University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

It was a fine, but warm summer afternoon, in August.
The Santee river lay smooth and shining like a polished
mirror in the unclouded sunlight, and all nature
appeared to revel in the same luxurious repose.
Our old acquaintance, Porgy, lay along the banks of
the river, half concealed in the shelter of the brush
around him. The spot which gave him a resting-place
and shelter, shot out, at this point, from the dead level
strip of shore, boldly into the stream; which, seemingly
vexed at the interruption, beat with a pettish murmur
upon its upward side, as if vainly struggling to break
through it in its downward progress. The jutting land,
thus obtrusively trenching upon the water, was of no
great extent, but, being well covered by the trees and
luxuriant foliage, it formed an excellent hiding-place
for one desirous of watching the river on either hand,
without danger of exposure. Sweeping around the
point, both above and below, the spectator, thus stationed,
might see for a few miles, on both sides, the
entire surface of the stream, commanding, in this scope
of sight, one or two of the usual crossing places at low
stages of the water. The river was probably a mile
wide at this point, not including the swamp, which, in
some places, extended to a width five or ten times that
of the main body of the stream. From this dead level
of swamp, it was only now and then that the banks
of the river rose into any thing like height or boldness.
The point now occupied by Porgy was one of those
places most prominent to the sight. On the upper or

northern side of the river, directly opposite, there was
another bold ascent to a bank from which the boats
usually started when putting across the stream. This
bank was easily beheld by the spectator opposite. The
trees were but few upon it; and its baldness, the natural
result of the frequent use made of it, contrasted,
not unpleasantly, with the otherwise unvarying wall of
woods that formed the boundary of the main current;
the trees crowding thickly down into the river until
their bending branches met its embraces; and their
tops, sometimes, when the freshet was great, rested
like so many infant shrubs, depending without a root
or base upon its swollen bosom.

The afternoon sun, streaming from the west along
the river's surface, its beams mingling in an even line
to the east with its current, still farther contributed to
the softness of the picture. A warm flush, tempered
by the golden haze that hangs like a thin veil over the
evening midsummer prospect in the south, subdued
pleasantly the otherwise blinding effulgence of the day.
The slight breathings of the wind, only equal to the
lifting of the lightest leaf, whispered to all things—the
bud, the flower, and the insect, of that dreamy indulgence
and repose which Porgy, who felt always and appreciated
such an influence, had stretched himself off to
enjoy—lying at length under an overhanging tree,
lazily watching the scene around him, and with a
drooping eye, that seemed to say how irksome was the
task which he yet found himself bound to execute.

He was on duty even then. The men of Marion
were all around him in the swamp on the southern side
of the river. The partisan chief was full of anxiety,
and his scouts and guards were doubled and spread
about on every hand. He looked hourly for intelligence
from Gates and the continentals; not that he
hoped much, if any thing of the army, or of good in the
news which he anticipated. He had not been persuaded,
in the brief interview which he had been
vouchsafed by the American general, and in what
he had seen of his command, to look for or to expect

much from the then approaching issue. Marion
was the very opposite of Gates in nearly all
respects. Modest, yet firm, his reliance upon himself
arose not from any vague confidence in fortune or in
circumstances, but in the timely adaptation of corresponding
means to ends, and in the indefatigable industry
and zeal with which he plied all the energies, whether
of himself or of his men, to the successful attainment
of his object. Gates, he soon perceived, was
afflicted with his own infallibility—a disease that not
only forbids precaution, but that rejects advice and resists
improvement. Such a malady is the worst under
which generals or philosophers can labour; and Marion
needed no second glance to perceive the misfortune of
Gates in this respect. His confidence in that commander
was lessened duly as he beheld this failing;
and he returned from the camp, if not full of forebodings,
at least warmly anxious on the score of approaching
events. He had partly fulfilled the duties which
Gates had assigned him; he had traversed the Santee
and Peedee, breaking up the boats, dispersing the
little bands of tories as they leagued together and came
in his way, and contributed largely to the overthrow of
that consciousness of security on the part of the British
which they had hitherto enjoyed, but of which
they were deprived, in greater or less degree, from the
moment that Marion rose in arms and led the Black
river insurrection. He had now, in pursuit of the
same objects, brought his squad again to the Santee,
occupying those positions along that river by which he
would be sooner likely to receive intelligence, assist
his friends, or harass his enemies.

