University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Colleton was by no means slow in the recognition
of the ruffian, and only wondered at his own
dulness of vision in not having made the discovery
before. Nor did Rivers, with all his habitual villany,
seem so well satisfied with his detection. Perceiving
himself fully known, a momentary feeling
of disquietude came over him; and though he did
not fear, he began to entertain in his mind that
kind of agitation and doubt which made him, for
the time, “despair his charm.” He was not the
cool villain like Munro,—never to be taken by surprise,
or at a disadvantage; and his eye was now
withdrawn, though but for a moment, beneath the
stern and searching glance which read him through.
That tacit animal confession and acknowledgement
was alone sufficient to madden a temper such
as that of Rivers. Easily aroused, his ferocity was
fearless and atrocious, but not measured or methodical.
His mind was not marked,—we had
almost said tempered—by that wholesome and
wholesale indifference of mood which, in all matters
of prime villany, is probably the most desirable
constituent. He was, as we have seen, a creature
of strong passions, morbid ambition, quick and
even habitual excitement; though at times, endeavouring

to put on that air of sarcastic superiority
to all emotion which marked the character of the
ascetic philosopher—a character to which he had
not the slightest claim or feature of resemblance,
and the very affectation of which, whenever he became
aroused or irritated, was soon and completely
lost sight of and forgotten. Without referring—
as Munro would have done, and indeed as he
subsequently did—to the precise events which had
already just taken place and were still in progress
about him, and which made all parties
equally obnoxious with himself to human punishment,
and for an offence far more criminal in its
dye to that which the youth laid to his charge—he
could not avoid the momentary apprehension,
which, succeeding with the quickness of thought
the intelligent and conscious glance of Colleton,
immediately came over him. His eye, seldom distinguished
by such a habit, quailed before it; and
the deep malignity and festering hatred of his soul
towards the youth, which it so unaccountably entertained
before, underwent, by this mortification
of his pride, a due degree of exaggeration.

Ralph, though wise beyond his years, and one
who, in a thought borrowed in part from Ovid, we
may say, could rather compute them by events than
ordinary time, wanted yet considerably in that
wholesome, though rather dowdyish virtue, which
men call prudence. He acted on the present occasion
precisely as he might have done in the College
Campus, with all the benefits of a fair field
and a plentiful crowd of backers. Without duly
reflecting whether an accusation of the kind he
preferred, at such a time, to such men, and against
one of their own accomplices, would avail much,
if any thing, towards the punishment of the criminal—not
to speak of his own risk, necessarily in

