University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
ROUGH USAGE AMONG THE `RIDERS.'

Nothing could exceed the surprise of Clarence Conway
when, conducted by his captors into the house of
Muggs, he beheld the condition of his kinsman. His
ardent and unsuspicious nature at once reproached him
with those doubts which he had entertained of the fidelity
of the latter. He now wondered at himself for the ready
credence which he had been disposed to yield, on grounds
so slight and unsatisfactory as they then appeared to
be, to the imputations against one so near to him by
blood; and with the natural rapidity of the generous
nature, he forgot, in his regrets for his own supposed
errors, those of which his brother had, as he well knew,
most certainly been guilty. He forgot that it was not
less a reproach against Edward Conway—even if he was
misrepresented as friendly to the cause of the invader—
that he had forborne to show that he was friendly to that
of his country; and, in that moment of generous forgetfulness,
even the suspicious conduct of the fugitive in
relation to his own affair of heart, passed from his memory.

“Can it be!—Is it you, Edward Conway, that I find
in this predicament?” were his first words when—the
speaker being equally secured—they were left alone together.

“You see me,” was the reply. “My ill reputation
with the one side does not, it appears, commend me to
any favour with the other.”

“And these men?” said Clarence, inquiringly.

“Are, it would seem, no other persons than your
famous Black Riders. I have had a taste of their discipline
already, and shall probably enjoy something more
before they are done with me. It appears that they have
discovered that I am as rabid a rebel as, by Butler's men,
I was deemed a tory. They charge me with some small
crimes—such as killing king's men and burning their
houses, stabbing women and roasting children—to all of
which charges I have pleaded not guilty, though with
very little chance of being believed. I cannot complain,
however, that they should be as incredulous in my behalf
as my own father's son.”

“Do not reproach me, Edward. Do me no injustice.
You cannot deny that circumstances were against you,
so strong as almost to justify belief in the mind of your
father himself. If any man ever struggled against conviction,
I was that man.”

“Clarence Conway, you perhaps deceive yourself
with that notion. But the truth is, your jealousy on the
subject of Flora Middleton has made you only too ready
to believe any thing against me. But I will not reproach
you. Nay—I have resolved, believe what you may,
hereafter to say nothing in my defence or justification.
I have done something too much of this already for my
own sense of self-respect. Time must do the rest—I
will do no more.”

The generous nature of Clarence deeply felt these expressions.
His wily kinsman well understood that nature,
and deliberately practised upon it. He listened to the
explanations and assurances of the former with the doggedness
of one who feels that he has an advantage, and
shows himself resolute to keep it. Still he was too much
of a proficient in the knowledge of human nature to over-act
the character. He spoke but few words. He seldom
looked at his brother while he spoke, and an occasional
half-suppressed sigh betokened the pains of a spirit conscious
of the keenest wrong, yet too proud even to receive
the atonement which reminds him of it. An expression
of sorrow and sadness, but not unkindness, prevailed
over his features. His words, if they did not betoken

despondency, yet conveyed a feeling almost of indifference
to whatever might betide him. The language of
his look seemed to say—“Suspected by my best friends,
my father's son among them, it matters little what may
now befall me. Let the enemy do his worst. I care
not for these bonds,—I care for nothing that he can do.”

Nothing, to the noble heart, is so afflicting as the consciousness
of having done injustice; and to witness the
suffering of another in consequence of our injustice, is
one of the most excruciating of human miseries to a
nature of this order. Such was the pang at this moment
in the bosom of Clarence Conway. He renewed his
efforts to soothe and to appease the resentments of his
kinsman, with all the solicitude of truth.

“Believe me, Edward, I could not well think otherwise
than I have thought, or do other than I have done.
You surely cannot deny that you placed yourself in a
false position. It would have been wonderful, indeed, if
your course had not incurred suspicion.

“True friendship seldom suspects, and is the last to
yield to the current when its course bears against the
breast it loves. But let us say no more on this subject,
Clarence. It has always been a painful one to me; and
just now, passing, as I may say, from one sort of bondage
to another, it is particularly so. It is, perhaps, unnecessary,
situated as we are, that we should any longer refer
to it. The doubts of the past may be as nothing to the
dangers of the future. If this banditti be as you have
described them, we shall have little time allowed us to
discuss the past; and, for the future!—” He paused.

