University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Certainly, man is never so legitimately satisfied,
as when in the realization of his own powers. The
exercise of those attributes which make his nature,
is the duty that follows his creation; and it is only
when he exceeds the prescribed limit, and runs into
excess, that he suffers and is criminal. How various
are these powers—how extensive their range—how
superior their empire! Creative, destructive, perceptive—all
co-operating for the same end—the elevation
of his own capacities and condition. They are those of
a God, and they prove his divinity. Balanced duly,
each in its place, and restrained, as well as promoted,
by its fellow, he deserves to be, and most probably
will be happy. But whether the balance be preserved
or not, the discovery, on his part, of any one of these
powers, must have the effect of elevating him in his
own thought, and giving him pleasure accordingly.
Sometimes, indeed, to such a degree does its realization
delight him, that he maddens and gluttonizes in its
enjoyment—he gloats upon it; and, from a natural attribute,
cherished for a beneficial purpose, and forming
a necessary endowment, it grows into a disease, and
preys upon its master.

Such is that love of enterprise which sometimes
leads to ungenerous conquest; such that stern desire of
justice which sometimes prompts us, in defence of our
own rights, not to scruple at unnecessary bloodshed.
In the pursuit of both, the original purpose is soon lost
sight of. We guage not our dooms in measure with
the wrongs we suffer; and the fierce excitements

which grow out of their prosecution, become leading, if
not legitimate, objects of pursuit themselves. The conquest
of new countries, to this day, at whatever expense
of blood and treasure, is scarcely criminal in the eyes
of civilized and Christian man; and where conscience
does suggest a scruple, the doubt is soon set aside in
the gracious consideration of those vast benefits which
we assume to bring the people, whose possessions we
despise, and whose lands and lives we appropriate. Yet
is the enterprise itself legitimate, according to our nature;
and the sense of resistance to injustice and oppression,
a faculty that could not be dispensed with. They
form vital necessities of our condition, while subordinate.
The misfortune is that we pamper them, as we do favourite
children, till they rise at last into tyrants, and
change places with us.

The boy Frampton had undergone a change which
did not escape the eye of Singleton as he rode beside
him. The lively laugh had left his countenance, the
gentle play of expression had departed from his rich,
red, and well-chiselled mouth, and in place of them
the eye was kindled with a deep glare of light, lowering
and strong, while the lips curled into a haughty
loftiness becoming the lord of highest station. A vein
that crossed his forehead was full almost to bursting,
and his brow lowered with an expression of battle that
indicated feelings, even then warmly active with the
brief scene of strife through which they had so recently
passed. The boy was a boy no longer; he had realized
one of the capacities of manhood; he had slain
his man; he had taken one step in revenging the murder
of his mother: he had destroyed one of the murderers;
but, more than all—he had taken human life.

Something of a higher feeling than this was at the
same time working in his bosom. Though previously
untaught, he had learned too much of the struggle going
on in the colonies, not to have acquired some knowledge
of the abstract question upon which it depended;
and though his thoughts were all vague and indistinct
on the subject, the rights of man, the freedom of the

