University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Ralph opened his eyes at a moderately late
hour on the ensuing morning, and found his acquaintance,
Forrester, in close attendance. He
felt himself somewhat sore from his bruises in falling,
but the wound gave him little concern. Indeed,
he was scarcely conscious of it. He had
slept well, and was not unwilling to enter into the
explanatory conversation which the woodman begun.
From him he learned the manner and situation
in which he had been found, and was made
familiar with a partial history of his present whereabouts.
In return, he gave a particular account
of the assault made upon him in the wood, and
of his escape—all of which, already known to
the reader, will call for no additional details. In
reply to the unscrupulous inquiry of Forrester, the
youth, with as little hesitation, declared himself to
be a native of the neighbouring state of South Carolina,
born in one of its middle districts, now about
to visit Tennessee. He concluded with giving his
name.

“Colleton, Colleton”—repeated the other, as if
reviving some recollection of the olden time—
“Why, 'squire, I once know'd a whole family of
that name in Carolina. I'm from Carolina myself,
you must know. There was an old codger—a fine
hearty buck—old Ralph Colleton—Colonel Ralph,
as they used to call him. He did have a power of
money, and a smart chance of lands and field niggers;

but they did say he was going behind hand,
for he didn't know how to keep what he had. He
was always buying, and living large—but that can't
last for ever. I saw him first at a muster. I was
then just eighteen, and went out with the rest, for
the first time. Maybe, 'squire, I didn't take the
rag off the bush that day. I belonged to Captain
Williams's troop, called the `Bush Whackers.'
We were all fine looking fellows, though I say it
myself. I was no chicken, I tell you. From that
day Mark Forrester wrote himself down `man.'
And well he might, 'squire, and no small one neither.
Six feet in stocking-foot, sound in wind and limb—
could outrun, outjump, outwrestle, outfight, and
outdo anyhow, any lad of my inches in the whole
district. There was Tom Foster, that for five long
years counted himself cock of the walk, and crowed
like a chicken whenever he came out upon the
ground. You never saw Tom, I reckon, for he went
off to Mississippi after I sowed him up. He couldn't
stand it any longer, since it was no use—well, I
licked him in short order; he wasn't a mouthful.
After that the whole ground was mine—nobody
could stand before me, 'squire; though now the
case may be different, for Sumter's a district,
'squire, that an't slow at raising game chickens.”

At the close of this rambling harangue, Mark
Forrester, as we may now be permitted to call him,
looked down upon his own person with no small
share of complacency. He was, doubtless, all the
man he boasted himself to have been. His person,
as we have already briefly described it, offering,
as well from its bulk and well distributed
muscle as from its perfect symmetry, a fine model
for the hand of the statuary. After the indulgence
for a few moments in this harmless egotism, he returned

to the point, as if but now recollected, from
which he set out.

“Well, then, Master Colleton, as I was saying,
'twas at this same muster that I first saw the
'squire. He was a monstrous clever old buck now,
I tell you. Why, he thought no more of money
than if it growed in his plantation—he almost
throwed it away for the people to scramble after.
That very day, when the muster was over, he
called all the boys up to Eben Garratt's tavern, and
told old Eben to set the right stuff afloat, and put
the whole score down to him. Maybe old Eben
didn't take him at his word. Eben was a cunning
chap, quite Yankee like, and would skin his shadow
for a saddle back, I reckon, if he could catch it.
I tell you what, when the crop went to town the
old 'squire must have had a mighty smart chance
to pay; for whatever people might say of old
Eben, he knew how to calculate from your pocket
into his with monstrous certainty. Well, then, as
I was saying, 'squire, I shouldn't be afraid to go you
a little bet,—your nag agin mine or so—that that
same old Ralph Colleton was some kin of your'n.
You're both of the same stock, I reckon.”

“I must do all justice to your conjectures,” replied
the youth—“the person of whom you speak
was indeed a near relative of mine—he was no
other than my father.”

