember. He shall feel me before long.”

“And he shall feel me too, the reprobate; he shall
know that I have a power, though he laughs at it.”

“A'drat it, but its dark, mother; a thick cloud's yet
over the moon, and but a sloppy path for a shy foot,
but it must be done. There's some old hound yelping
yonder in the woods; he don't like being out any
more than myself.”

“You will go, Ned!” and the old woman's hand was
on his shoulder. He shoved it off with something of
hurry, while he answered—

“Yes, yes; and be sure you come, and when you
have helped me out of the scrape, go, off-hand, to
Proctor. See him—don't let them put you off. He
will pay well and not chouse you, for he's a true gentleman.
Good-night—good-night.”

She watched him from the doorway until he was
completely lost from sight in the adjacent forest.

CHAPTER XVII.

“Oh cruel! and the shame of such a wound,
Makes in the heart a deeper gash than all
It made upon the form.”

Singleton and Humphries were hailed as they approached
the patrols, by the voice of Lance Frampton,
the younger son of the maniac. He had volunteered

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to fill the post which had been deserted by Goggle.
He told them of his absence, and was gratified by
receiving from his commander a brief compliment
upon his precision and readiness. Such approval was
grateful to the boy, coming from Singleton; for the
gentle manner of the latter had already won greatly
on his affections. The boy, though but fifteen, was
manly and fearless, full of ambition, and very promising.
He rode well, and could use his rifle already
with the best shots of the country. The unsettled life
of the partisan warrior did not seem to disagree with
his tender years, so far as he had already tried it; and his
cheerless fortunes, indeed, almost denied him the choice
of any other. Still, though manly in most respects,
something of sadness rested upon his pale countenance,
which was soft like that of a girl, and quite
unlike the bronzed visages common to the sunny region
in which he had been born and lived. In addition to
the leading difference between himself and the people
of his own condition around him, his tastes were naturally
fine, his feelings delicate and susceptible, his
impressions acute and lasting. He inclined to Major
Singleton intuitively, as the manly freedom, and ease
of deportment, for which his commander was distinguished,
were mingled with a grace, gentleness, and
pleasant propriety, to which his own nature insensibly
beguiled him. He saluted them, as we have already
said, with becoming modesty, unfolded his intelligence,
and then quietly sank back to his position.

Humphries did not seem much surprised at the
intelligence.

“As I expected,” he said; “it's the nature of the
beast. The fellow was a born skunk, and he will die
one. There's no mending that sort of animal, major,
and there's little use, and some danger, to waste time
on it.”

“How long is it, Lance, since his departure became
known to Lieutenant Davis?” was the inquiry of Singleton.

“Not a half-hour, sir. When Lieutenant Davis

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went the rounds, sir, to relieve him, the place was
empty, and he said Goggle must have gone before
the storm came up.”

“Had you the storm here, Lance?” inquired Humphries.

“Not much of it, sir. It swept more to the left,
and must have been heavy where it went, for the roaring
of the wind was louder here than it felt. The trees
doubled a little, but didn't give—only some that had the
hearts eaten out. They went down, sir, at the first
push of the hurricane.”

Singleton conferred briefly with Humphries, and
then despatched the boy to Davis, with instructions to
place the party in moving order by sunrise—the two
officers, riding more slowly in the same direction, conferred
upon future arrangements.

“That fellow's absence, Humphries, will compel us
to change our quarters, for his only object must be to
carry the news to Dorchester.”

“That's it, for certain, major; and the sooner we
move the better. By midday to-morrow, Proctor and
Huck, and the whole of 'em would be on our haunches,
and we only a mouthful. A start by the time the sun
squints on the pine tops, sir, would do no harm; and
then, if you move up to Moultrie's old camp at Bacon's
bridge, it will be far enough to misguide them for the
present. From the bridge, you see, you can make the
swamp almost at any moment, and yet it's not so far
but you can get to `The Oaks' soon as ever Proctor
turns back upon Dorchester.”

“What force has he there, think you?”

“Not enough to go far, sir, or stay out long. The
garrison's but slim, and Huck is for the up country, I
heard him say. He may give you a drive before he
goes, for he is mighty ready to please Proctor; but
then he goes by Monk's corner, and so on up to Nelson's
ferry; and it will be out of his way to set upon
you at Moultrie's.”

“Why does he take that route, when his course is
for the Catawba?”

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“Ha! sir, you don't know Huck. He's an old
scout, and knows where the best picking lies. He
goes along that route, sir, skimming it like so much
cream as he goes; and wo to the housekeeper, loyalist
or whig, that gives him supper, and shows him too
much plate. Huck loves fine things; and for that
matter, plunder of any kind never goes amiss with a
tory.”

“True; and the course he takes through Sumter,
gives him spoil enough, if he dares touch it; but
Marion will soon be at Nelson's, where we hope to
meet him. Let us ride on now, and see to our movement.”

“With your leave, now, major, I'll go back to Dorchester.”

“With what object?”

“Why, sir, only, as one may say, to curse and quit.
That rascal Goggle will be in Proctor's quarters by
daylight, and will soon have a pretty story for the
colonel. I must try and get there before him, so as to
stop a little the blow. Since it must come, it needn't
come on anybody's head but mine; and if I can keep
my old father from trap, why, you see, sir, it's my
born duty to do so.”

“How will you do that?”

“I'll tell you, sir. Dad shall go to Proctor before
Goggle, and shall denounce me himself. He shall
make something out of the Englishman by his loyalty,
and chouse Goggle at the same time. Besides, sir, he
will be able to tell a truer story, for he shall say that
we've gone from the Stonoe, which, you know, will
be the case by that time. So, if he looks for us there,
as Goggle will advise him, the old man will stand
better than ever in the good graces of the enemy;
and will be better able to give us intelligence, and
help our cause.”

“But will your father like such a mission?”

“Like it, major! why, aint I his son—his only
son—and won't he do, think you, what I ask him? To
be sure he will. You will see.”

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“The plan is good, and reminds me of Pryor. You
will see him, and hurry his recruiting. Say to him,
from me, how much Col. Marion expects from him, as,
indeed, the letter I gave him has already persuaded
him. Remind him of that letter, and let him read it
to you. This will please him, and prompt to new
efforts, should he prove dull. But let him be quiet—
nothing impatient, till Colonel Walton is prepared to
start. Only keep in readiness, and wait the signal.
For yourself, when you have done this, delay nothing,
and risk nothing in Dorchester. You have no plea if
found out; and they will hang you off-hand as soon as
taken. Follow to Bacon's bridge as soon as possible,
and if you find me not there, I am either in the swamp,
or in the south towards the Edisto; possibly on the
road to Parker's ferry. I wish to keep moving to baffle
any pursuit.”

Protracted but little longer, and only the better to
perfect their several plans, the conference was at
length concluded, and the two separated; the one proceeding
to his bivouac, and the other on his journey
of peril, along the old track leading to the bridge of
Dorchester.

Singleton had scarcely resumed command of his
squad before the fugitive Goggle stood before him,
with a countenance cold and impassive as ever, and
with an air of assurance the most easy and self-satisfied.
The eye of the partisan was concentrated upon
him with a searching glance, sternly and calmly, but
he shrunk not beneath it.

“You have left your duty, sir—your post; what
have you to say?”

The offender frankly avowed his error, but spoke
in extenuation.