citizen, and the integrity of his country, he had learned
to feel should all be among the first considerations,
as their preservation was always the first care, of the
patriot. The furious popular declamation of the five
preceding years had not been unheard by the youthful
soldier; and its appeals were not lost upon one, who,
in his own family, had beheld such a bloody argument
as had long since taught him the necessity of regarding
them. His country entered into his thoughts, therefore,
in due connection with his feeling of the individual
wrong which he had sustained; and that personal
feeling which prompted the desire of revenge, was lifted
higher, and rendered holier, by the connection. It
became hallowed in his bosom, where it contemplated,
not only the punishment of the wrong-doer, but the protection
of the cottage-home—his own, and his people's—from
the injustice and the violence of the invader.
It grew into a solemn principle of action thus associated,
and the moral abstraction over which the unassailed
citizen might have dreamed through a long season of
years, without duly considering its force or application,
became purely practical in the eyes of Frampton—a feeling
of his heart, rather than a worked out problem of
his understanding. The thought grew active in following
out the feeling; and Singleton, as the boy rode
abstractedly beside him, revolving a thousand new and
strange sensations that were running through his mind,
regarded his countenance with a glance of melancholy
rather than approval. He saw that, in his glance, which
taught him the leading activity of his new emotions.
The boy had a new sentiment in his bosom, the contemplation
of which made it eminently more familiar.
He could destroy—and he could do so without his own
rebuke. He could take the life of his fellow—and
good men could approve. He had penetrated a new
world of thought, and he was duly enamoured of his
conquest; and even, as we all desire to renew the novelty,
and partake a second time of the strange pleasure,
so the heart of the boy panted for a repetition of that
indulgence which had lifted him into premature manhood.
The passions grew active without the least
countenance of reason to uphold them, and this is the
dangerous point in their history. Crime was made
legitimate to him now, and the fruit once forbidden,
was forbidden no longer. He could now pluck with
impunity—so he began to think—and his mind was on
that narrow eminence which divides a duty from an indulgence—which
separates the close approach of a
principle to an appetite—which changes the means into
an end; and, identifying the excuse for violence, with
an impelling motive to its commission, converts a most
necessary agent of life into a powerful tyranny, which,
in the end, runs riot, and only conquers to destroy.

Singleton regarded his charge with a close attention,
as he surveyed the unsophisticated emotions of his
heart, plainly enough written upon his face. He read
there all that was going on within; and his own heart
smote him at the survey. He thought of Emily, of
her prayer for peace, her denunciation and her dread
of war; and though he knew not of her death, the
thought that she might, even now, be a silent watcher
from the heavens, was enough to persuade him to an
effort to quiet the fierce spirit at work within the bosom
of the boy. He spoke—and his voice, modulated by
grief into a tone as soft as that of a girl, struck strangely
upon the ear of his companion. It was so different
from the wild strain of thought with which his mind
was crowded. A note of the trumpet—the shriek and
shout of advancing foemen, had been far less discordant;
and the boy shivered as he heard the simple utterance
of his own name.

“Lance—Lance Frampton.”

For a moment he was incapable of all reply. The
eye of Singleton was fixed upon him; and when he
met, and felt the look, he seemed to understand. His
lips, which were rigidly compressed before, now separated—though
it was still with seeming difficulty that he
answered—

“Sir!”

“Your father is not with us, boy?”

“No, sir—I have not seen him nor heard him. I
don't think he'll come out of the swamp, sir; he loves
the Cypress: though, I reckon, if he only knew we
should have had some fighting so soon—I'm sure, sir,
he would have been glad to come—he loves to fight
with the tories, sir. He always hated them, and more
since mother's death—them, and the dragoons.”

“And you too, boy, seem to have acquired something
more of fondness for the sport than you had before.
You have learned also to love fighting with the
tories.”

The words of Singleton were cold—rather stern, indeed;
and his glance was not calculated to encourage
the stern passion which was growing so active in the
breast of the boy. But the latter did not regard the
disapprobation which tone and look alike conveyed to
his senses. His eye flashed and lightened, his lip
quivered, closed firmly, then parted and quivered
again, and his arm twisted convulsively the bridle of
his steed.

“Oh, sir, I'm not afraid now. I know I shan't be
afraid. I didn't know at first how I should feel in
shooting at a man; but now, sir, I'm not afraid. I
wanted to run in, sir, when you told the men to charge,
but I had to go round and cut loose the prisoners; but I
watched you all the time, sir; and I clapped my hands,
sir—I couldn't help it—when I saw your sword go clean
down through the tory's hand and into his head, in
spite of all he could do. It was a great blow that, sir
—a great blow; but I couldn't handle a sword so
heavy.”