train, as an almost certain consequence from such
an implied determination not to be particeps criminis
with any of them, he at once spoke forth the
wrong, with stentorian lungs and suitable action,
and in language accommodated aptly to the bold
spirit which called it into utterance. He approached,
and boldly denounced Rivers as a murderous
villain; and urgently called upon those
around him to aid in his arrest. But he was unheard—he
had no auditors; nor did this fact result
from any unwillingness on their part to hear and
listen to the charge against one so detested as the
accused. They could see and hear but of one subject—they
could comprehend no other. The events
of such fresh and recent occurrence were in all
minds and before all eyes; and few, if any but
Forrester, either heard to understand, or listened
for a moment to the recital. Nor did the latter
and now unhappy personage appear to give it
much more consideration than any of the rest.
Hurried on by the force of associating circumstances,
and by promptings not of himself or his,
he had been an active getter-up, and performer in,
the terrible drama, the enactment of which we have
already witnessed; and the catastrophe of which
he could now only, and in vain, deplore. Leaning
with a vacant stare and lack-lustre vision against
the neighbouring rock, he seemed indifferent to, and
perhaps ignorant of, the new occurrences taking
place around him. He had interfered when the
youth and Rivers were in contact, but that was so
soon after the event narrated that time for reflection
had not then been allowed. The dreadful
process of thinking himself into an examination of
his own deeds was going on in his bosom; and
remorse, with its severe but salutary stings, was
doing, without limitation or restraint, her rigorous
duties. Though either actually congregated or
congregating around him, and within free and easy
hearing of his voice, now stretched to its utmost,
the party were quite too busily employed in the
discussion of the events—too much immersed in
the sudden stupor which followed, in nearly all
minds, their termination—to know or care much
what were the hard words, and what the difficulties,
between the youth and the outlaw. They had
all of them (their immediate leaders excepted)
been hurried on, as is perfectly natural and not unfrequently
the case, by the rapid succession of incidents
(which in their progress of excitement gave
them no time for reflection), from one act to another;
without perceiving, in a single pause, the several
gradations by which they insensibly passed on
from crime to crime;—and it was only now, and
in a survey of the several foot-prints in their progress,
that they were enabled to perceive the vast
and perilous leaps which they had taken. As in the
ascent, step by step, of the elevation, we can judge
imperfectly of its height, until from the very summit
we look down upon our place of starting, so
with the wretched outcasts of society of whom we
speak. Flushed with varying excitements, they
had deputed the task of reflection to another and a
calmer time; and with the reins of sober reason
relaxed, whirled on by their passions, they lost all
control over their own impetuous progress, until
brought up and checked, as we have seen, by a
catastrophe the most ruinous—which, by producing
an utter revulsion of the spirits' temper, again,
if it does not for ever overthrow her, restores reason
to her empire, though now coupled in its sway
with the attendant terrors of deep remorse, and
many and maddening regrets. From little to large
events, we experience or behold this every day.
It is a history, and all read it. It belongs to human
nature and to society; and until some process shall
be discovered by which men shall be compelled to
think by rule and under regulation, as in a penitentiary
their bodies are required to work, we despair
of having much improvement in the general condition
of human affairs. The ignorant and uneducated
man is quite too willing to depute and defer
to others the task of thinking for him and furnishing
his opinions. The great mass are gregarious,
and whether a lion or a log is chosen for their guidance,
it is still the same—they will follow the
leader, if regularly recognised as such, even though
he be an ass. As if conscious of their own incapacities,
whether these arise from deficiencies of
education or denials of birth, they forego the only
habit—that of self-examination—which can supply
the deficiency; and with a blind determination, are
willing, on any terms, to divest themselves of the
difficulties and responsibilities of their own government.
They crown others with all command,
and binding their hands with cords, place themselves
at the disposal of those, who, in many cases,
not satisfied with thus much, must have them hoodwinked
also. To this they also consent, taking
care, in their great desire to be slaves, to be foremost
themselves in tying on the bandage which
keeps them in darkness and in chains for ever.
Thus will they be content to live, however wronged,
if not absolutely bruised and beaten; happy to escape
from the cares of an independent mastery of
their own conduct, if, in this way, they can also
escape from the noble responsibilities of independence.

The unhappy men, thus led on, as we have seen,
from the commission of misdemeanor to that of
crime, in reality, never for a moment thought upon

the matter. The landlord, Dexter, and Rivers,
had, time out of mind, been their oracles; and
without referring to the distinct condition of those
persons, they reasoned in a manner not uncommon
with the ignorant. Like children at play, they did
not perceive the narrow boundaries which separate
indulgence from licentiousness; and in the
hurried excitement of the mood, inspired by the
one habit, they had passed at once, unthinkingly
and unconsciously, into the excesses of the other.
They now beheld the event in its true colours, and
there were but few among the squatters not sadly
doubtful upon the course taken, and suffering corresponding
dismay from its probable consequences.
To a few, such as Munro and Rivers, the aspect of
the thing was unchanged—they had beheld its true
features from the outset, and knew the course, and
defied the consequences. They had already made
up their minds upon it—had regarded the matter
in all its phases, and suffered no surprise accordingly.
Not so with the rest—with Forrester in
particular, whose mental distress, though borne
with manliness, was yet most distressing. He
stood apart, saying nothing, yet lamenting inwardly,
with the self-upbraidings of an agonized
spirit, the progress of that wild game which had
been played; and the easy facility with which he
had been won, by the cunning of others, against
his own promptings, into the perpetration of a
crime so foul. He either for a time heard not or
understood not the charges made by Ralph against
his late coadjutor, until brought to his consciousness
by the increased stir among the confederates,
who now rapidly crowded about the spot, in time
to hear the denial of the latter to the accusation, in
language and a manner alike fierce and unqualified.