“The storm was coming up, sir; nobody was going
to trouble us, and I thought a little stretch to the old
woman—my mother, sir, that is—would do no harm.”

“You were wrong, sir, and must be punished.
Your duty was to obey, not to think. Lieutenant
Davis, a corporal's guard!”

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Goggle looked somewhat astounded at this prompt
movement, and urged the measure as precipitate and
unusual.

“But, major, the troopers go off continually from
Col. Washington's troop, when they want to see their
families—”

“The greater the necessity of arresting it in ours;
but you will make your plea at morning, for with the
sunrise you shall be examined.”

The guard appeared, and as the torch flamed above
the head of the fugitive, Singleton ordered him to be
searched narrowly. With the order, the ready soldiers
seized upon and bound him. His rifle was withdrawn
from his grasp—a measure inexpressibly annoying to
the offender, as it was a favourite weapon, and he an
excellent shot with it. In the close search which he
underwent, his knife, and, indeed, everything in his
possession, was carefully withdrawn, and he had reason
to congratulate himself upon the timely delivery of
the stolen watch to his mother; for the prisoner from
whom it had been taken had already announced its
loss; and had it been found upon the thief, it would
have been matter, under the stern policy pursued by
Singleton, for instantly hurrying him to some one of
the thousand swinging boughs overhead. With the
clear daylight, a court martial at the drum-head sat in
judgment on the prisoner. He told his story with a
composure that would have done credit to innocence.
There was no contradiction in his narrative. Singleton
proposed sundry questions.

“Why did you not stand when called to?”

“I was but one, major, and you were two; and
when the British and tories are thick about us, it
stands to reason that it was them calling. I didn't
make out your voice.”

“And why did you not proceed directly to your
mother's? why let so much time elapse between the
pursuit and your appearance at her cabin?”

“I lay close after they had gone, major, for I didn't
know that they had done looking after me.”

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Prompt and ready were his several responses, and,
apart from the initial offence of leaving his post,
nothing could be ascertained calculated to convict
him of any other error. In the mean time he exhibited
no more interest in the scene than in the most
ordinary matter. One side of his body, as was its
wont, rested upon the other; one leg hung at ease,
and his head, sluggish like the rest of his person, was
bent over, so as to lie on his left shoulder. At this
stage of the proceedings, his mother, whose anxieties
had been greater on the subject than those of her son,
now made her appearance, tottering towards the
group with a step in which energy and feebleness
were strangely united. Her first words were those of
reproach to Singleton:—

“Now, wherefore, gentleman, do you bind the boy?
Is it because he loves the old woman, his own mother?
Oh, for shame! it's a cruel shame to do so! Will you
not loose the cord?”

She hobbled over to the place where her son stood
alone, and her bony fingers were for a moment busied
with the thongs, as if she strove to release him. The
prisoner himself twisted from her, and his repulse was
not confined to his action.

“A'drat it, mother! have done. Say it out what you
know, and done with it.”

“What can you say, dame, in this matter?” inquired
Singleton.

“It's my son you tie with ropes—it's a good son to
me—will you not loose him?”

“He has done wrong, dame; he has left his post,
and has neglected his duty.”

“He came to see his mother—his old mother; to
bring her comfort, for he had been long away, and she
looked for him—she thought he had had wrong. Was
there harm in this?”

“None, only as he had other duties, not less important,
which he sacrificed for it. But say what you
know.”

She did so, and confirmed his story; was heard

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patiently through a somewhat tedious narrative, in
which her own feelings, and a strange show of love
for the indifferent savage, were oddly blended with the
circumstances which she told. Though unavailing to
save him from punishment, the evidence of his mother,
and her obvious regard, had the effect of modifying its
severity. The court found him guilty, and sentenced
him to the lash. Twenty lashes, and an imprisonment
in the discretion of the commander, were
decreed as his punishment.

A long howl—a shriek of demoniac energy—from the
old woman, as she heard the doom, rung in the ears
of the party. Her long skinny finger was uplifted in
vain threatenings, and her lips moved in vague adjurations
and curses. Singleton regretted the necessity
which made him sanction the decree, but example was
necessary in the lax state of discipline at that time
prevailing throughout the country. Marion, who was
himself just and inflexible, had made him a disciplinarian.

“You will not say `Yes' to this,” cried the old
woman to Singleton. “You are a gentleman, and
your words are kind. You will forgive the boy.”

“I dare not, dame. The punishment is already
slight in comparison with that usually given for an
offence so likely to be fatal as this of which your son
has been guilty. He must submit.”

The old woman raved furiously, but her son rebuked
her. His eyes were thrown up obliquely to the commander,
and the expression of his face was that of a
sneaking defiance, as he rudely enough checked her
in her denunciations.

“Hold tongue, mother—a'drat it! Can't you thank
the gentlemen for their favour?”

A couple of soldiers strapped him up; when, having
first taken off his outer jacket, one of them, with a
common wagon-whip, prepared to execute the sentence,
while the old woman, almost in danger from the lash,
pressed closely to the criminal, now denouncing and
now imploring the court; at one moment abusing her

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son for his folly in returning to the camp, and the next,
with salt tears running down her withered cheeks,
seeking to sooth and condole with him in his sufferings.
They would have removed her from the spot before the
punishment began, but she threw herself upon the earth
when they attempted it, and would only rise when
they forbore the effort. He, the criminal, was as impassive
as ever. Nothing seemed to touch him, either
in the punishment he was to receive, or the agonizing
sensations which he witnessed in his mother, and
which were all felt in his behalf. He helped the soldiers
to remove his vest, and readily turned his back
towards them, while, obliquely over his shoulder, his
huge staring eyes were turned to the spot where Singleton
stood, with glance averted from the scene of
ignominy.

The first stroke was followed by a piercing shriek
from the old woman—a bitter shriek and a curse; but
with the stroke she began counting the blows.

“One”—“two”—her enumeration perpetually broken
by exclamations of one sort or another—now of
pity, now of horror, denunciation, and the most impotent
expressions of paralytic rage—in some such phrases as
the following:—“The poor boy!—his mother never
whipped him!—they will murder him!—two—for
he came to see her—three—was ever the like to
whip a son for this!—four—God curse them! God
curse them!—five—I can curse, too, that I can—they
shall feel me, they shall hear me!—six, seven—that
is eight—nine. Oh, the wretches! but bear up, Ned,
bear up—it is half over—that is ten—my poor boy!
Oh, do not strike so hard! Look! the red on the
shirt—it is blood! Oh, wretches! have you no
mercy?—it is most done—there, there—stop! Hell
blast you for ever!—that was twenty. Why did you
strike another? I curse you with a black curse for
that other stroke! You ragged imp!—you vile polecat!—
I curse you for that stroke!”

The execution was over. Unflinching to the last,
though the strokes were severely dealt, the criminal

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had borne them. He looked the very imbodiment of
callosity. His muscles were neither composed nor
rigid during the operation; and though the flesh evidently
felt, the mood of the wretch seemed to have
undergone no change. Before he could yet be freed
from the cords, his mother's arms were thrown around
him; and though he strove to shake her off, and shrunk
from her embraces, yet she persisted, and, with a childish
fondness, she strove, with kind words, while helping
him on with his jacket, to console him for his
sufferings.

“And you will go with me now, Neddy—you will
go from these cruel men?”