Porgy, on the present occasion, held the post of a
sentinel. A good watcher was he, though the labour
was irksome to him. Could he have talked all the
while, or sung, with no ears but his own to appreciate
his melodies, he would have been perfectly content;
but silence and secrecy were principles in the partisan
warfare, and tenaciously insisted upon by the commander.
Porgy looked east and west, north and south,

without relief. The banks lay beautiful before him,
in a deep quiet, on the other side of the river. Near
him ran a dozen little creeks, shooting into the swamp
—dark and bowery defiles, whose mouths, imperceptibly
mingling with the river, formed so many places of
secure entry and egress for the canoes of the warriors.
Stretched along the grass, he surveyed one of these
little bayous, and his increasing heedfulness indicated
some cause of disturbance. Presently, a shrill whistle,
just as he had lifted his rifle, and was about to fire,
reached his ears; and quietly returning the signal, he
crawled along the bank towards its edge, and looked
down to the little creek, as it wound in, behind him,
from the river. The signal which he had heard proceeded
from that quarter; and from the recess, a few
moments after, a little “dug-out” shot forth, propelled
by the single paddle of Lance Frampton. Concealing
the boat behind a clump of brush, that hung over the
mouth of the creek, the boy jumped out, and scrambling
up the sides of the bluff, was, soon after, alongside of
the drowsy sentinel.

“Harkee, young man,” said Porgy, as the youth approached
him, “you will pay dearly for good counsel,
unless you heed carefully what I now give you. Do
you know that you had nearly felt my bullet just now,
as I caught the sound of your paddle, before you condescended
to give the signal? A moment more delay
on your part would have given us both no little pain,
for truly I should have sorrowed to have shot you; and
you, I think, would have been greatly annoyed by it.”

“That I should, Mr. Porgy; and I ought to have
whistled, but I did not think.”

“You must learn to think, boy—that is the first lesson
you should learn. Not to think, is to be vulgar.
The first habit which a gentleman learns, is to think
—to deliberate. He is never to be taken by surprise.
The habit of thinking is to be lost, or acquired, at the
pleasure of the individual; and not to think, is, not only
to be no gentleman, but to be a criminal. You will

suffer from the want of such a habit. It is the vulgar
want always, and, permit me to add, the worst.”

“I try, sir, to think, for I know the good of it; but
it takes time to learn every thing, sir.”

“It does; but not so much time as people usually
suppose. The knowledge of one thing brings with it
the knowledge of another; as in morals, one error is
the parent of a dozen—one crime, the predecessor of
a thousand. Learn what you can, and the rest will
come to you; as in fowling, you inveigle one duck, and
the rest of the flock follows. Talking of ducks, now,
boy, puts me in mind of dinner. Have the scouts
brought in any provisions.”

“No, sir—not yet; and no sign of them.”

Porgy looked, with a wo-begone expression, towards
the sun, now on the decline, and sighed audibly.

“A monstrous long day, Lance—a monstrous long
day. Here, boy, draw this belt, and take in another
buttonhole—nay, take in two; it will admit of it.”

The boy did as he was directed—Porgy stretching
himself along the grass for the purpose of facilitating
the effort, and the boy actually bestriding him; the
slender form of the latter oddly opposed to the mountainous
mass of matter that lay swelling and shrinking
beneath him. While engaged in this friendly office,
the boy started, and in a half-whisper, pointing to the
opposite shore, exclaimed—

“Oh, Mr. Porgy! look! look! what a beautiful creature!”

Porgy started at once; seized his rifle; brought it
up to his shoulder; then, a moment after, let it drop
heavily, with an air of chagrin and mortification, to the
ground. And well he might be mortified. Before him,
on the opposite shore, directly on the edge of the stream,
to the surface of which his head was bending, stood a
buck of the largest description. His antlers, full and
thick, branched loftily in air; his brown, sleek sides
and slender limbs, as he stood snuffing the breeze—now
suspiciously lifting his head to listen, and now stooping
to the clear wave to drink—furnished a study for

the painter, not less than for the gourmand. But he
was half a mile off.

“Master Frampton,” exclaimed Porgy, with much
gravity, “you will be the death of me. You show me
a deer, and deny me a dinner.”

The boy laughed.

“Don't laugh, boy; it is too serious a matter, quite.
It is too provoking. D—n the beast—look at him—he
seems to see us, and to know our mortification—mine,
at least. Now could I be tempted to send him a shot,
if it were only to scare him out of his breath. He looks
most abominably impudent.”

“He looks scared now, sir,” said the boy, as, starting
to one side of the bank, and towards the thickening
swamp on the right of it, the animal seemed to show
alarm, and a desire for flight.

“Yes: something has frightened him, that's clear;
and what troubles him, may be equally troublesome to
us. Lie flat, boy—draw that brush a little more in
front of you, and take off your cap. You can see
through the leaves well enough.”

At this moment, a whistle behind them announced a
friend, and Humphries joined the two a little time after.

“What do you see, Porgy?”