“And yet, believe me, Edward, it makes me far happier
to see you in these bonds, subjected to all the dangers
which they imply, than to suffer from the accursed suspicion
that you were the leader of this banditti.”

“I thank you—indeed I thank you very much—for
nothing! It may surprise you to hear me say that your
situation yields me no pleasure. Your sources of happiness
and congratulation strike me as being very peculiar.”

“Edward Conway, why will you misunderstand me?”

“Do I?”

“Surely. What have I said to make you speak so
bitterly?”

“Nothing, perhaps;—but just now, Clarence, my
thoughts and feelings are rather bitter than sweet, and
may be supposed likely to impart something of their
taste to what I say. But I begged that we might forbear
the subject—all subjects—at this time; for the very
reason that I feared something might be spoken by one
or both which would make us think more unkindly of
each other than before—which would increase the gulf
between us.”

“I think not unkindly of you, Edward. I regret what
I have spoken unkindly, though under circumstances
which, I still insist, might justify the worst suspicion in
the mind of the best of friends. There is no gulf between
us now, Edward Conway.”

“Ay, but there is; an impassable one for both—a
barrier which we have built up with mutual industry,
and which must stand between us for ever. Know you
Flora Middleton? Ha! Do you understand me now,
Clarence Conway? I see you do—you are silent.”

Clarence was, indeed, silent. Painful was the conviction
that made him so. He felt the truth of what his
brother had spoken. He felt that there was a gulf between
them; and he felt also that the look and manner
of his kinsman, while he spoke the name, together with
the tone of voice in which it was spoken, had most unaccountably,
and most immeasurably, enlarged that gulf.
What could be the meaning of this? What was that
mysterious antipathy of soul which could comprehend
so instantly the instinct hate and bitterness in that of
another. Clarence felt at this moment that, though his
suspicions of Edward Conway, as the chief of the Black
Riders, were all dissipated by the position in which he
found him, yet he loved him still less than before. The
tie of blood was weakened yet more than ever, and its
secret currents were boiling up in either breast, with
suppressed but increasing hostility.

The pause was long and painful which ensued between
them. At length Clarence broke the silence. His manner

was subdued, but the soul within him was strengthened.
The course of his kinsman had not continued to
its close as judicious as it seemed at the beginning. It
had been a wiser policy had he forborne even the intimation
of reproach—had he assumed an aspect of greater
kindness and love towards his companion in misfortune,
and striven, by a studious display of cheerfulness, to
prove to his brother that he was only apprehensive lest
the situation in which the latter had found him might
tend too much to his own self-reproach. Such would
have been the course of a generous foe. Such should
have been the course of one towards a generous friend.
Forbearance, at such a moment, would have been the
very best proof of the presence of a real kindness. But
it was in this very particular that the mind of Edward
Conway was weak. He was too selfish a man to know
what magnanimity is! He did not sufficiently comprehend
the nature of the man he addressed; and though
the situation in which the latter found him had its effect,
yet the policy which he subsequently pursued, most
effectually defeated many of the moral advantages which
must have resulted to him, in the mind of his brother,
from a more liberal train of conduct. The reference to
Flora Middleton placed Clarence on his guard. It reminded
him that there were more grounds of difference
between himself and kinsman than he had been just before
prepared to remember. It reminded him that Edward
Conway had been guilty of a mean evasion, very like a
falsehood, in speaking of this lady; and this remembrance
revived all his former personal distrusts, however hushed
may have been all such as were purely political. Edward
Conway discovered that he had made a false move
in the game the moment that his brother resumed his
speech. He was sagacious enough to perceive his error,
though he vainly then might have striven to repair it.
Clarence meanwhile proceeded as follows, with a grave
severity of manner, which proved that, on one subject at
least, he could neither be abused nor trifled with.

“You have named Flora Middleton, Edward Conway.
With me that name is sacred. I owe it to my own feelings,

as well as to her worth, that it should not be spoken
with irreverence. What purpose do you propose by
naming her to me, at this moment, and with such a
suggestion?”

The outlaw assumed a bolder tone and a higher position
than he took when the same subject was discussed
between them in the swamp. There was an air of defiance
in his manner as he replied, which aroused all the
gall in his brother's bosom.

“Am I to tell you now, for the first time, Clarence
Conway, that I love Flora Middleton?”

“Ha!—Is it so?—Well!”

“It is even so! I love Flora Middleton—as I long
have loved her.”