“I cannot, mother; don't you know I'm to be under
guard so long as the major chooses?”

“He will not—you will not tie him again; you will
let him go now with his mother.”

She turned to Singleton as she spoke; but his eye
refused her ere his tongue replied—

“He will be in custody for twelve hours; and let
me say to you, dame, that for such an offence his punishment
is a very slight one. Marion's men would
suffer two hundred lashes, and something more restraint,
for the same crime.”

“God curse him!” she said, bitterly, as she again
approached her son, with whom she conversed apart.
He whispered but a word in her ear, and then turned
away from her; she looked after him a moment, as
the guard marched him into the rear, but her finger
was uplifted towards Singleton, and the fierce fire
shooting out from her gray eye, and moving in the
direction of the pointed finger, was long after remembered
by him. In a few moments more, she was
gone from the camp, and, with a degree of elasticity
scarcely comporting with her years, was trudging fast
on her way to Dorchester.

Waiting until she had fairly departed, Singleton at
length left his lodge on the Stonoe, and leaving no trace
of his sojourn but the dying embers of his fires, he led
the way towards the designated encampment at Bacon's

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Bridge. This was a few miles above Dorchester, on
the same river, and immediately contiguous to the Cypress
Swamp. An old battery and barracks, built by
General Moultrie, and formerly his station, prior to the
siege of Charlestown, furnished a much more comfortable
place of abode than that which he had just vacated.
Here he took that repose which the toils of the
last twenty-four hours rendered absolutely necessary.

CHAPTER XVIII.

“Let her pulse beat a stroke the more or less
And she were blasted. I will stand by this;
My judgment is her fear.”

Leaving Singleton as we have seen, as soon as the
absence of Goggle from camp was certainly known,
Humphries hurried on his returning route to the village
of Dorchester. Cool and calculating, but courageous,
the risk which he ran was far from inconsiderable.
How could he be sure he was not already suspected;
how know that some escaping enemies had not seen
and given intelligence of his presence among the
rebels; and why should not the fugitive be already in
the garrison with Proctor preparing the schemes which
were to wind about and secure him? These questions
ever rose in his mind as he surveyed his situation
and turned over his own intentions; but though strong
enough as doubts, they were not enough to turn him
from a purpose which he deemed good and useful, if
not absolutely necessary. He dismissed them from
his thoughts, therefore, as fast as they came up. He
was a man quite too bold, too enterprising to be discouraged
and driven from his plans by mere suggestions
of risk; and whistling, as he went, a merry tune, he
dashed forward through the woods, and was soon out
of the bush and on the main road of the route—not

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far from the spot where, in the pause of the storm, they
had stumbled upon the half-blood, Blonay.

The tree which the lightning had stricken just beside
the path, was still in flame. The rain could not
quench it, as the rich lightwood, traced through every
cavity of the bark by the greedy fire, furnished a fuel
not easily extinguishable. The flame licked along the
sides, at intervals, splotchlike, up and down, from top
to trunk; at one moment, lost from one place—the next,
furiously darting upon another. Its blaze showed him
the track through the hollow to old Mother Blonay's,
and, as he beheld it, a sudden desire prompted him
once more to look into the dwelling of the old woman.
He was strangely fascinated in this direction, particularly
as he remembered the equivocal nature of the
threat which she had screamed in his ear in regard to
his sister. “Goggle, Goggle, Goggle!” A shiver
ran through his frame as he thought upon it.

Alighting from his horse, he approached the hovel,
hitched the animal to a hanging bough, and, with
as light a footstep as possible, quietly approached
the entrance. Peeping through an aperture between
the loose logs he gazed upon the inmate. There, still
in her seat beside the fireplace, she kept up the same
croning movement, to and fro, maintaining her balance
perfectly, yet fast asleep all the while. Sometimes
her rocking would be broken with a start, but sleep
had too far possessed her; and though her dog barked
once or twice at the approach of the stranger, the
interruption in her seesaw was but for a moment, and
an incoherent murmur indistinctly uttered, only preceded
her relapse into silence and slumber as before.
Beside her lay her twin cats—twin in size though not
in colour—a monstrous pair whose sleep emulated that
of their mistress. On a bench before her, clearly
distinguishable in the firelight, Humphries noted her
travelling bundle with a staff run through it. This
indicated her itinerant habits, and his conclusion was,
that the old hag, who wandered usually from plantation
to plantation, from hovel to hovel, pretending to cure or

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charm away disease, and taking large collections in
return from the charitable, the ignorant and superstitious
alike—had made her preparations for an early journey
in the morning. While he looked, his own superstitious
fancies grew active; and, a cold shiver which he
could not escape, but of which he was heartily ashamed,
came over him, and, with a hurried step, he darted away
from the contemplation of a picture he could not regard
in any other light than as one horrible and unholy.
Humphries was not the slave of a feeble and childish
superstition, but the natural influences which affect the
uneducated mind, commonly, had their due force on
his. The secret cause is always mysterious, and commonly
produces enervating and vague fears in the
bosoms of all that class of people who engage in no
thoughts beyond those called for by their everyday
sphere and business. So with him—he had doubts,
and in proportion with his ignorance were his apprehensions.
Ignorance is of all things the most apprehensive
in nature. He knew not whether she could
have or not the power that she professed, and his active
imagination gave her all the benefit of his doubt. Still
he did not fear. No one who knew his usually bold
character, his recklessness of speech and action, would
deem him liable to any fear from such influences as
were supposed to belong to the withered tenant of that
isolated hovel—and yet, when he thought upon the
cheerless life which she led and seemed to love—when
he asked himself what might be its pleasures or its
solace, he could not avoid feeling that in its anti-social
evidences lurked the best proof of its evil nature.
Wherefore should age, poverty, and feebleness, fly so
far, and look so harshly upon, the whole world around
it? Why refuse its contiguity?—why deny, why
shrink away from the prospect of its comforts and its
blessings? Why? unless the mood within was hostile—
unless its practices were unfriendly to the common
good, as they were foreign to the common habit, of
humanity? He knew, indeed, that poverty may at all
times sufficiently account for isolation—that an acute

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sensibility may shrink from that contact with the
crowd which may, and does, so frequently betray or
wound it: and he also well knew that there is no sympathy
between good and bad fortune, except as the one
is apt to desire that survey of the other which will best
enable it to comprehend the superior benefits of its
own position. But that old woman had no such sensibilities,
and her poverty was not greater—not so great,
indeed, as that of many whom he knew beside, who
yet clung to, and sought to share some of the ties and
regards of society, though unblessed by the world's
goods, and entirely out of the hope of a redeeming
fortune. Did he not also know that she exulted in
the thought that she was feared by those around her,
and studiously inculcated the belief among the vulgar,
that she possessed attributes which were dangerous
and unholy? Her very pride was an abomination to
humanity, as her chief source of satisfaction seemed
to lie in the exercise of powers unwholesome and
annoying to man. No wonder the blood grew cold and
curdled in the veins of the blunt countryman as he
thought upon these matters. No wonder that he
moved away to his horse, with a rapidity he would not
his enemy should see, from a spot over which, as his
mind dwelt upon the subject, such an infernal atmosphere
seemed to brood and gather. The bark of the
dog as the hoofs of his charger beat upon the ground
while he hurried along his path, startled more completely
the old hag, who half rose from her seat, threw up
her head to listen, then, pushing the dismembered
brands of her fire together, composed herself once
more in her chair to sleep.