“There now—I could have said as much, for
you look for all the world as if you had come out
of his own mouth. There is a trick of the eye
which I never saw in any but you two; and even
if you had not told me your name, I should have
made pretty much the same calculation about you.
The old 'squire, if I rightly recollect, was something
stiff in his way, and some people did say he
was proud, and carried himself rather high; but,

for my part, I never saw any difference 'twixt him
and most of our Carolina gentlemen, who, you
know, generally walk pretty high in the collar and
have no two ways about them. For that matter,
however, I couldn't well judge at that time—I may
have been something too young to say for certain,
what was what, at that time of my life.”

“You are not even now so far advanced in
years, Mr. Forrester, that you speak of your youth
as of a season so very remote. What, I pray, may
be your age? We may ask without offence such
a question of men—the case, where the other sex
is concerned, is, you are aware, something different.”
The youth seemed studiously desirous of
changing the direction of the dialogue.

“Man or woman, 'squire, I see, for my part, no
harm in the question. But do call me Forrester,
or Mark Forrester, whichever pleases you best,
and not mister, as you just now called me. I go
by no other name. Mister is a great word, and
moves people quite too far from one another. I
never have any concern with a man that I have to
mister and sir. I call them 'squire, because that's
a title the law gives them—and when I speak to
you, I say 'squire, or Master Colleton. You may be
a 'squire yourself, but whether you are or are not, it
makes no difference; for you get the name from
your father, who is one. Then, again, I call you
master—because you see you are but a youth, and
have a long run to overtake my years, few as you
may think them. Besides, master is a friendly
word and comes easy to the tongue. I never, for
my part, could see the sense in mister, except when
people go out to fight, when it's necessary to do
every thing in the politest manner; and then, it
smells of long shot, and cold business, 'squire.
'Tis n't, to my mind, a good word among friends.”

The youth smiled slightly and for a moment at
the distinction, drawn with such nicety by his
companion, between words which he had hitherto
been taught to conceive synonymous or nearly so;
and the reasons, such as they were, by which the
woodman sustained his free use of the one to the
utter rejection of the other. He did not think it
advisable or important, however, to make up an
issue on the point, however dissenting from the
logic of his companion; and contented himself
simply with a repetition of the question in which it
had originated.

“Why, I take shame to answer you rightly,
'squire, seeing I am no wiser and no better than I
am; but the whole secret of the matter lies in the
handle of this little tomahawk, and this I made out
of a live oak sapling some sixteen years ago—It's
much less worn than I, yet I am twice its age, I
reckon.”

“You are now then about thirty-two?”

“Ay, ay, just thirty-two. It don't take much
calculating to make out that. My own schooling,
though little enough for a large man, is more than
enough to keep me from wanting help at such easy
arithmetic.”

With the exception of an occasional and desultory
remark or two, the conversation had reached
a close. The gravity—the almost haughty melancholy
which, at intervals, appeared the prevailing
characteristic of the manners and countenance of
the youth, served greatly to discourage even the
blunt freedom of Mark Forrester; who seemed
piqued at length by the unsatisfactory issue of
all his endeavours to enlist the familiarity and confidence
of his companion. This Ralph soon discovered—he
had good sense and feeling sufficient
to perceive the necessity of some alteration in his

habit, if he desired a better understanding with
one, whose attendance, at the present time, was not
only unavoidable but indispensable—one who
might be of use, and who was not only willing and
well-intentioned, but to all appearances honest and
harmless, and to whom he was already so largely
indebted. With an effort, therefore, not so much
of mind as of mood, he broke the ice which his own
indifference had suffered to close, and by giving a
legitimate excuse for the garrulity of his companion,
unlocked once more the treasure-house of his
good-humour and volubility.

From the dialogue thus recommenced, we are
enabled to take a farther glance into the history of
Master Mark Forrester's early life. He was, as
he phrased it, from “old So. Ca.” pronouncing the
name of the state in the abridged form of its written
contraction. In one of the lower districts he
still held, in fee, a small but inefficient patrimony;
the profits of which were put to the use of a young
sister. Times, however, had grown hard, and
with the impatience and restlessness so peculiar
to nearly all classes of the people of that state,
Mark set out in pursuit of his fortune among
strangers. He loved from his childhood all hardy
enterprises; all employments calculated to keep
his spirit from slumbering in irksome quiet in his
breast. He had no relish for the labours of the
plough, and looked upon the occupation of his forefathers
as by no means fitted for the spirit, which,
with little beside, they had left him. The warmth,
excitability, and restlessness which were his prevailing
features of temper, could not bear the slow
process of tilling and sowing and cultivating the
earth—watching the growth and generations of
pigs and potatoes, and listening to that favourite
music with the staid and regular farmer, the shooting

