University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

The chase was so far unsuccessful. The pursuers
reached the Cypress without having overtaken the enemy.
There, however, having discretionary power,
Singleton proceeded earnestly to do what he could towards
the rescue of his uncle. The good sense, the
skill, and partisan qualities of Humphries, all came
into excellent exercise, and were found immensely
important at this crisis. With him, Singleton conferred
closely, and immediately after his arrival. The result
of the conference was the departure, that night, of Humphries,
for the village of Dorchester.

Meanwhile, the individuals of the party in the Cypress
resumed their old places and habits. Porgy was
quite at home, and not the less pleased that the eelloving
Oakenburg had forborne to volunteer. He soon
set the peculiar talents of black Tom in requisition;
and a little foraging furnished the scouts with a sufficient
supply for the evening feast. Of this we need
scarcely say that Singleton ate but little. He was
eminently wretched; and as he wandered gloomily

along the edge of the island, he was not unpleasantly
aroused at hearing the wild laugh, and at meeting the
wolfish visage of the maniac Frampton immediately
beside him.

“You are come,” said the wretched man—“you are
come to see him. You shall see him; he is there,”
pointing with his finger. “I have put him to watch her
grave, and he watches well; he never leaves it. The
owl and him—they watch together, and one hoots when
the other sleeps. Come—you shall see.”

Singleton could only conjecture the meaning of his
speech; the scattered rays of reason illuminating the
vague obscurity of his language, as a faint flickering of
twilight unveiled imperfectly the crowding blackness
and the strange cluster of objects around them in the
swamp. The firelight fell on the cheek of the madman,
and showed Singleton its squalid and miserable,
not less than maniacal expression. He had evidently
suffered from hunger as well as wo.

“Come with me, rather,” said the partisan, losing for
a moment the feeling of his own wretchedness in that
of the unfortunate being before him. The man followed
quietly enough, and he led him to where the
rest were busily engaged at supper. Porgy in an instant
made room for him on the log on which he himself
was sitting: at the same time he broke the hoecake
before him, and gave orders to Tom, who stood
conveniently by, to produce the remnants of some
chickens, in the procuring of which, one of the neighbouring
plantations had suddenly suffered assessment.
But the wild man did not for a moment notice the invitation.
He seized Singleton by the arm, and with a
gentle pressure, carried him through the circle to the
spot where his young son was sitting. The elder
rose at his approach; but him he did not regard for a
moment. But when he looked upon the younger, and
beheld the sword at his side, he burst into one of those
dreadful laughs which seemed to indicate, as they invariably
accompanied, every occasional symptom of his
mental consciousness. The boy stood up before him,

and the hand of the maniac rested upon his head. His
fingers, for a few seconds, played with the fine long
hair of the boy; but, as if satisfied, in a little while
he dashed away from the spot, and hurried back to the
supping-place of the rest.

“Poor fellow—he doesn't seem to have eaten for a
month,” said Porgy, as the maniac voraciously devoured
the meats set before him. “No wonder he's mad—I
should be mad myself, I doubt not, were I to go without
eating even a day. I felt something like it on the
Santee.”

The maniac ate on, heedless of remark or observation;
but sometimes he would pause, and indicate, by
a laughing chuckle, that some faint gleams of perception
had come into his brain. To the surprise of all,
he did not depart as soon as he had eaten, as had been
his usual custom heretofore; but throwing himself under
an old tree, he seemed disposed to follow the example
of several of the rest, who had resigned themselves
to sleep.

Humphries, meanwhile, had reached Dorchester in
safety. The night was favouringly dark, and he trod
the street in which his father dwelt, in perfect safety.
He penetrated, with cautious steps, and with the utmost
circumspection, into the enclosure, and, successfully,
and unseen by any, made his way to the stables. Here
he remained quiet for a while, until the hour had fairly
arrived at which the tavern was usually closed for
the night. He then ventured out of his hiding-place,
and went towards the dwelling. But the “Royal
George” was still open, and still full of guests. A
couple of British soldiers were drinking at the bar;
and there were some four or five of the villagers. The
old landlord had been listening to some narrative which
had greatly awakened his attention. It could be seen
that he was in that awkward situation, when a man
finds it difficult to laugh, and when it is yet expected
that he should do so. The efforts of old Humphries
in this way, were very unhappy. His laughter died
away in a hoarse chuckle; a gurgling, gulping sound

filled his throat; and the poor fellow turned away to
conceal tears.