The evening of the day upon the history of which
we have been engaged, had been rather remarkable in
the annals of the “Royal George.” There had been
much to disturb the waters, and, we may add, the spirits
in that important domain. There had been a partial
sundering of ancient ties—a violation of sometime
sacred pledges, an awkward collision of various interests.
On the ensuing Monday, Serjeant Hastings, of

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whom we have already seen either too much or too
little, was to take his departure with the notorious
Captain Huck to join Tarleton on the Catawba. The
interval of time between the present and that fixed for
this, so important, remove, was exceedingly brief;
but a day, and that a holyday, intervened—and then
farewell to the rum punch, the fair coquette, and
the pleasant company of the “Royal George.” The
subject was a melancholy one to all parties. The
serjeant preferred the easy life, the good company, the
cheering liquor of the tavern, and there were other and
less honourable objects yet in his mind, unsatisfied,
and as far from realization as ever. Bella Humphries
had too little regard for him really to become his victim,
though he had spared no effort to that end. On the
contrary, the girl had latterly grown peevish in some
respects, and he could clearly perceive, though the
cause remained unknown, that his influence over her
was declining. His assumption of authority, his violence,
and perhaps, his too great familiarity, had wonderfully
lessened her regard; and, if the truth must be
known, John Davis was in reality more potent in her
esteem than she had been willing to acknowledge
either to that personage or to herself. While Davis
kept about the tavern, a cringing and peevish lover,
contributing to her conceit while acknowledging her
power, she was not unwilling, with all the thoughtlessness
of a weak girl, to trifle with his affections; but
now that he had absented himself, as it seemed for ever,
she began to comprehend her own loss and to lament
it. Such a consciousness led her to a more close
examination of Hastings' pretensions, and the result of
her analysis was quite unfavourable to that worthy.
His many defects of disposition and character, his
vulgarity, his impudence, all grew remarkably prominent
in her eyes, and he could now see that, when
he would say, in a manner meant to be alluring—
“Hark'ee, Bell, my beauty—get us a swig, pretty
particular, and not too strong o' the lemon, and not

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too weak o' the Jamaica, and not too scant considering
the quantity,”—there was no sweet elasticity in
the utterance of “Yes, sergeant, certain—coming,”
coupled with a gracious smile and a quickness of
movement that left the time between the order and
its instant execution a space not perceptible even to
that most impatient person, himself. He could feel
the change now, and as the time allowed him was
brief, and opportunities few, he hurried himself in
devising plans for the better success of a design upon
her, long entertained, of a character the most vile and
nefarious.

But his bill remained unpaid; and this was the worst
feature in the sight of our landlord. That evening
(Saturday) the worthy publican had ventured to suggest
the fact to the disregarding memory of the sergeant,
who had, with the utmost promptness, evaded the demand.
Some words had passed between them—old
Humphries had been rather more spirited, and Hastings
rather more insolent than usual; and the latter, in
search of consolation, made his way into the inner
room where Bella officiated. To crown his discontent,
his approach was utterly unnoticed by that capricious
damsel. He dashed away in dudgeon from the house
at an early hour, certainly less regretted by the maid
than by the master of the inn.

Such had been the transactions of the evening of
that night, when, at a late hour, Humphries approached
the dwelling of his father. The house lay in perfect
shadow as he drew nigh the outer buildings, in the
rear of one of which he carefully secured his horse.
The moon, obscured during the early part of the evening,
and dim throughout the night, had now sunk
westering so far, that it failed to touch entirely the
close and sheltered court in front of the house. As
he drew nigh, moving along in the deeper shadow of
the fence to the rear of the dwelling, for which he had
a key, he started. Was it a footstep that reached his
ear? He squatted to the ground and listened. He
was not deceived. The indistinct outline of a man

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close under the piazza, was apparent. He seemed
busied in some labour which he pursued cautiously,
and in perfect silence. Humphries could see that he
stooped to the ground, and that in the next moment,
his arms were extended. A few seconds after and
the person of the man seemed to rise in air. The
watcher could no longer be mistaken. Already had
the nightstalker taken two steps upon the ladder which
he had placed against the house, when Humphries
bounded forward from his place of watch. His soul
was on fire, for he saw that the object of the stranger
was the chamber of his sister, the windows of which
looked out upon the piazza, and were all open, as was
usual in the summer nights. The look of the old
hag, her strange words uttered as a threat, grew strong
in his mind, and he now seemed to understand them.
Drawing his dirk from his bosom, the only weapon he
had ventured to bring with him from the stable, in the
fodder of which he had hidden his sabre and pistols, he
rushed furiously towards the burglar. But his movement
had been too precipitate for success; and with
the first sound of his feet, the marauder had dropped
from the ladder, and taken to his heels. The
start in his favour being considerable, gave him a vast
advantage over his pursuer, for, though swift of foot,
active, and spurred on by the fiercest feelings, Humphries
failed to come up with him. A moment after
the fugitive had leaped the fence, the drik of the former
was driven into that part of it over which his body
had passed. The villain had escaped.

Gloomy and disappointed, the brother returned to
the spot, and calmly inspected the premises. Painfully
and deeply apprehensive were his thoughts, as
he surveyed the ladder, and the open windows above.
But for his timely arrival there would have been little
or no difficulty in effecting an entrance. Did the
wretch seek to rob? That was the hope of Humphries.
Could it be possible that his sister had fallen?
was she a victim, privy to the design of the felon? or
did he only now, for the first time, seek her dishonour?

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He knew that she was weak and childish, but he also
believed her innocent. Could she have looked for the
coming of a paramour? The unobstructed windows,
the unbroken silence, the confident proceeding of the
man himself—all would seem to strengthen the
damning idea which now possessed his mind; and
when his perpetually recurring thought brought to him
the picture of the old hag, her hellish glare upon him,
and her mysterious threat—a threat which now seemed
no longer mysterious—the dreadful apprehensions
almost grew into certainty. There was but one, and
that a partial mode, of ascertaining how far the girl
was guilty of participation in the design of the stranger;
and, with the thought, Humphries at once ascended the
ladder which he threw down after him. From the
piazza he made his way to the girl's chamber.

A light was burning in the fireplace, dimly, and with
no power to serve him where it stood. He seized it,
almost convulsively, in one hand, while the uplifted dagger
was bare in the other, and thus he approached the
couch where she lay. He held the light above, so
that its glare touched not her eyes, and he looked down
into her face. She lay sleeping, soundly, sweetly,
with a gentle respiration like a sigh swelling equably
her bosom. There was no tremor, no start. Her
round, fair face wore a soft, smiling expression,
showing that the consciousness within was not one of
guilt. One of her arms hung over the pillow, her
cheek resting upon it; the other pressed slightly her
bosom, as naturally as if there had been a throbbing and
deeply feeling heart under it. The brother looked,
and as he looked, he grew satisfied. He could not
doubt that sleep; it was the sleep of innocence. A
weight of nameless, of measureless terror, had been
taken from his soul in that survey; and nature claimed
relief in a flood of tears. The drops fell on the cheek
of the sleeper, and she started. With the movement,
he put aside the dagger, not, however, before her eyes
had beheld it.

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“Oh, William! brother, dear brother! is it you?
and—the knife?”