of the corn in the still nights, as it swells with
a respiring movement, distending the contracted
sheaves which enclose it. In addition to this antipathy
to the pursuits of his ancestors, Mark had
a decided desire, a restless ambition, prompting
him to see and seek and mingle with the world.
He was fond, as our readers may have observed
already, of his own eloquence, and having worn
out the patience and forfeited the attention of all
auditors at home, he was compelled, in order to the
due appreciation of his faculties, to seek for others
less experienced abroad. Like wiser and greater
men, he too had been won away, by the desire of
rule and reference, from the humble quiet of his
native fireside; and if, in after life, he did not bitterly
repent of the folly, it was because of that
light-hearted and sanguine buoyancy of temperament
which never deserted him quite, and supported
him in all events and through every vicissitude.
He had wandered much after leaving his
parental home, and was now engaged in an occupation
and pursuit which our future pages must
develop. Having narrated in his desultory way
to his companion, the facts which we have condensed,
he conceived himself entitled to some share
of that confidence of which he had himself exhibited
so fair an example; and the cross examination
which followed did not vary very materially
from that to which most wayfarers in this region
are subjected, and of which, on more than one occasion,
they have been heard so vociferously to
complain.

“Well, Master Ralph—unless my eyes greatly
miscalculate, you cannot be more than nineteen or
twenty at the most; and if one may be so bold,
what is it that brings one of your youth and connexions
abroad into this wilderness, among wild

men and wild beasts, and we gold-hunters, whom
men do say are very little if any better than
them?”

“Why, as respects your first conjecture, Master
Forrester,” returned the youth, “you are by no
means out of the way. I am not much over nineteen,
and am free to confess, do not care to be held
much older. Touching your further inquiry, not to
seem churlish, but rather to speak frankly and in a
like spirit with yourself, I am not desirous to repeat
to others the story that has been, perhaps, but
learned in part by myself. I do not exactly believe
that it would promote my plans to submit them to
the examination of other people; nor do I think that
any person whomsoever would be very much benefited
by the knowledge. You seem to have forgotten,
however, that I have already said that I
am journeying to Tennessee.”

“Left Carolina for good and all, heh?”

“Yes—perhaps for ever. But we will not talk
of it.”

“Well, you're in a wild world now, 'squire.”

“This is no strange region to me, though I have
lost my way in it. I have passed a season in the
county of Gwinnett and the neighbourhood, with
my uncle's family, when something younger, and
have passed, twice, journeying between Carolina
and Tennessee, at no great distance from this
very spot. But your service to me, and the fact
of your Carolina birth, deserves that I should be
more free in my disclosures; and to account for
the sullenness of my temper, which you may regard
as something inconsistent with our relationship,
let me say, that whatever my prospects might
have been and whatever my history may be, I am
at this moment altogether indifferent as to the
course which I shall pursue. It matters not very

greatly to me whether I take up my abode among
the neighbouring Cherokees, or, farther on, along
with them, pursue my fortunes upon the shores of
the Red River or the Missouri. I have become,
during the last few days of my life, rather reckless
of human circumstance; and, perhaps, more
criminally indifferent to the necessities of my
nature and my responsibilities to society and
myself, than might well beseem one so youthful,
and, as you say, with prospects like those which
you conjecture, and not erroneously, to have been
mine. All I can say is, that when I lost my pathway
last evening, my first feeling was one of a
melancholy satisfaction; for it seemed to me that
destiny itself had determined to contribute towards
my aim and desire, and to forward me freely in the
erratic progress, which, in a gloomy mood, I had
most desperately and perhaps childishly undertaken.”