“And when will he be hung?” asked one of the villagers.

“Friday—Friday next,” replied one of the soldiers,
gruffly; “and that's giving him a d—d sight too much
time for any prayer that he can make. I'm for having
it soon over. Just the same with other people as with
myself. No long-winded speeches, say I.”

“Only three days!” continued the villager. “Well,
it's a great pity, for he used to be a mighty good man,
and quite a gentleman. And then there's his daughter,
Miss Katharine—poor girl, I wonder if she knows it?”

“I reckon she does,” said another of the villagers,
“for I seed the family coach drive in not an hour after
the guard brought him; and, though I didn't see who
was in it, yet I s'pose it couldn't be nobody but her.”

“Yes, she's come,” said the soldier who had just
spoken, “and she's been to the colonel, begging him, I
suppose, for mercy. But it's all in my eye and Betty
Martin—the colonel can't help her much.”

“Yet they did say that Colonel Proctor had a liking
for the young lady. Maybe he might do much on her
behalf for the father.”

“He can't, even if he would,” said the soldier; “the
orders came from Lord Cornwallis himself, and it's as
positive as old Jamaica. The colonel has done all he
could. He's let the girl go to her father, and she was
with him when I left the garrison. She's going to put
herself under guard the same as her father, to be with
him all the time.”

“Poor, poor girl,” muttered old Humphries, hastily
turning away. “Bless me, where's Bella? Here, Bella,
my dear!”

Taking a parting draught, the soldiers first, and then
the villagers, withdrew. The old man proceeded to
fasten the doors; and when this was securely done,
the younger Humphries, who had been waiting and
watching, concealed in an inner apartment, made his appearance
before his father. It was a meeting of rejoicing

as well as regret; for the old man was proud of his
son, and loved him not less than the daughter. There
were long stories told between them which do not concern
this narrative. But all relating to Colonel Walton,
his daughter, and the danger before him, was drunk in
by the son with a greedy interest. He ascertained the
place of the colonel's imprisonment; and found, to his
great regret, that it was within the walls of the fort
itself. It was there, and there only, that Katharine
could see him. It was there that she watched and
wept with her father now; and the soul of the proud-spirited
girl, mortified in many respects, was humbled
to the dust as she contemplated the degrading doom
which her father was destined to undergo. Death on
the battle-field would have been honourable death, in
her estimation; and though, even now, he was to perish
in the cause of his country, that cause, sacred and
lofty as it was, could not qualify her previous impressions
of that disgrace which such a mode of death
brought with it. The infamous hangman, the defiling
rope! The aristocratic education, the proud, unbending
spirit of the noble girl, revolted whenever she
thought upon it. She shuddered to survey the picture
which her imagination continued to describe before her.
She shuddered, and was convulsed at the feet of her
father.

She was permitted to remain with her father throughout
the day, but was compelled to leave him at a certain
hour every night. This was an indulgence of
Colonel Proctor, who sympathized with her sufferings,
with all the feelings of the man, and the courtesy of
the honourable gentleman. He deplored and disapproved
of the judgment of Cornwallis; but, according
to that strict military etiquette, upon which no officer
insisted more rigidly than Proctor, he forebore any utterance
of opinion on the subject of his superior's proceedings,
and only, while he resolved to obey them
rigidly, prepared to temper his severity with all the
softening indulgence which was left discretionary with
him. Katharine felt, and looked her gratitude—her

consciousness of his delicacy and forbearance. Still
it pained her pride to be dependant, even to a degree
so small, upon her country's enemy. She felt this
humiliation also, but, with a proper good sense, she
yielded to circumstances, and showed no sign of such
a feeling

Humphries gathered these particulars from his father
and sister. He learned that even at that moment
Katharine was at the garrison; that, as the gates were
closed at ten o'clock, she would then be compelled to
leave it; and readily conjecturing that she had made
arrangements for remaining at Dorchester during the
night, he now felt desirous of finding out her place of
residence. There was, however, but one ready mode
of making this discovery, and as the night was dark,
and the object worthy the risk, with a bold determination,
he made his arrangements to lurk around the gate
of the fortress, until she should make her appearance.
He could then follow her at a safe distance, and thus
find out her abode.