She had caught his hand in her terror, and amaze
and bewilderment overspread her features.

“Sleep on, Bell, sleep on; you are a good girl, and
needn't fear.”

He kissed her as he spoke, and, with the fondness
of a sister, and the thoughtlessness of a girl, she began
to prattle to him; but he bade her be quiet, and, taking
the light with him, descended to the lower apartment,
adjoining the bar-room, where his father usually slept.
To his surprise he was not there, but a gleam through
the door led the son to the place where the old man
usually served his customers. The picture that met
his eye was an amusing one. There, at length upon
the floor, the landlord lay. A candle placed beside
him, with a wick doubled over and blazing into the
tallow, lacked the friendly aid of the snuffers. The
old man was too deeply engaged in his vocation to
notice this. His head, resting upon one hand, was
lifted upon his elbow, and before him were sundry large
boards, covered with tallies in red chalk and in white,
against his sundry customers. The landlord was
busily engaged in drawing from these chronicles, the
particular items in the account of Sergeant Hastings,
which he transcribed upon a sheet of paper which lay
before him. A tumbler of Jamaica, of especial body,
stood conveniently close, from which he occasionally
drew strong refreshment for his memory. He was
too earnest in his labour, to notice the entrance of
his son at first; but the other had too little time to
spare, to scruple much at disturbing his father at his
unusual labour.

“Ah, bless me, Bill—that you? Why, what's the
to-do now? What brings you so late?”

“Business, business, father, and plenty of it. But
get up, rouse and rustle about, and get away from these
scores, or you won't understand a word I tell you.”

The landlord rose immediately, put his board aside,
picked up the sheet containing the amount in gross

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charged against Sergeant Hastings, which he sighed
twice as he surveyed, and, in a few moments, was
prepared to listen to what his son could say. He
heard the narrative with horror and astonishment.

“God bless us and preserve us, Bill! but this is
awful hard; and what are we to do—where shall we
run—how—”

“Run nowhere, but listen to what I tell you. You
can't help it now, but you may make something out of
it. If Proctor must hear the truth, he may as well
hear it from you.”

“From me!—bless me, Bill, my boy—from me?”

“Yes, from you. Set off by daypeep to the fort,
and see Proctor yourself. Tell him of your loyalty,
and how you love the king; and you can cry a little
all the time, if it comes easy to you. I don't want
you to strain much about it. Tell him that you have an
unworthy son, that's not of your way of thinking. Say
he's been misguided by the rebels, and how they've
inveigled him, till he's turned rebel himself; and how
he's now out with Marion's men, in Major Singleton's
squad. When you've done this, you can cry
again, and do any thing to throw dust in his eyes.
Say it's all owing to your loyalty that you expose your
own flesh and blood, and mind you don't take any
money for telling.”

“Bless me, dear boy, but this is awful to think on.”

“It must be thought on, though, and the sooner the
better. Coming from you, it will help you; coming
from that skunk, Goggle, and you silent, and they pack
you off to the Charlestown provost, or maybe draw
you over the swinging bough. Tell Proctor our force
is thirty; that we lay at Slick ford last night, and that
we push for Black river by daypeep, to join with the
Swamp Fox. This, you see, will be a truer story
than Goggle can tell, for if he sends Proctor after us
to Slick ford, he'll have a journey to take back.”

“Bless me, what's to become of us all, Bill, I don't
see. I am all over in a fever now, ever since you
tell'd me your story.”

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“Shake it off, and be comfortable, as you can be.
Thinking about it never cured the shaking ague yet,
and never will. You must try.”

“And I will try—I will, boy; but bless me, Bill,
wouldn't it be better for us all to take the swamp—eh?”

“No—stay where you are; there's no need for you
to go out, and you can do good where you are. Besides,
there's Bell, you know”

“True, true.”

“Lead out trumps, that's the way, and mind how
you play 'em; that's all you've got to do now, and if
so be you try, you can do it. Don't burn daylight,
but be with Proctor as soon as sunrise lets you.
Don't stop to talk about Edisto catfish, or what's for
dinner, and whether it's like to rain or shine, but push
through the crowd, and don't mind your skirts. All
depends on you, now.”

“Bless us, bless us! what times, what times! Oh,
Bill, my boy, what's coming to us! Here was Huck,
to-day, and says Continental Congress is to make
peace with Great Britain, and to give up Carolina and
Georgia.”

“Oh that's all a fool notion, for it's no such thing.
That's all a trick of the tories, and you needn't mind
it. But what of Huck?”

“He goes a-Monday to join Tarleton.”

“Good!—and now I must leave you. I've got a
mighty deal to see to afore daylight, and I won't see
you for a smart spell, I reckon, as I shall have to hug
the swamp close after this. Don't be slow now,
father, 'cause every thing hangs on your shoulders,
and you must tell your story straight.”

In their dialogue the son had taken care to omit
nothing which a shrewd, thinking mind might suggest,
as essential to the successful prosecution of the plan
advised. This done, he took his way to the dwelling
of old Pryor, and tapping with his knife-handle thrice
upon one of the small, but ostentatious, pine pillars of
the portico, the door was unclosed, and he was at once

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admitted, as one who had been waited for. There we
shall leave him, conferring closely with a select few,
busy, like himself, in preparations for a general uprising
of the people.

CHAPTER XIX.

She is lost!—
She is saved!—
Goethe.

Humphries, poor old man, placed himself at an
eastern window, the moment his son had departed, to
watch for the first openings of the daylight. What a
task had he to perform! what a disclosure to make!
and how should he evade the doubt, though complying
with the suggestion of reason and his son alike, that
he should, by the development he was about to make,
compromise the safety of the latter. Should he be
taken, the evidence of the father would be adequate to
his conviction, and that evidence he was now about to
offer to the enemy. He was to denounce him as a
rebel, an outlaw, whom the leader of a single troop
might hang without a trial, the moment he was arrested.
The old man grew miserable with his reflections,
and there was but one source of consolation.
Fortunately, the supply of old Jamaica in the “Royal
George” was still good; and a tumbler of the precious
beverage, fitly seasoned with warm spices and sugar,
was not ineffectually employed to serve the desired
purpose.

And with this only companion, whose presence momently
grew less, the worthy landlord watched for
the daylight from his window; and soon the gray mist
rose up like a thin veil over the tops of the tall trees,
and the pale stars came retreating away from the
more powerful array which was at hand. The hum
of the night insects was over—the hoarse chant of
the frog family was silent, as their unerring senses

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taught them the coming of that glorious and beautiful
presence which they did not love. Fold upon fold,
like so many variously shaded wreaths, the dim curtain
of the night was drawn gradually up into heaven, and
once more the vast panorama of forest, river, and green
valley came out upon the sight, rising, by little and
little, into life, in the slowly illumined distance.