The tone in which these remarks were made,
enforced, in a great measure, the truth, in his own
belief at least, of that portion of the youth's language
which spoke of his indifference to his future
destiny. There was a stern melancholy in
the deep and low utterance—the close compression
of lip—the steady, calm eye, that somewhat tended to
confirm the almost savage sentiment of despairing
indifference to life, which his sentiments conveyed;
and had the effect of eliciting a larger degree of
respectful consideration from the somewhat uncouth
but really well-meaning and kind companion
who stood beside him. Mark Forrester had good
sense enough to perceive that the youth had been
gently and well nurtured and deferentially treated
—that his pride or vanity, or perhaps some nobler
emotion, had suffered slight or rebuke; and that it
was more than probable this emotion would, before

long, give place to others, if not of a more manly
and spirited, at least of a more reflective and reasonable
character. Accordingly, without appearing to
annex any importance to, or even to perceive the
melancholy defiance contained in the speech of the
young man, he confined himself entirely to a passing
comment upon the facility with which, having
his eyes open, and the bright sunshine and green
trees for his guides, he had suffered himself to lose
his way—an incident excessively ludicrous in the
contemplation of one, who, in his own words, could
take the tree with the 'possum, the scent with the
hound, the swamp with the deer, and be in at the
death with all of them—for whom the woods had
no labyrinth, and the night no mystery. He
laughed heartily at the simplicity of the youth, and
entered into many details, not so tedious as long,
of the various hair-breadth escapes, narrow chances
and curious enterprises of his own initiation into
the secrets of wood-craft, and to the trials and
perils of which, in his own probation, his experience
had necessarily subjected him. At length he
concluded his narrative by seizing upon one portion
of Ralph's language with an adroitness and
ingenuity that might have done credit to an older
diplomatist; and went on to invite the latter to
quarter upon himself for a few weeks at least.

“Well, Master Colleton—so you see you are
rambling, as you say, indifferent quite as to what
quarter of the compass you turn the head of your
creature—suppose now you take up quarters with
me. I have, besides this room, which I only keep for
my use of a Saturday and Sunday when I come to
the village—a snug lodge a few miles off, and there's
room enough, and provisions enough, if you'll only
stop a while and take what's going. Plenty of hog and
hominy at all times, and we don't want for other and

better things, if we please. Come, stay with me for
a month, or long as you choose, and when you
think to go, I can put you on your road at an hour's
warning. In the mean time, I can show you all
that's to be seen. I can show you where the gold
grows, and may be had for the gathering. We've
snug lodgings, plenty of venison; and, as you must
be a good shot coming from Carolina, you may
bring down at day-dawn of a morning, a sluggish
wild turkey, so fat that he will split open the moment
he strikes the ground. Don't fight shy,
now, 'squire, and we'll have sport long as you
choose to stay with us.”

The free and hearty manner of the woodman,
who, as he concluded his invitation, grasped the
hand of the youth warmly in his own, spoke quite
as earnestly as his language, and Ralph in part
fell readily into a proposal which promised something
in the way of diversion. He gave Forrester to
understand that he would probably divide his time
for a few days between the tavern and his lodge,
which he proposed to visit whenever he felt himself
perfectly able to manage his steed. He signified
his acknowledgment of the kindness of his
companion with something less of hauteur than
had hitherto characterized him; and remembering
that on the subject of the assault made upon him,
Forrester had said little, and that too wandering to
be considered, he again brought it up to his consideration,
and endeavoured to find a clew to the
persons of those enacting the outlaws, whom he
had endeavoured, though very imperfectly, to describe.
On this point, however, he procured but
little satisfaction. The description which he gave
of the individual assailant whom alone he had been
enabled to distinguish, though evidently under certain
disguises, was not sufficient to permit of Forrester's

identification. The woodman was something
at a loss, though evidently satisfied that the
parties were not unknown to him in some other
character. As for the Pony Club, he gave its
history, confirmatory of that already related by the
outlaw himself; and though avowing his own personal
fearlessness on the subject, did not withhold
his opinion that the members were not to be trifled
with:—

“And, a word in your ear, 'squire—one half of
the people you meet with in this quarter know
more of the Pony Club than is becoming in honest
men—so steer clear of them, and keep a sharp
look-out right and left, if you would get off with
whole bones. They'll hardly trouble a body here,
for you see there's some of us that can pull
trigger and fling a knife, and won't stand long to
think when honest folks are in danger. But I'll
see you again in an hour. I must go and look after
our horses.”