“Hear me!” was the exclamation of the youth

—his voice rising in due effect, and illustrating well
the words he uttered, and the purpose of his
speech:—“I charge this born and branded villain
with an attempt upon my life. He sought to rob
and murder me at the Catcheta Pass but a few days
ago. Thrown between my horse's feet in the struggle,
he received the brand of his hoof, which he
now wears upon his cheek. There he stands, with
the well-deserved mark upon him, and which, but
for the appearance of his accomplices, I should
have made of a yet deeper character. Let him
deny it if he can or dare.”

The face of Rivers grew alternately pale and
purple with passion, and he struggled in vain, for
several minutes, to speak. The words came from
him hoarsely and gratingly. Fortunately for him,
Munro, whose cool villany nothing might well discompose,
perceiving the necessity of speech for him
who had none, interfered with the following inquiry,
uttered in something like a tone of surprise.

“And what say you to this accusation, Guy
Rivers? Can you not find an answer?”

“It is false; false as hell! and you know it,
Munro, as well as myself. I never saw the boy
until at your house.”

“That I know, and why you should take so long
to say it I know not. It appears to me, young gentleman,”
said Munro, with a most cool and delightful
effrontery, “that I can set all these matters
right. I can show you to be under a mistake; for
I happen to know, that at the very time of which
you speak, we were both of us up in the Chestatee
Fork looking for a runaway slave—you know the
fellow, boys,—Black Tom,—who has been out for
six months and more, and of whom I only got information
a few weeks ago. Well, as everybody
knows, the Chestatee Fork is at least twenty miles

from the Catcheta Pass, and if we were in one
place, we could not, I am disposed to think, very
well be in another.”

“An alibi, clearly established,” was the remark
of Counsellor Pippin, who now, peering over the
shoulders of the youth, exhibited his face for the
first time during the controversies of the day. Pippin
was universally known to be possessed of an
admirable scent for finding out a danger when it is
well over, and when the spoils, and not the toils, of
the field are to be reaped. His appearance at
this moment, had the effect of arousing, in some
sort, the depressed spirits of those around him, by
recalling to memory and into exercise the jests
upon his infirmities, which long use had made legitimate
and habitual. Calculating the probable
effect of such a joke, Munro, without seeming to
observe the interruption, looking significantly round
among the assembly, went on to say:—

“If you have been thus assaulted, young man,
and I am not disposed to say it is not as you assert,
it cannot have been by any of our village, unless it
be that Counsellor Pippin and his fellow Hob were
the persons; they were down, now I recollect, at
the Catcheta Pass, somewhere about the time; and
I've long suspected Pippin to be more dangerous
and deadly by far than people think him.”

“I deny it all—I deny it. It's not true, young
man. It's not true, my friends—don't believe a
word of it. Now, Munro, how can you speak so?
Hob—Hob—Hob—I say—where the devil are
you? Hob—say, you rascal, was I within five miles
of the Catcheta Pass to-day?” The negro—a
black of the sootiest complexion—now advanced—

“No, mosser.”

“Was I yesterday?”

The negro put his finger to his forehead, and the

lawyer began to fret at this indication of thought,
and, as it promised to continue, exclaimed—

“Speak, you rascal, speak out—you know well
enough, without reflecting.” The slave cautiously
responded—

“If mosser want to be dere—mosser dere—no
'casion for ax Hob.”