“You are bold, Edward Conway! Am I to understand
from this that you propose to urge your claims?”

“One does not usually entertain such feelings without
some hope to gratify them; and I claim to possess all
the ordinary desires and expectations of humanity.”

“Be it so, then, Edward Conway,” replied Clarence,
with a strong effort at composure. “But,” he added,
“if I mistake not, there was an understanding between
us on this subject. You—”

“Ay, ay, to pacify you—to avoid strife with my father's
son, Clarence Conway, I made some foolish promise
to subdue my own feelings out of respect to yours
—some weak and unmanly concessions!”

“Well! Have you now resolved otherwise.”

“Why, the truth is, Clarence, it is something ridiculous
for either of us to be talking of our future purposes,
while in such a predicament as this. Perhaps we had
better be at our prayers, preparing for the worst. If half
be true that is said of these Black Riders, a short shrift
and a sure cord are the most probable of their gifts.
We need not quarrel about a woman on the edge of the
grave.”

“Were death sure and at hand, Edward Conway, my
principles should be equally certain, and expressed without
fear. Am I to understand that you have resolved to

disregard my superior claims, and to pursue Flora Middleton
with your attentions.”

“Your superior claims, Clarence,” replied the other,
“consist, simply, if I understand the matter rightly, in
your having seen the lady before myself, and by so many
months only having the start of me in our mutual admiration
of her charms. I have not learned that she has
given you to suppose that she regards you with more
favour than she does myself.”

A warm flush passed over the before pale features of
Clarence Conway. His lip was agitated, and its quivering
only suppressed by a strong effort.

“Enough, sir!” he exclaimed—“we understand each
other.”

There was probably some little mockery in the mood
of Edward Conway as he urged the matter to a farther
point.

“But let me know, Clarence. Something of my own
course will certainly depend—that is, if I am ever again
free from the clutches of these—” The sentence was
left unfinished by the speaker, as if through an apprehension
that he might have more auditors than the one
he addressed. He renewed the sentence, cautiously
omitting the offensive member:

“Something of my course, Clarence, will surely depend
on my knowledge of your claims. If they are
superior to mine, or to those of a thousand others—if
she has given you to understand that she has a preference—”

The flush increased upon the cheek of the younger
kinsman as he replied:

“Let me do her justice, sir. It is with some sense
of shame that I speak again of her in a discussion such
as this. Miss Middleton has given me no claim—she
has shown me no preference, such as I could build upon
for an instant. But, my claim was on you, Edward
Conway. You were carried by me to her dwelling.
She was made known to you by me; and, before this
was done, I had declared to you my own deep interest
in her. You saw into the secret and sacred plans of my

heart—you heard from my own lips the extent of my
affection for her; and—but I can speak no more of this
without anger, and anger here is impotence. Take your
course, Edward Conway, and assert your desires as you
may. Henceforward I understand you, and on this subject
beg to be silent.”

The hour had elapsed which, by the previous instructions
of the outlaw chief, had been accorded to the interview
between himself and kinsman. The object of this
finesse had, as he believed, been fully answered; and at
this stage of the interview his counterfeit presentment
made his appearance, with all due terrors of authority,
and put an end to a conference which had become excessively
irksome to the younger brother. The farce was
not yet finished, however. Clarence Conway was the
curious witness to a long examination to which his fellow
prisoner was subjected, the object of which seemed to
be to establish the fact that Edward Conway was himself
a most inveterate rebel. A part of this examination may
be given.

“You do not deny that your name is Conway.”

“I do not,” was the reply.

“Colonel Conway, of Sumter's Brigade?”

“I am Colonel Conway, of Sumter's Brigade,” said
Clarence, interposing.

“Time enough to answer for yourself when you are
asked!—that story won't go down with us, my good
fellow,” sternly exclaimed the acting chief of the banditti.
“Shumway,” he exclaimed, turning to a subordinate,
“why the d—l were these d—d rebels put together?
They have been cooking up a story between them, and
hanging now will hardly get the truth out of either!
We'll see what Muggs can tell us. He should know
this fellow Conway.”

“Muggs has gone to bed, sir.”

“Wake him up and turn him out, at the invitation of
a rope's end. I'm suspicious that Muggs is half a rebel
himself, he's lived so long in this rascally neighbourhood,
and must be looked after.”

Shumway disappeared, and the examination proceeded.