There was something of a desponding earnestness
in his tones as this last regret was uttered, and Singleton
surveyed, as some curious study, the face, so full
of transitions, of the boy beside him. After the pause
of a moment, in a calm, subdued voice, he said to him—

“You shall have a sword, Lance— a small one to
suit your hand. But remember, boy, war is not a sport,
but a duty, and we should not love it. It is a cruel necessity,
and only to be resorted to as it protects from

cruelty; and must be a tyranny, even though it shields
us from a greater. It is to be excused, not to be justified;
and we should not spill blood, but as the spilling
of blood is always apt to discourage the wrong-doer in
those practices by which all men must suffer, and
through which blood must be spilt in far greater quantity.”

The boy looked on the speaker with an expression
of astonishment which he did not seek to conceal.
Singleton noticed the expression, and continued with
his lesson. But it is not the youthful mind, full of
spirit, and resolute in adventure, which will draw such
nice distinctions as the partisan insisted on. The duty
would be performed, doubtless, while it continued a
pleasure; but when the pleasure to the mind survives
the duty, it is not often that the unregulated impulse
can be persuaded to forbear. The boy replied accordingly—

“Ah, sir, and yet I watched your face when you
were fighting, and you seemed glad to cut down your
enemy, and your eye was bright, and flashing with joy,
and your lip even laughed, sir—I saw it laugh, sir, as
plainly as I see it now.”

“That may be, boy, but still war is a duty only, and
should not be made a pleasure. It has its pleasures,
as every duty must have; but they are dangerous pleasures,
and not the less so because we can smile when
indulging in them. It is a sad reflection, boy, that we
can laugh when taking the life of a fellow-creature,
and taking the life, too, that we can never return.”

“Yet, sir, where can be the harm of killing a tory?
They don't mind killing our people, and burning their
houses, and driving off their cattle. I wish I could
kill a thousand of them.”

Singleton looked again on the boy, and saw that
he was never more in earnest. He thought once more
of his sister's pleadings, and her fine eloquence in defence
of humanity, while considering this very subject.
What a contrast! But the one was on the verge of the
grave and of heaven, and her spirit was attuned to the

divine and gentle influence of the abodes of bliss.
The other was on the verge of life—its storms yet to
go through, and by them to be purified, or never. No
wonder that the mood was sanguinary: the trial and
the path before him seemed to call for it.

“Alight, boy,” said he, “and bring me a gourd of
that water, while the troop is coming up.”

A branch ran across their path, and an opportunity
was suggested to the partisan for a useful lesson to his
charge. With alacrity, the youth alighted from his
horse, and went to gather the water, while Singleton
waited the coming up of the long cavalcade of troop,
and prisoners, women and children, behind. The boy
stooped over the clear streamlet which trickled without
a murmur over the road: it gave back his features from
its untroubled mirror, and he started back from their
contemplation. He had never before seen that expression—the
expression of triumph in war, and a sanguinary
desire for a renewal of its fierce and feverish
joys. The blood-shot eye, the corded vein, the wild
and eager expression, were all new to him, who had been
the favourite of a mother, gentle to weakness, and fostering
him with a degree of sensibility almost hostile
to manhood. He dashed the gourd into the water, and
hurried away with the draught to his commander. Singleton
barely looked upon him, and the eye of the boy
was turned instinctively from his gaze—but for a moment,
however. His firmness was soon restored, the
strong fire again filled it, and once more it met that of
his superior unshrinkingly. Singleton gave him back
the vessel, and from that moment felt assured of his nature.
He saw that courage to desperation, and a love
of the fight, the adventure, and the risk of war, were
all in his soul, to a degree which no immaturity of
strength, no inexperience, could keep down or diminish.
He waited till he was again mounted, and at his
side; and he himself felt, in despite of his own exhortations,
a feverish sort of pleasure at seeing so
clearly depicted as they were upon the face of the boy,
the emotions of so bold and promising a spirit.

The long procession was now at hand, and Humphries,
who had given his attention hitherto chiefly to
the prisoners and the rear, now rode up to his commander.
They conferred upon the subject of their
next proceeding, and as the evening was at hand, and
there could be little prospect of their reaching the Santee
that night in time to cross it, burdened as they
were with baggage and prisoners, they had almost resolved
to lie by with the coming darkness; but while
they spoke, Davis, who had been sent on ahead with
the scouts, rode in with intelligence which partially
altered their determination.