“You black rascal, you know well enough I was
not there—that I was not within five miles of the
spot, either to-day, yesterday, or for ten days
back.”

“Berry true, mosser—if you no dere, you no
dere. Hob nebber say one ting when mosser say
'noder.”

The unfortunate counsellor, desperate with the
deference of his body servant, now absolutely perspired
with rage; while, to the infinite amusement
of all, in an endeavour to strike the pliable witness,
who adroitly dodged the blow, the lawyer, not
over-active of frame, plunged incontinently forward,
and paused not in his headlong determination
until he measured himself at length upon the
ground. The laugh which succeeded was one of
effectual discomfiture, and the helpless barrister
made good his retreat from a field so unpromising,
by a pursuit of the swift-footed negro, taking care
not to return from the chase. Colleton, who had
regarded this interlude with a stern brow and a
wrathful spirit, now spoke, addressing Munro—

“You affirm most strongly for this villain, but
your speech is all in vain if its object be to satisfy
my doubts. What effect it may have upon our
hearers is quite another matter. You cannot swear
me out of my conviction and the integrity of my
senses. I am resolute in the one belief, and do not
hesitate here, and in the presence of himself and
all of you, to pronounce him again all the scoundrel

I declared him to be at first; in the teeth of
all your denials not less than of his. But—perhaps,
as you answer for him so readily and so well,
let us know, for doubtless you can, by what chance
he came by that brand, that fine impress which he
wears so happily upon his cheek. Can you not
inform him where he got it—on what road he met
with it—and whether the devil or my horse's heel
gave it him!”

“If your object be merely to insult me, young
man, I forgive it. You are quite too young for
me to punish, and I have only pity for the indiscretion
that moves you to unprofitable violence at
this time and in this place, where you see but little
respect is shown to those who invade us with
harsh words or actions. As for your charge
against Rivers, I happen to know that it is unfounded,
and my evidence alone would be sufficient
for the purpose of his defence. If however,
he were guilty of the attempt, as you allege, of
what avail is it for you to make it. Look around
you, young man?” taking the youth aside as he
spoke in moderated terms—“you have eyes and understanding,
and can answer the question for yourself.
Who is here to arrest him? Who would
desire, who would dare to make the endeavour?
We are all here equally interested in his escape,
were he a criminal in this respect, because we are
all here”—and his voice fell in such a manner as to
be accommodated to the senses of the youth alone
—“equally guilty of violating the same laws,
and by an offence, in comparison with which
that against you would be entirely lost sight of.
There is the court-house, it is true—and there the
jail—but we seldom see sheriff, judge, or jailer.
When they do make their appearance, which is not
often, they are glad enough to get away again.

If we here suffer injury from one another, we make
out to take justice into our own hands—as you
allege yourself partly to have done in this case—
and there the matter generally ends. Rivers you
think assaulted you and got the worst of it. You
got off with but little harm yourself, and a reasonable
man ought to be satisfied. Nothing more
need be said of it. This is the wisest course, let
me advise you. Be quiet about the matter, go on
your way, and leave us to ourselves. Better
suffer a little wrong, and seem to know nothing of
it, than risk a quarrel with those, who, having once
put themselves out of the shelter of the laws, take
every opportunity of putting them at defiance.
And what if you were to push the matter, where
will the sheriff or the military find us? In a week
and the judge will arrive, and the court will be in
session. For that week we shall be out of the
way. Nobody shall know—nobody can find us.
This day's work will most probably give us all
a great itch for travel.”

Munro had, in truth, made out a very plain case;
and his representations, in the main, were all
correct. The youth felt their force, and his reason
readily assented to the plain sense course which
they pointed out. Contenting himself therefore
with reiterating the charge, he concluded with saying
that, for the present, he would let the affair rest.
“Until the ruffian”—thus he phrased it, “had answered
the penalties of the laws for his subsequent
and more heinous offence against them, he
should be silent.”