No sooner determined, than acted upon. He sallied
forth, and, by a circuitous route, reached the point of
observation. Here he waited not long, before the old
family coach made its appearance; and, in half an hour
after, two ladies, escorted by as many officers, appeared
from the entrance. The ladies were assisted
into the carriage, the officers returned, the gates again
closed, and the vehicle wheeling about to pursue its
way, when Humphries, who had sheltered himself behind
a tree close in the neighbourhood, now boldly
leaped forward, and mounting behind the coach, was
carried along with it.

They alighted, as he had anticipated, at the lively
dwelling of old Pryor. The sturdy landlord himself
came forth, and pushing aside the negro, assisted the
ladies from the carriage. They entered the house.
and, watching his opportunity, Humphries followed
them. The moment that Pryor was disengaged, the
partisan sought him, and, in private, unfolded himself
to the pleasantly astonished landlord. A few moments

more gave him an interview with Katharine and
her aunt. The guise, garb, and expression of the latter,
were stiff and old maidish, as usual. Not so with
the former. Her eye was wild, her hair disordered,
her cheeks flushed, and her step quick and convulsive,
while her lips frequently quivered with the thrilling
thoughts that were present and active in her mind.
She hurried forward to meet him upon his entrance;
she seized his hand with unstudied and earnest warmth;
she hailed him as a friend—as one sent from Singleton.

“I cannot talk to you yet,” said she, brokenly, “I
must wait for breath; but I am glad—oh, very glad to
see you.”

“Sit down, Kate, my love,” said the old lady; “you
fatigue, you afflict yourself, my dear.”

She sank obediently into the chair; but again immediately
started up, and approached the partisan.

“I cannot sit—I am in no want of rest, and have
no time for it. Oh, Mr. Humphries! tell me—speak to
me—say what is the hope you bring me!”

“Major Singleton—”

She interrupted him.

“Ay—Robert—I look to him to save me—to save my
father. Where is Robert now?”

“In the Cypress, Miss Katharine—I come from him
now?”

“Thank God! He has not deserted me—he will
not desert me!”

“Never, Miss Katharine, I'll answer for it; the
major is never the man to desert you, or anybody—
never.”

“I know it—I know it, Mr. Humphries. You do
his noble heart only justice when you say so. He
will not desert me—he will not desert my father. But
I must go to him—I must see him, this very night.
He must tell me what he can do—what he will try to
do for me in this horrible necessity. He must show
me that he will save my father.”

And as she spoke, she hastily retied the strings of

her bonnet; and her whole manner was that of one
full of resolution.

“Why, what would you do, my child?” asked her
aunt.

“Go to him—go to Robert Singleton.”

“My child, don't think of it—remember, you're a
lady—”

“A woman—a daughter!” she replied, almost fiercely.
“I have no fears—I should have no scruples. If there
be danger or reproach, I will risk it all for my father.
You fear not, Mr. Humphries, to conduct me to your
leader?”

“It's an ugly road, Miss Katharine, for a lady—
mud and water, bog and bush, and mighty crooked.”

“Is that all! shall such things keep me back from
my duty, when all depends on it? Oh, no! These are
trifles—your difficulties I fear not.” Then, turning to
her aunt, who had now risen and seized her arm persuasively—“Your
scruples, my dear aunt, I heed not.
I must go.”

“The major will be mighty glad to see you, Miss
Katharine, I'm certain; and no harm can come of your
going. I can guide you true to the spot, dark or daylight
the same; and I'm close and cautious enough
about danger. But you'll have to ride horseback.”

“I can do it—I can do it,” she cried eagerly; “that
will be no difficulty.”

“Then we must get you a saddle from Pryor—that's
easy enough too; for I know he's got one, and he'll be
quick to let you have it.”