“There are outriders, sir, that hang on our skirts,
all well mounted. We have had a glimpse at them
through the bush, but not to overhaul them. Once or
twice, sir, we saw eyes peeping out from the woods,
sir, but though we pushed hard, they got shot of us
mighty quick, and we lost 'em. I only rode up to put
you on your guard, for I reckon there's more of 'em,
that we don't see.”

“'Tis well: put out again, Davis, and do not let them
escape you now if you can help it. We shall see to
the troop.”

Davis rode away, and Singleton proceeded to arrange
his men for all circumstances.

“Close up, Humphries, and bring your prisoners
into the centre: see that they do not straggle, and let
your men look to their arms. Put them in good preparation
for any chance.”

Then calling to the front a squad of the better armed
and mounted, the partisan extended his line on the advance,
so as to throw a few troopers, on either hand,
into the woods that skirted the road. It was not long
after this that Davis, with the scouts, who had more
than once detected a pair of keen eyes watching them
from the distant bush, now came suddenly upon a countryman
who sat mending a bridle upon a log at the
road-side. He did not seem much startled at their appearance,
and his whole features wore an expression

of the most approved simplicity and sang froid. He
made no movement until the scouts had actually surrounded
him, then blurted out his astonishment with
the coolest composure.

“Why, holla! now; but you block a fellow in,
mighty like as if you wanted to look at his teeth.
What mought your wish be, stranger?”

Thus addressing Davis, the countryman rose, and
with an air half of doubt and half of defiance, confronted
the new-comers. The Goose Creeker looked
on his big bones with admiration, for the man was
huge of limb, though uncomely; and the contrast between
him and Davis was calculated at once to command
attention. The lieutenant, however, did not
long delay his answer.

“Well, now, friend, our wish aint mighty hard to
come at; and the first question I have to ax you, is after
yourself. What may your name be, and what's
your business?”

The man chuckled incontinently for a moment, then
recovering, and looking grave, he replied—

“Look you, stranger, I never let a man poke fun at
me twice on the same day; so I give you fair warning.
I'm old hell for a varmint, and no tree your eyes ever
looked on will come at all nigh to hide you,if I once
sartainly set out to hunt you up. So, now you'll see
it's a mighty ridiculous notion you have if you think
to poke fun at Thumbscrew without paying for it.”

“Well, Mr. Thumbscrew, if so be that's your true
name, I'm much obligated to you for your civility in
warning me about your ways. I've no doubt you're
thought a big man in your part of the country; but
I'm thinking they'd look at you for a mighty small one
in mine. But that's not the business now. Big or little,
Mr. Thumbscrew, there's too many upon you now
to give you much chance, so the best way before you
is to bear a dry scrape kindly, and that'll save you
from two.”

“What! won't you give fair play? Well, that's not

so genteel, stranger. Fair play's a jewel, all the world
over; and, man for man, or if so be you mought like
it better, I'm not scrupulous to take two of you for a
bout or so on the soft airth; but more than that'll be a
leetle oncomfortable.”

“We haint got time for that, friend,” was the careless
reply of Davis; “and all that we wants from you
in the way of civility, is just to answer a few questions
that we shall ax you.”

“Well, ax away,” was the half-surly reply—“ax
away; but it wouldn't take too much time for a lift or
two on the soft grass, I'm thinking.”

“You say your name is Thumbscrew?”

“Yes, my boy-name; but at the christening they gin
me another, that aint so easy to mention. The true name
is John Wetherspoon, at your sarvice; but Thumbscrew
comes more handy, you see, and them that knows
me thinks it suits me better.”

“Very well, Mr. Thumbscrew, or Wetherspoon—
now, will you say what you're doing here in these parts
at this time of day?”

“Well, that's jest as easy to larn now, sence you
see I'm mending my bridle, and looking arter my critter
that's been stolen, I reckon, by some thieving soldiers—saving
your presence, and axing your pardon.”