“Do you still deny that you are Colonel Conway, of
Sumter's brigade? Beware now of your answer—we
have other rebels to confront you.”

The question was still addressed to the elder of the
kinsmen. His reply was made with grave composure.

“I do. My name is Conway, as I declared to you
before; but I am not of Sumter's brigade, nor of any
brigade. I am not a colonel, and never hope to be made
one.”

“Indeed! but you hope to get off with that d—d pack
of lies, do you, in spite of all the evidence against you?
But you are mistaken. I wouldn't give a continental
copper for the safety of your skin, colonel.”

“If the commission of Governor Rutledge of South
Carolina will be any evidence to show who is, and who
is not, Colonel Conway, of Sumter's brigade,” was the
second interruption of Clarence, “that commission will
be found in my pocket.”

“And what will that prove, you d—d rebel, but that
it has been slipped from one to the other as you each
wanted it. Your shifting commissions are well known
make-shifts among you, and we know too well their
value to put much faith in them. But can you guess,
my dear fellow,” turning to Clarence, “you, who are so
anxious to prove yourself a colonel—can you guess what
it will cost you to establish the fact? Do you know
that a swinging bough will be your first halting-place,
and your first bow shall be made to a halter?”

“If you think to terrify me by such threats, you are
mistaken in your man,” replied Clarence, with features
which amply denoted the wholesale scorn within his
bosom, “and if you dare to carry your threats into execution,
you as little know the men of Sumter's brigade,
the meanest of whom would promptly peril his own life
to exact fearful and bloody retribution for the deed. I am
Colonel Conway, and, dog of a tory, I defy you. Do
your worst. I know you dare do nothing of the sort
you threaten. I defy and spit upon you.”

The face of the outlaw blackened:—Clarence rose to
his feet.

“Ha! think you so? We shall see. Shumway,
Frink, Gasson!—you three are enough to saddle this
fiery rebel to his last horse. Noose him, you slow
moving scoundrels, to the nearest sapling, and let him
grow wiser in the wind. To your work, villains—
away!”

The hands of more than one of the ruffians were
already on the shoulders of the partisan. Though
shocked at the seeming certainty of a deed which he
had not been willing to believe they would venture to
execute, he yet preserved the fearless aspect which he
had heretofore shown. His lips still uttered the language
of defiance. He made no concessions, he asked
for no delay—he simply denounced against them the
vengeance of his command, and that of his reckless
commander, whose fiery energy of soul and rapidity of
execution they well knew. His language tended still
farther to exasperate the person who acted in the capacity
of the outlaw chief. Furiously, as if to second the
subordinates in the awful duty in which they seemed to
him to linger, he grasped the throat of Clarence Conway
with his own hands, and proceeded to drag him
forward. He did not see the significant gesture of head,
glance of eye and impatient movement of Edward Conway,
while he thundered out his commands and curses.
The latter could not, while seeking to preserve the new
character in which he had placed himself, take any more
decided means to make his wishes understood; and it
was with feelings of apprehension and annoyance, new
even to himself, that he beheld the prompt savage, to
whom he had entrusted the temporary command, about
to perform a deed which a secret and mysterious something
in his soul would not permit him to authorize or
behold, however much he might have been willing to
reap its pleasant fruits when done. There was evidently
no faltering in the fearful purpose of his representative.
Every thing was serious. He was too familiar with
such deeds to make him at all heedful of consequences;
and the proud bearing of the youth; the unmitigated
scorn in his look and language; the hateful words which

he had used, and the threats which he had denounced;
while they exasperated all around, almost maddened the
ruffian in command, to whom such defiance was new,
and with whom the taking of life was a circumstance
equally familiar and unimportant.

“Three minutes for prayer is all the grace I give
him!” he cried, hoarsely, as he helped the subordinates
to drag the destined victim towards the door. He himself
was not suffered one. The speech was scarcely
spoken, when he fell prostrate on his face, stricken in
the mouth by a rifle-bullet, which entered through an
aperture in the wall opposite. His blood and brains
bespattered the breast of Clarence Conway, whom his
falling body also bore to the floor of the apartment. A
wild shout from without followed the shot, and rose,
strong and piercing, above all the clamour within. In
that shout Clarence could not doubt that he heard the
manly voice of the faithful Jack Bannister, and the deed
spoke for itself. It could have been the deed of a friend
only.