The Partisan/XX
She is lost!— |
Humphries, poor old man, placed himself at an eastern window, the moment his son had departed, to watch for the first glances 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 grey mist rose up like a thin veil over the tops of the tall trees, and the pale stars sped, 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 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 heave, 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 Ashley, were quickly unfolded to the wondering Briton. He immediately despatched a messenger for Huck, while proceeding to the cross-examination 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 neighbourhood 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 meaning 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 in 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 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 neighbourhood, 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 Ashley, 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 Charleston, 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 naturally shrank back at the idea of receiving gold as the reward of his son's betrayal. He did his part shrewdly, 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 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 force 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 Colonel Walton, whom they all knew and esteemed. His coming out they were satisfied would, of itself, bring an active and goodly troop into the field. Popular as he was, both in St. Paul's and St. George's, 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 nature, 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 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 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 fancies 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 neighbourhood, 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 the mother country and the northern colonies, 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 more deliberate reflection was, 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 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 the girl. As the wretch 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 scarcely add that the old woman 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 Ashley, 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 Huniphries, 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 my cabin long time after hours last night; and then he'd not venture into 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: dont 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 connexion, which their dialogue gives us, serve 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 bridge, 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 plough-horse, in his coarse striped breeches, blue homespun coatee, and broadbrimmed hat; there, the whirling carriage, borne along by four showy bays, of the wealthy planter; there the trudging countrygirl 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 old, stern, ugly, poor, was even then devising plans for the ruin of the child.
"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 ' Singletons,' 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 connexion 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 Bella and Mother Blonay 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 her questions, 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 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 are not for such a poor scrub as John Davis."
"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 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! I tell you, you must not think of John Davis. You are for a far better man. 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 things 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 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 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 of the sergeant, 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 won't hear of him any longer."
"And why not, Bella, my dear?" exclaimed the redoubtable sergeant himself, coming suddenly into her presence, 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 decided 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, moving out of sight, though still keeping within hearing, with all the agility of a young person. The poor girl, left alone with her danger, seemed for the moment stupified. She 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 into the wood 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 soliloquy 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 knee upon the breast of Hastings, and his knife bared in his hands, 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.
"I know it—I know it, Bella! and God knows how glad I am to know it! Had I not heard all between you, and that old hag of hell, 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.