The gourmand pointed to the deer, which now, in
evident alarm, bounded forward a few paces into the
stream, then, swimming a few rods up the river, sought
a cover in the swamp thicket to the right. His alarm
was unequivocally clear to the partisans, and Humphries,
following the example of the two, squatted
down beside them; taking care so to cover his person
behind the brush, as, while seeing every thing, himself
to remain unseen. He had scarcely done so, when the
cause of the deer's alarm was made evident in the approach,
to the very spot upon which the animal had
stood drinking, of a man, in the common dress of the
woodman. His appearance was miserably wo-begone
and unhappy. His dress was tattered and dirty; and
consisted of the coarse stuffs worn by the poorer orders
of the country. He had no arms—no apparent

weapons of any kind; and his movement, sluggish and
without elasticity, seemed that of one greatly fatigued.
He threw himself, a moment after his arrival, at length
along the bank, with that air of listless self-abandonment
which marks the character of despair.

“Poor devil! he seems wearied and worn, Humphries.”

“It is one of our men. Ten to one he brings us
news from camp.”

“Bad news, then: he looks like any thing but the
messenger of good. But stay—what is he about?”

The stranger, while they spoke, had arisen; and,
leaving the edge of the bank, went back to the wood,
from which, a few moments after, he emerged, bearing
in his hands a couple of common fence rails. These
he bore with difficulty to the edge of the water, and,
though no burden to a man in ordinary strength, their
weight, in his fatigue, seemed to demand a more than
ordinary effort.

“Why, what's he going to do now?” said Porgy.

The man, as he spoke, threw off his jacket and shoes,
and taking a ragged handkerchief from his pocket, enclosed
them with its folds, then placing them over the
two rails which he laid side by side for the purpose,
he lashed them strongly together. This done, he
advanced to the stream, taking the bundle in his hands.
For a few moments he paused, looked up and down the
river, and seemed to hesitate with a due sense of caution;
then, as if ashamed of his fears, he rushed to the
water, and throwing the rails before him, boldly plunged
after them into its bosom.

“The damned booby, he will certainly drown,”
said Porgy, half rising from his place. Humphries
pulled him down and bade him be quiet, with a voice
which, though low, was stern with authority.

“But we must not let the poor devil drown, Bill.”

“We must do our duty—we must not expose ourselves
if we can help it, Porgy. His life is nothing to
our own; and we don't know who comes behind him.”

“That's true: d—n the fellow—let him drown—
who cares?”

“Meanwhile, swimming feebly, striking with one
hand while the other derived a feeble support from the
rails, the stranger moved forward. But it was soon
evident that his strength was that of a child, in opposition
to the current. He strove desperately to keep a
direct course over the water, but, every movement carried
him out of his line, and the sweeping stream resisted,
and rendered futile, the feeble dash of his hand,
with which, striking its overbearing billows, he laboured
earnestly, though vainly, to master their strength. As
he advanced farther within its current, he found himself
still less able to contend with it; and the partisans,
from their place of watch, could now see that
his almost powerless hand was just raised above the
water, dropping into it feebly, at long and increasing
intervals, without impulsion, and taking no purchase
from the stream. He certainly ceased to advance, and
his movement now was only with the current.

“We must help him, Humphries, my dear fellow,
or he will drown and be d—d,” said Porgy.

“Oh yes, sir—do let us help him!” exclaimed Lance,
who had watched the scene with an anxiety that kept
him starting anxiously, with every movement of the
swimmer.

“If it must be done, Porgy,” said Humphries, in reply,
“there's only one of us that can do it. The
`dug-out' won't carry more, and I'm the best hand at
the paddles. So, keep cool and quiet—don't cry out,
for we don't know but the tories may be after the fellow,
or maybe the British; and if they guess at Marion's
men being in the swamp, it'll break up all our schemes.
Lie close, and if the chap can keep above water till
I get to him, I'll save him.”

With the words, descending quickly from the bluff,
Humphries took the skiff; and the little canoe, under
his powerful arms, soon shot from the concealing bush
where Lance had left it. It was not long before the
swimmer saw him, and he shouted joyfully, but faintly,

at the sight. The tones were so feeble that the boatman
threw all his skill and strength into his paddle,
sparing no effort to reach him, as he felt assured that
the man could not long continue the struggle with the
heavy setting current of the river.

“Keep up, keep up,” Humphries cried out to him in
encouragement; “keep up for a little while—only a few
minutes more, stranger, and I'll fish you up like an
oyster.”

Words, but so faint as to be undistinguishable,
reached Humphries from the swimmer in reply. The
sounds only were audible, but none of the syllables.
The canoe, light as a feather, was sent more rapidly
than at first towards the speaker, as Humphries felt more
and more the necessity of speed. It whirled on nearer
and nearer, and Lance started up, and clapped his hands
in delight, as he beheld the swimmer throwing aside
his frail support, and grasping firmly the gunwale of the
little bark that had so opportunely come to his assistance.
Supported without effort on his own part, by
holding upon its little sides, the man was brought
safely to shore; Humphries, with all the dexterity of
the Indian, having trimmed and propelled his frail bark,
even though thus encumbered, with little fatigue, and
comparatively as little effort. The exhausted swimmer
was carried into camp, and soon recovered sufficiently
to unfold his intelligence to the commander of
the partisans in person.