“What soldiers?”

“Why, how do I know? Sometimes they're one
thing, sometimes another; now they're whigs, and
now they're tories. One time they're Gainey's, another
time they're Marion's men, just as the notion
suits 'em.”

“And what are you? Are you a whig or tory?”

“Neither, thank God, for all his civilities and marcies.
I'm a gentleman, and not a soldier, no how, I'll
have you to know.”

“And where do you live when you are at home?”

“In the Big Bend, by Red Stone Hollow, close to
the Clay Church, and right side of Black Heifer
Swamp. My farm is called Hickory Head Place; and
the parson who does our preaching is named Broadcast—he

preaches through his nose, and has a Way with
him.”

“What way?”

“Margery Way, what does his mending: all the
parish knows her.”

“Well, but I don't know any of these places or
people you've been telling me of,” said Davis.

“I reckoned as much. They say, though I've never
been in them parts, that you folks, from low down by
the sea, are most unmarcifully stupid.”

“Humph! and how far are we here from the river?”

“A small chance of a run, if so be you mean the Santee.
This morning, when I left it, it was ten miles off,
but it's been running ever since; and God knows, stranger,
I can't tell how far it's got to by this time.”

“I'm dubious, Mr. Thumbscrew, that you're playing
your tantrums upon me, after all; and if so be I find
you at that work, I'll hang you, d—n my buttons, if I
don't, by your own bridle, and no two ways about it,
old fellow—how far is the Santee?”

“Well now, you're mighty like getting in a passion,
and that'll be quite too rediculous. The Santee, now,
if it stands still, you see, is jest about ten miles away to
the right. It may be more, and it may be less, but it's
thereabouts, if it stands where it ought; but I tell you
it runs mighty fast, for a thing that you look for to be
quiet in one place.”

“Ten miles—and what have you seen in the shape
of men and soldiers about here? Have you seen any
tories or any whigs? Marion's men, they say, are thick
along the swamp.”

“It's a bad business that, stranger, hunting after sodgers.
I knows nothing about them. If I could only
find Nimrod now, stranger, you can't count up how
little I'd care about all you big sword men, tories or
whigs, red coats or blue—all the same to Thumby.
They've stolen the nag, and may he ride to the ugly
place with the rapscallion that straddles him, drop him
fairly inside the door, and come back a minute after to
Red Stone Hollow.”

In this way, until Singleton's approach, did Davis
seek, in vain, to obtain his information from the stranger.
He communicated his ill success to his superior,
and the incorrigible Thumbscrew was brought before
him. The partisan surveyed him closely, and saw at a
glance that the fellow, in southern phrase, was “playing
possum,” and knew much more than he delivered. But
the key was at hand, and the first words of Singleton
unsealed the mystery.

“How are the owls, Thumbscrew?”

“At roost, and ready for the moon,” was the instant
reply; and every feature was full of awakening intelligence.
Singleton ordered his men back, and conferred
with him alone.

“The Swamp Fox is at hand—not moving?”

“He waits for Major Singleton, and prepares for the
continentals; but must be close, for the tories under
Pyles, Huck, Tynes, and Harrison, are all around him.”

“And how far are we now from Nelson's?”

“Just nine miles, and the road clear, all but our
scouts. Horry with twenty men scours to the left, and
ten of us skirt the track to Nelson's, partly on the look
out for you, sir, and partly for the tories.”

“'Tis well—you have a horse?”

“Ay, sir, close in the wood.”

“Shall we be able to reach the Santee before dark?”

“Impossible, sir, with all your men; but a detachment
may, and had better ride on to prepare for the rest.
Colonel Marion is fast transferring the boats to the
other side, and as the road is clear, sir, you would find
it best to spur forward with a few, while the lieutenant
brings up the remainder.”

Desirous of securing the passage, Singleton adopted
the counsel, and singling out a dozen of his best horse,
he led the way with his new guide, and left Humphries
to bring up the cavalcade.