“But I have not done with you, young sir,” was
the immediate speech of Rivers; his self-confidence
and much of his composure returned, as with a
fierce and malignant look, and a quick stride, he
approached the youth. “You have thought proper

to make a foul charge against me which I have
denied. It has been shown that your assertion
is unfounded, yet you persist in it, and offer no
atonement. I now demand redress—the redress
of a gentleman. You know the custom of the
country, and regard your own character, I should
think, too highly to refuse me satisfaction. You
have pistols, and here are rifles and dirks. Take
your choice.”

The youth looked upon him with ineffable scorn
as he replied:—

“You mistake me, sirrah, if you think I can
notice your call with any thing but contempt.”

“What! will you not fight—not fight? not back
your words?”

“Not with you!” was the calm reply.

“You refuse me satisfaction, after insulting me!”

“I always took him for a poor chicken, from
the first time I set eyes on him,” said one of
the spectators.

“Yes, I didn't think much of him, when he refused
to join us at first,” was the remark of
another.

“This comes of so much crowing—Brag is a good
dog, but Holdfast is better,” went on a third, and
each man had his remark upon Colleton's seeming
timidity. Scorn and indignation were in all faces
around him, and Forrester, at length, awakened
from his stupor by the tide of fierce comment setting
in upon his friend from all quarters, now
thought it time to interfere.

“Come, 'squire, how's this? Don't give way—
give him satisfaction, as he calls it, and send the
lead into his gizzard. It will be no harm done, in
putting it to such a creature as that. Don't let him
crow over old Carolina—don't now, 'squire? You
can hit him as easy as a barn door, for I saw your

shot to-day—Don't be afraid, now—stand up, and
I'll back you against the whole of them.”

“Ay, bring him forward, Forrester. Let him
be a man, if he can,” was the speech of one of the
party.

“Come, 'squire—let me say that you are ready.
I'll mark off the ground, and you shall have fair
play,” was the earnest speech of the woodman
in tones of entreaty.

“You mistake me greatly, Forrester, if you suppose
for a moment that I will contend on equal
terms with such a wretch. He is a common robber
and an outlaw, whom I have denounced as such,
and whom I cannot therefore fight with. Were
he a gentleman, or had he any pretensions to the
character, you should have no need to urge me on,
I assure you.”

“I know that, 'squire, and therefore it provokes
me to think that the skunk should get off. Can't
you, now, lay aside the gentleman just long enough
to wing him—now, do try!”

The youth smiled as he shook his head negatively.
Forrester, with great anxiety, proceeded—

“But, squire, they won't know your reason for
refusing, and they will set you down as afear'd.
They will call you a coward!”

“And what if they do, Forrester? They are
not exactly the people about whose opinion I
give myself any concern. I am not solicitous to
gain credit for courage among them. If any of
them doubt it, let them try me. Let one of them
raise a hand or lift a finger upon me, and make the
experiment. They will then find me ready and
willing enough to defend myself from any outrage,
come from what quarter it may.”

“I'm afraid, squire, they can't be made to understand
the difference between a gentleman and a

squatter. Indeed, it isn't reasonable that they
should, seeing that such a difference puts them out
of any chance of dressing a proud fellow who
carries his head too high. If you don't fight, 'squire,
I must, if it's only for the honour of old Carolina.
So here goes.”

The woodman threw off his coat, and taking up
his rifle, substituted a new for the old flint, and
furnishing the pan with fresh priming, before our
hero could well understand the proposed and novel
arrangement so as to interpose in its arrest, he advanced
to the spot where Rivers stood, apparently
awaiting the youth's decision, and slapping him
upon the shoulder, thus addressed him—

“I say, Guy Rivers—the 'squire thinks you too
great a blackguard for him to handle, and leaves
all the matter to me. Now you see, as I've done
that to-day which I take it makes me just as great
a blackguard as yourself, I stand up in his place.
So here's for you. You needn't make any excuse,
and say you have no quarrel with me, for as I am
to handle you in his place, you will consider me to
say every thing that he has said—every word of
it; and, in addition to that, if more be necessary,
you must know, I think you a mere skunk, and
I've been wanting to have a fair lick at you for a
monstrous long season.”