The moment old Humphries saw the approach of
daylight, he finished his tumbler of punch, and, with a
sad heart, he set out for Proctor's quarters. Some
little delay preceded his introduction to the commandant
of the garrison, who received him graciously, and
civilly desired to know his business. This was soon
unfolded, and with many pauses, broken exclamations
of grief and loyalty, the landlord gave a brief account,
as furnished him by his son, of all the events which
had occurred to Singleton and his squad since his assumption
of its command. The affair of the tories and
his troop in the swamp—the capture of the baggage
and arms—the delay of which, a matter of surprise to
Huck, was now accounted for—and the subsequent
bivouac upon the Stonoe head, were quickly unfolded to
the wondering Briton. He immediately despatched a
messenger for Huck, while proceeding to the crossexamination
of his informant—a scrutiny which he
conducted with respect and a proper consideration.
All was coherent in his story, and Proctor was inly
troubled. A piece of daring, such as the formation of
Singleton's squad, so near the garrison, so immediately
in the neighborhood and limits of the most esteemed
loyalty, was well calculated to annoy him. The
name of Major Singleton too, grated harshly on his
ears. He could not but remember the sinister reference
of Katharine Walton to her cousin of the same
name; and he at once identified him with his rival in
that young lady's regard. Huck came while yet he
deliberated; and to him the narrative which Humphries
delivered, who stood by all the while, was also told.
The tory was not less astounded than Proctor; and
the two conferred freely on their news before

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Humphries, whose loyalty was properly confirmed in their
opinion, by his unscrupulous denunciation of his own
son. To Huck, the commandant of the garrison was
compelled to apply, and the troop of the former was
required to disperse the force of Singleton. The
garrison guard was too small, under the doubtful condition
of loyalty in the neighborhood, to spare a detachment;
and it was arranged, therefore, that Huck
should depart from his original plan and route, which
was to start on the ensuing day for Camden, and immediately
to make a circuit through the country by
the Stonoe, and having done so, go forward by Parker's
Ferry, and gain, by a circuitous sweep, the course
which had been formerly projected, and which, indeed,
the orders received by him from Cornwallis compelled
him to pursue. It was hoped that he would overhaul
the little force of Singleton, in which event it
must have been annihilated. In the mean time, Proctor
prepared his despatches for Charlestown, calling
for a supply of troops—a call not likely to be responded
to from that quarter, as the garrison there had
been already drawn upon by the interior, to such an
extent as to leave barely a sufficient force within the
walls of the city for its own maintenance. This Proctor
knew, but no other hope presented itself, and glad
to use the troop of Huck, he contented himself with
the consciousness of having done all that could be
done by him, under existing circumstances. Civilly
dismissing Humphries, he would have rewarded
him, but the old man urged his simple and sincere
loyalty, and shrunk back at the idea of receiving
gold as the reward of his son's betrayal. He did his
part ably, and leaving the two conferring upon the particulars
of the tory's route, hurried away to the tavern
in no enviable state of feeling.

His son, whom we have seen entering the dwelling
of old Pryor, was glad to meet with several sturdy whigs
in close conference. They had been stimulated by
the whispers of an approaching army of continentals,
and the vague intelligence had been exaggerated in

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due proportion to the thick obscurity which at that
time hung about the subject. The host, himself—
who was a sturdy patriot, and more than usually bold,
as, of late days, he was more than usually unfortunate—
presided upon this occasion. The party was small,
consisting of some half dozen persons, all impatient
of the hourly wrongs, which, in their reckless indifference
to the feelings of the conquered, the invaders
continually committed. The reduction of the British
forces in the lower county, in the large draughts made
upon it for the upper posts, had emboldened disaffection;
and the people, like snakes long huddled up in
holes during the severe weather, now came out with
the first glimpses of the sunshine. The arrival of
Humphries with the intelligence which he brought,
gave them new spirits. The successes of Marion at
Britton's neck, and Singleton in the swamp, of which
they had not heard before, though small, were yet held
an earnest of what might be anticipated, and what was
hoped for. The additional news that the approaching
continentals were to be commanded by Gates, whose
renown was in the ascendant—so far in the ascendant,
indeed, that the star of Washington almost sank before
it—went far to give hope a positive body and a form.
Doubt succeeded to bold prediction, and the conspirators
were now prepared—those reluctant before—to begin
properly the organization of their section, as had been
the advice of Marion. Still they were not altogether
ready for the field. Property was to be secured, families
carried beyond reach of that retribution which the
enemy usually inflicted upon the feeble in return for the
audacity and defiance of the strong; arms were to be
procured, and, until the time of Sir Henry Clinton's indulgence—
the twenty days—had expired, they determined
to forbear all open demonstration. To these,
Humphries had already designated their leader, in the
person of Col. Walton, whom they all knew and esteemed.
His coming out they were satisfied would
alone bring an active and goodly troop into the field.
Popular as he was, both in St. Paul's and St. George's,

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it was confidently believed that he would bring both
the parishes out handsomely, and his skill as a leader
had been already tried and was highly estimated. The
spirits of the little knot of conspirators grew with every
enumeration of their prospects and resources, and
they looked up, as daylight approached, full of hope
and mutual assurances. Two of the party agreed to
come out to Humphries, in the contiguous wood, by
the first ringing of the bell for sabbath service—for the
day was Sunday—and there, at a given spot, the lieutenant
was to await them.

Before the daylight he took his departure, and leading
his horse into the close swamp thicket on the river,
where his first conference with Singleton had taken
place, he fastened him carefully, took his seat at the
foot of a tree which overhung the river, and there
mused, half dozing, for the brief hour that came
between the time and the dawning. But soon the
light came winding brightly and more brightly around
him; the mists curled up from the river, and the breeze
rising up from the ocean, with the dawn, refreshed
and animated him. He sat watching the mysterious
separation of those twin agents of life, night and day,
as the one rolled away in fog along the river, and the
other burst forth, in gleams from the sky and bloom
upon the earth. But these sights were not such as
greatly to amuse our lieutenant, and the time passed
heavily enough, until about eight o'clock, when, from
the river's edge, he distinguished, crossing the bridge
at Dorchester, the time-worn, bent figure, of the old
Dame Blonay. She was on her way to the garrison for
the revelation of that intelligence, which his father
had by this time already unfolded. The lieutenant now
understood a part of the design, and readily conceived
that such was the purport of her visit to the village.
Yet why had not her son undertaken the task himself?
Why depute to an infirm old woman the performance
of an object so important? The question puzzled
him; and it was only a dim conjecture of the truth,
which led him to believe that Goggle had made his way

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back to camp with the view to some farther treachery.
As the hag grew more distinct to his eye, in the increasing
light, her sharp features—the subtle cast of
her eye—the infirm crazy motion—bent shoulders,
and witch-like staff which she carried, brought many
unpleasant images to the mind of the observer; and
the singular, and, to him, the superstitious fear which
he had felt while gazing upon her, through the crevices
of her hut the night before, came back to him with increased
influence. He thought of the thousand strange
stories of the neighborhood, about the witchcraft practised
by her and others. Indian doctors were then, all
over the country, renowned for their cures, all of
which were effected by trick and mummery, mixed up
with a due proportion of forest medicines—wild roots
and plants, the properties of which, known through
long ages to the aborigines, were foreign to the knowledge,
and therefore marvellous in the estimation of the
whites. To their arts the Gullah and the Ebo negroes,
of which the colony had its thousands furnished by the
then unscrupulous morality of its neighbours, added
their spells and magic, in no stinted quantities, and of
the foulest and filthiest attributes. The conjuration
of these two classes became united in the practice of
the cunning white, of an order little above them, and
Mother Blonay formed the representative of a sect in
the lower country of South Carolina, by no means
small in number or trifling in influence, and which, to
this day, not utterly extinguished, remains here and
there in the more ignorant sections, still having power
over the subject minds of the weak and superstitious.