“See to it—see to it at once, Mr. Humphries, I pray
you. Let there be no delay.”

Humphries hurried off. The aunt strove to change
her resolve, but the fearless girl was inflexible.

“Robert Singleton knows me, aunt—thank God! I
know him. If I did not, I might listen to you now.
Knowing him, I freely confide my name, my life, my
honour to his keeping. I have no fears—none. But
since he has come—since I have heard his name, and
seen his messenger—I have hopes—many hopes—good

hopes—sweet hopes. He will save my father—he will
try with all his soul, and with all his strength; and God
must—God will—prosper him!”

Such was the strain with which she rejected her
aunt's entreaties, and persisted in her determination.
When Humphries reappeared with Pryor, announcing
his determination to depart, the old lady, finding she
could not change the resolution of her niece, was for
going along with her in the coach; but Humphries
resisted the suggestion as impracticable.

“We can't run the old coach into the bush, if an
enemy pops into the road, ma'am; and it's a chance
we may have to do that before we get to the Cypress, even
at this time of night. The fewer, the easier to hide;
the smaller the bundle, the bigger the hole to cover it.
It won't be an easy journey, ma'am, no how, I tell you.”

The old lady was soon discouraged, and consented,
though with great reluctance, to the arrangement which
separated her from Katharine. The latter was soon
ready, and carefully muffled up; she was conducted
by Humphries to the edge of the wood where his own
horse had been concealed, and to which spot Pry or
had punctually carried that intended for the maiden.

They rode with spirit, and soon reached the swamp.
Humphries carefully chose a path, which, if more direct,
and more exposed to detection, was, at least, far more
easily travelled than that which he usually pursued.
He conducted her into safe concealment on the little
rising ridge of sand which Davis had previously chosen
for his proposed fight with Hastings. Here he persuaded
her to remain, until he should go to the camp
and conduct Singleton to her. She did not hesitate to
do so; the arrangement was more agreeable to her in
many respects, as it spared her the toilsome journey
through the worst portions of the swamp, at the same
time that it promised her that privacy in her interview
with Singleton, which, as we shall see, was absolutely
necessary to its progress. In leaving her, Humphries
saw no impropriety. He knew not of any danger in
the swamp to her; and she was quite too much absorbed

in her thought of her father's danger, to think for
a single instant on the subject of her own position.
The spot, too, upon which she stood had nothing terrific
in its aspect. The trees were few, and not gloomy
like those of the swamp. The stars shone down freely
over the bank, and the light was sweet, though faint,
as it fell glistening over the white sands upon which
she stood, and was freely reflected from the glazed
green of the leaves that hung circling about her.
Alighting from her horse, her trusty companion fastened
him to a hanging bough, and promising to return quickly,
rode onward to the camp.

He had not been long gone, when she heard the
rustling of the bush behind her. She turned towards
the spot, and beheld a gigantic figure emerging from
the bush. The intruder was the maniac Frampton. His
fierce habits, wild aspects, dismal shriek, and soiled
and tattered garments, were enough to startle, not a
timid maiden only, but a bold-spirited man. Katharine
might have been alarmed even more than she was, had
he appeared to her as he usually appeared to others.
But a singular change seemed to have come over him.
His step was irresolute—his manner shrinking—his
countenance full of awe. He continued, however, to
approach; and though really apprehensive, the maiden
firmly held her ground, looked steadily upon him, and
neither screamed nor spoke. But, as he continued to
advance, though slowly and respectfully, she gave back
before him. He then addressed her in a strain which
confounded and astonished.

“Fly me not, sweet spirit—leave me not in darkness—hear
me—scorn not my prayer—I kneel to you
—I pray you for pardon—have I not loved—have I not
revenged you? You know it—you feel it—you have
seen it—fly me not—I will do more—I swear it on
my knees. Look.”