“You shall not interfere, Forrester, now, and in
this manner, on any pretence, for the shelter of the
coward, who, having insulted me, now refuses to
give me satisfaction. If you have any thing to ask
at my hands, when I have done with him I shall
be ready for you,” was the reply of Rivers.

“You hear that, 'squire. I told you so. He has
called you a coward, and you will have to fight
him at last.”

“I do not see the necessity for that, Forrester,

and beg that you will undertake no fighting on
my account. When my person or honour is in
danger, I am man enough to take care of myself;
and, when I am not, my neighbour or friend can
do me no service by taking my place. As for this
felon, the hangman for him—nobody else.”

Maddened, not less by the cool determination
of Colleton than by the contemptuous conclusion
of his speech, Rivers, without a word, sprang
fiercely upon him with a dirk, drawn from his bosom
with concerted motion as he made the leap—
striking, as he approached, a blow at the unguarded
breast of the youth, which, from the fell and fiendish
aim and effort, must have resulted fatally had
he not been properly prepared for some such
attempt. Ralph was in his prime, however, of
vigorous make and muscle, and well practised in
the agile sports and athletic exercises of woodland
life. He saw the intent in the mischievous glance
of his enemy's eye, in time to guard himself against
it; and, suddenly changing his position, as the
body of his antagonist was nearly upon him, he
eluded the blow, and the force and impetus employed
in the effort bore the assassin forward.
Before he could arrest his own progress, the youth
had closed in upon him, and by a dexterous use of
his foot, in a manner well known to the American
woodman, Rivers, without being able to interpose
the slightest obstacle to the new direction thus
given him, was forcibly hurled to the ground.
Before he could recover, the youth was upon him.
His blood was now at fever heat, for he had not
heard the taunts upon his courage from all around
him with indifference, though he had borne them
with a laudable degree of patience throughout.
His eye shot forth fires almost as malignant as

those of his opponent. One of his hands was
wreathed in the neckcloth of his prostrate foe, while
the other was employed in freeing his own dirk
from the incumbrances of his vest. This took
little time, and he would not have hesitated in the
blow, when the interposition of those present bore
him off, and permitted the fallen and stunned man
to recover his feet. It was at this moment that
the honest friendship of Forrester was to be tried
and tested. The sympathies of those around were
most generally with the ruffian; and the aspect of
affairs was something unlucky, when the latter
was not only permitted to recommence the attack,
but when the youth was pinioned to the ground by
others of the gang, and disarmed of all defence.
The moment was perilous; and, whooping like a
savage, Forrester leapt in between, dealing at the
same time his powerful blows from one to the other,
right and left, and making a clear field around the
youth.

“Fair play is all I ask, boys—fair play, and we
can lick the whole of you. Hurra for old Carolina.
Who's he says a word against her? Let him stand
up, and be knocked down. How's it, squire—you
an't hurt, I reckon. I hope not; if you are, I'll have
a shot with Rivers myself on the spot.”

But Munro interposed.

“We have had enough outcry, Forrester. Let us
have no more. Take this young man along with
you, or it will be worse for him.”

“Well, Wat Munro, all the 'squire wants is fair
play—fair play for both of us, and we'll take the
field, man after man. I tell you what, Munro, in
our parts the chickens are always hatched with
spurs, and the children born with their eye teeth.
We know something too about whipping our

weight in wild cats; and until the last governor of
our state had all the bears killed, because they
were getting civilized, we could wrestle with 'em
man for man, and throw seven out of ten.”