As we have said, Humphries was not one, if the
question were to be asked him, to say that he believed
in the powers thus claimed for the old woman before
us. But the bias of years, of early education and
associates, was insurmountable; and he felt the influence
which his deliberate reflection would be, nevertheless,
at all times disposed to deny. He felt it now
as she came towards him, and when, passing along, he
saw her move towards the dwelling of his father, he

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remembered her mysterious speech associated with
the name of his sister, and his blood grew cold in his
veins, though, an instant after, it again boiled with a
fury naturally enough arising from the equivocal regard
in which that speech had seemed to place her. As
she passed along the copse to the edge of which his
feet had almost followed her, he placed himself in a
position to observe the direction which she would
pursue in entering the village, and was satisfied of her
object when he saw her bending her way to the fortress.
We need scarce add that she told her story to Proctor,
and was listened to coldly. She had brought him
no intelligence, and, indeed, he knew rather more than
herself. But one point of difference existed between
the account given by old Humphries and the woman.
The one stated that Singleton's band had withdrawn
from the Stonoe, and had pushed for Black river—the
other affirmed it to be there still. The difference was
at once made known to Huck, a portion of whose
troopers were even then getting into saddle. The residue
were soon to follow, and the whole were expected
to rendezvous that night at Parker's ferry. Mother
Blonay was mortified that she brought no news to the
garrison; but, as her story confirmed that of Humphries,
Proctor gave her a reward, small, however, in
comparison with what had been expected. She left the
garrison in bad humour, and was soon joined on her
way by Sergeant Hastings, whose orders required him
to march with the detachment which was to follow
Huck that afternoon. His chagrin, on this account,
was not less than hers. A bitter oath accompanied the
information which he gave her of the orders he had
just received. The two then spoke of another matter.

“Far off as ever, mother, and without your help
there's nothing to be done now. Last night I was in
a fair way enough, but up comes that chap her brother—
it could be nobody else—and I had to cut for it. I
went over the fence then, a thought quicker than I
should be able to do it now.”

“It was not Bill Humphries you saw, for he was at

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my cabin long time after hours last night; and then he'd
not venture in this quarter now. No—no. 'Twas the
old man, I reckon.”

“Maybe, though he seemed to run too fast for the
old fellow. But no matter who 'twas. The thing
failed, and you must chalk out another track.”

“I will: don't fear, for I've said it; and come fire,
come storm, it must be done. Goggle—Goggle—
Goggle! He must pay for that, and he shall; she
shall—they shall all pay for that, and old scores besides.
It's a long-standing account, sergeant, and you can
help me to make it up and pay it off; and that's the
reason I help you to this. I shall go about it now,
and—” After a pause, in which she seemed to meditate
a while—“Yes; meet me in the swamp thicket
above the bridge, just after you pass the Oak Grove.”

“When?”

“This morning—soon as the bells strike up for
church, and before the people begin to come in freely.
Don't be backward, now, but come certain, and don't
wait for the last chimes.”

The worthy pair separated, and the glimpses of a
previous connection which their dialogue gives us,
serves a little to explain some portions of our own
narrative.

While this matter had been in progress, two sturdy
troopers joined Humphries in the swamp. Their
horses were carefully hidden, and they determined to
await the time when the roads should be free from the
crowd on their way to church, before they ventured
abroad. They amused themselves as well as they
might, keeping close in cover themselves, by watching
the people as they crossed the bridges, hurried along
the highway leading to the village, or lounged on the
open ground in front of the church; for all of these
points might easily be commanded from different places
along the thicket. There came the farmer on his
tacky, in his coarse striped breeches, blue homespun
coatee, and broad-brimmed hat; there, the whirling carriage,
borne along by four showy bays, of the wealthy

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planter; there, the trudging country-girl in her huge
sunbonnet and short-waisted cotton frock; and there,
in little groups of two or three, the negroes, male and
female, with their own small stock of eggs, chickens,
blackberries, and sassafras, ploughing their way through
the heavy sands to occupy their places in the village
market.

While Humphries looked, he saw, to his great vexation,
the figure of Dame Blonay approaching, accompanied
by his sister. All his suspicions were reawakened
by the sight. The girl was dressed as for church.
Her dress was simple, suited to her condition, and well
adapted to her shape, which was a good one. Her
bonnet was rather fine and flaunting, and there was
something of gaudiness in the pink and yellow distributed
over her person in the guise of knots and
ribands. But still the eye was not offended, for the
habit did not show unfavourably along with the pretty
face, and light, laughing, good-natured eye that animated
it. What a contrast to the old hag beside her.
The one, capricious enough, was yet artless and simple—
the other was even then devising plans for her ruin.

“Come, my daughter, come farther—I would not
others should hear what I say to you; and I know
it will please you to know. The wood is cool and
shady, and we can talk there at our ease.”

“But, mother, wasn't it a strange dream now—a very
strange dream, to think that I should be a great lady,
and ride in my coach like the ladies at `Middleton
Place,' and `The Oaks,' and `Singleton's,' and all the
rich people about here?—and it all seemed so true,
mother—so very true, I didn't know where I was when
I woke up this morning.”

There was a devilish leer in the old hag's eye, as
she looked into that of the vain-hearted but innocent
girl beside her, and answered her in a speech well
calculated to increase the idle folly already so active
in her mind. Humphries heard nothing of the dialogue—
he was quite too far off; but he felt so deeply
anxious on the subject of the old woman's connection

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with his sister, that he had actually given some directions
to the two troopers along with him, and was
about to emerge from his cover, and separate them at
all hazards, when the bells from the village steeple
struck up, and warned him of the extreme risk which
he must run from such an exposure of his person.
The same signal had the effect of bringing the two more
closely to the copse, to which the old woman, now, by
various suggestions, contrived to persuade her companion.
While they approached the thicket, Humphries
changed his course and position, so as to find a contiguous
spot, for the concealment of his person, the
moment they should stop, which would enable him to
gather up their dialogue; and it was not long before
they paused, at the old woman's bidding, in a well-shaded
place, completely unseen from the road, and
quite out of hearing from the village. Here the conversation
between them was resumed—Mother Blonay
leading off in reply to something said by Bella, the
purport of which may be guessed from the response
made to it.

“A bad dream, do you say, my daughter? I say it
is a good dream, and you're a lucky girl, if you don't
stand in the way of your own fine fortune. There's
good coming to you: that dream's always a sign of
good; it never fails. So mind you don't spoil all by
some foolish notion.”

“Why, how shall I do, mother? what shall I say?
Dear me! I wouldn't do any thing to spoil it for the
world!”

And the two seated themselves upon the green turf
in the thicket, the right hand of the girl upon the knee
of the hag, while her eyes looked up apprehensively
and inquiringly into the face of the latter. She gave
her some counsel, accordingly, in answer to the question,
of a vague, indefinite character, very mysteriously
delivered, and the only part of which, understood by
Bella, was a general recommendation to her, quietly
to receive, and not to resist her good fortune.

“But, mother, I thought you said you would show

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him to me—him, my true-and-true husband, that is to
be. Now I wonder who it can be. It can't be John
Davis, for he's gone away from the village, and they
say he's out in the swamp, mother—can you tell?”

“No, Bella; and it's no use: he's nothing at all
to you.”