The maniac was prostrate before her—his face prone
in the dust—his hands clasped above his head—his
tones, when he spoke, subdued, and full of humility
She was more terrified at what she saw, as it was now

evident that she was alone with a madman. In this
way, crouching towards her, he continued to rave, addressing
her as an angel—as one departed—and reminding
her, as his wife, of the olden happiness which
they had known together—the love they had borne
each other, and which he prayed her still to cherish
for him in heaven. Approaching footsteps startled him
just as he had partly risen to his knees, and while he
was still imploring her after this fashion. The noise
brought to him a momentary consciousness. He seemed
to realize his mistake, and with his fearful laugh,
bounding away, he was sheltered in the neighbouring
bush before Singleton and his comrade had yet reached
the spot where the latter had left the maiden.

Humphries kept aloof, while Singleton met his cousin.
The scene was short between them, but how full of all
that was sweet—all that was exciting to both! She
rushed towards him as soon as his person was distinguished.

“Oh, Robert! I have come to you a begger—a wo-begone
beggar. I have no hope but from you—no
confidence but in you. To you—to you only—I bend
my thought—I turn my eye—I look for life—my life,
my father's life—all. Save him—save me!”

“For this, Katharine, have I come. If I can save
your father, even though at the hazard of my own life,
I shall do so. You have my pledge for this.”

“Thanks, thanks, dear Robert! my heart thanks
you. But what is your hope, your plan?—tell me all,
that I may calculate on your chances, that I may note
their progress, that I may pray—that I may assist, if assist
I can, in a work which calls for men—for manhood only.”

The question troubled Singleton. What could he tell
her? He himself knew little as yet of the true condition
of things in Dorchester. No time had yet been
allowed him to devise a scheme or take a step in its
execution. He told her this, and she heard him with
impatience.

“But something, dear Robert, must be done, and
quickly. Do not be cold, I pray you—do not deliberate

too long, or nothing will be done. Hear me, Robert
—hear me but a while. You came to me a suitor—
you said you loved me, and I believed you, Robert.”

He took her hand. She continued—

“I believed you, and I was pleased to believe. My
pride and my heart both rejoiced in my conquest: but
this I said not—this I showed not to you—I did not
reject, though I did not receive your prayer. Now
hear me—my hand is in yours—it is yours—I give it
you in love, in pledge, in true affection—it is yours,
and I am yours for ever. Only save my father—say
to me that you will save him, and here, in this solemn
place—these thick trees, and the spectre-like stars, only
looking wanly down upon us, and bearing witness—I
avow myself your wife—yours, at any moment after,
that you shall name, to bind me such for ever.”

He carried her hand to his lips—he kept it there for
a moment—then releasing it, replied—

“And does Katharine Walton think to buy me to the
performance of a sacred duty? Am I not come to save
him—to save or perish with your father? This was
my resolve when I sued for leave to pursue the guard
which brought him to the village. Even your love will
fail to add any thing of strength or spirit to my determination.
It is an oath in heaven; and my life for his,
whether you love or hate, whether you receive or reject
my prayer.”

“Noble, unselfish!—true friend, brave cousin! You
will do all for me; you are determined to make me
and mine your debtor. You will not be bought by the
hand which I have placed in yours—which you have
sought for years—as you would leave me free still to
any choice upon which my heart has been set. You
are too proud, too noble to take advantage of my necessities.
But I will not be outdone thus. I will now
become the suitor in turn; and, Robert, if the poor
charms and the humble virtues of Katharine Walton
be not all gone, in the eyes of her cousin, she offers
them all—all, without pledge of service, without hope
of recompense, without any thing in return, but the

noble heart and the true hand which he once proffered
to her.”

Singleton caught the high-minded and beautiful woman
in his arms: the first sacred embrace, the first
mutual kiss of requited love, hallowed and terminated
the scene between them.

He rode forth with her on the way to Dorchester,
taking a circuitous route in his progress, and leaving
her to the conduct of Humphries as they came in sight
of the village. On their way, he gave her a certain
message which she was to bear her father—containing
advice and instructions for his government. He also
suggested—more to satisfy her impatience than with
any certainty of their adoption—various plans of rescue.
Having a perfect reliance on the skill and courage
of her lover, not less than upon his affections, she
became more soothed and satisfied by what she heard.
Her hopes grew active and warm, and her sanguine
thought already beheld the freedom of her doomed sire,
obtained by the powerful arm of her adventurous lover.
Let us not, however, anticipate events.