“You think so, mother? Well, I'm sorry; for I do
believe John had a true-and-true love for me in his
heart, and he often said so. I wonder where he is.”

“John Davis, indeed, my child! how can you speak
of such a fellow? Why, what has he to show for
you? A poor shoat that hasn't house, nor home, nor
any thing to make a wife comfortable, or even feed
her when he gets her. No, no, girl, the husband
that's for you is a different sort of person—a very
different sort of person, indeed.”

“Oh, do, mother! can't you tell me something about
him, now?—only a little; I do so want to know. Is
he tall, now, or short? I hope he's tall—eh?—middle
size, and wears—oh, speak, mother! and don't shake
your head so—tell me at once!” And the girl pressed
forward upon the old woman, and her eye earnestly
watched the features of her countenance, heedless of
the ogre grin which rested upon her lips, and the generally
fiendish expression of her skinny face. The
old woman did not immediately answer, for her
thoughts seemed to wander, and her eye looked about
her, as if in search of some expected object.

“What do you look for, mother?—you don't mind
what I say, do you?”

“I was looking and thinking, my daughter, how to
answer you best. How would you like, now, instead
of hearing about your husband that is to be, to see him?”

“What! can you make him come, mother, like a
picture, with a big frame round him? and shall I see
him close—see him close? But I mustn't touch him,
I suppose; for then he'd vanish, they say.”

“Yes,—how would you like to see him, now, Bella?”

“Oh, dear me, I should be frightened! You'd better

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tell me who he is, and don't bring him: though, indeed,
mother, I can't think there would be danger.”

“None—none at all,” said the old woman in reply,
who seemed disposed to prolong the dialogue.

“Well, if he only looked like John Davis, now!”

“John Davis, indeed, Bella!—what do you say,
now, of the sergeant, Sergeant Hastings? suppose it
happened to be him, now?”

“Don't talk to me of Sergeant Hastings, mother;
for I was a fool to mind him. He don't care that for
me, I know: and he talks cross to me; and if I don't
run myself out of breath to serve him, he says ugly
things. Besides, he's been talking strange to me, and
I don't like it. More than once I've been going to
tell brother William something that he once said to
me: and I know, if I had, there would have been a
brush between them; for William won't stand any
thing that's impudent. Don't talk of him to me.”

“But I must, my daughter, for it cannot be helped.
If I see that he's born to be your husband, and you his
wife, it must be so, and I must say it.”

“No, no—it's not so, mother, I know. It shan't
be so,” said the girl, firmly enough. “I won't believe
it, neither, and you're only plaguing me.”

“It's a truth, Bella, and neither you nor I can help
it, or keep it off. I tell you, child that you were born
for Sergeant Hastings.”

“But I won't be born for him, neither. I can't, and
I won't, for you don't know what he said to me, and
it's not good for me to tell it again, for it was naughty;
and I'm sorry I ever talked cross to poor John Davis,
and I did so all because of him.”

The change in her regards from Hastings to her
old lover, was a source of no small astonishment to
the old hag, who knew not how to account for it. It
gave less satisfaction to her than to Humphries, who,
in the neighbouring bush, heard every syllable which
had been uttered. The secret of this change is easily
given. As simple as a child, the mere deference to
her claims of beauty, had left her easily susceptible of

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imposition; and without any feeling actually enlisted
in favour of Hastings, she had been on the verge
of that precipice—the gulf which passion or folly so
often prepares for its unheeding votaries. His professions
and flatteries had gradually filled her mind, and
when his continued attentions had driven all those
away, from whom she had, or might also have received
them, it followed that she became a dependant entirely
upon him, who, in creating this state of subservience,
had placed her, to a certain degree at least, at his
mercy. She felt this dependence now, and it somewhat
mortified her; her vanity grew hurt, when the
tone of deference formerly used by her lover, had been
changed to one of command and authority; and she
sometimes sighed when she thought of the unremitting
attentions of her old lover from Goose Creek, the indefatigable
Davis. The gaudy dress, and imposing
pretensions, had grown common in her eye, while, at
the same time, the inferiority of the new lover to the
old, in delicacy of feeling, and genuine regard, had
become sufficiently obvious. She had, of late, instituted
the comparison between them more than once,
and the consequence was inevitable. There was no
little decision in her manner, therefore, as she refused
to submit to the fate which Mother Blonay desired to
impose upon her.

“But, Bella, my daughter—”

“No, no, mother—don't tell me of Sergeant Hastings
any more—I wont hear of him any longer.”

“And why not, Bella, my dear,” exclaimed the redoubtable
sergeant himself, coming from behind the
trees and speaking to her with a mixed expression of
pride and dissatisfaction in his countenance—“why
not, I pray, my dear?”

The poor girl was dumb at this intrusion. She
scarcely dared to look up, as, with the utmost composure,
Hastings took a seat beside her. The old hag
who had arranged the scheme, at the same moment
rose to depart. Quick as thought, Bella seized her
hand and would have risen also, but with a gentle

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force the sergeant prevented her, and retained his hold
upon her wrist while compelling her to resume the
seat beside him.

“I must go, sergeant—father is waiting for me I'm
sure—and the bells are 'most done ringing. Don't
leave me, mother.”

But the old woman was gone, and the girl sat trembling
beside the strong man who held her, speaking,
when she did, in a tremor, and begging to depart. But
why dwell on what ensued. The brutal suitor had but
one object, and did not long delay to exhibit its atrocious
features. Entreaties were succeeded by rudenesses;
and the terrified girl, shrieking and screaming to
the old hag who had decoyed and left her, was dragged
recklessly back by the strong arms of her companion.

“Cry away—Goggle now—Goggle now—Goggle
now—scream on, you poor fool—scream, but there's
no help for you.” And as the old beldam thus answered
to the prayers of the girl, she was stricken
aside and hurled like a stone into the bush, even
while the fiendish soliloqny was upon her lips, by the
raging brother, who now darted forward. In another
instant, and he had dashed the ravisher to the
earth—torn his sister, now almost exhausted, from his
grasp—and with his heel upon the breast of Hastings,
and his knife bared in his hand, that moment would
have been the last of life to the ruffian, but for the
intervention of the two troopers, who, hearing the
shriek, had also rushed forward from the recesses in
the wood where the providence of Humphries had
placed them. They prevented the blow, but with
their aid the sergeant was gagged, bound, and dragged
down into the copse where the horses awaited them.

“Oh, brother—dear brother William!” cried the
terrified girl—“believe me, brother William, but it's
not my fault—I didn't mean to do wrong! I am innocent—
that I am!”

She hung upon him as if she feared his suspicions.
He pressed her to his arms while weeping like a very
child over her.

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“I know it—I know it, Bella! and God knows how
glad I am to know it! Had I not heard all between
you, I'd ha' put this knife into you, just the same as if
you were not my own flesh and blood. But go now—
run to church, and pray to have some sense as well as
innocence; for innocence without sense is like a
creeping baby that has not yet got the use of its arms
and legs. Go now—run all the way—and mind that
you say nothing to the old man about it.”

Throwing her arms about his neck and kissing him,
she hurried upon her way with the speed of a bird just
escaping, and narrowly, from the net of the fowler.

END OF VOL. I.

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Simms, William Gilmore, 1806-1870 [1835], The partisan: a tale of the revolution, volume 1 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf358v1].