University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

The next night found Singleton himself in the village.
He could not be persuaded by Humphries to
keep away. The house of old Pryor, who was ready
for any uproar, received him; and there, concealed
even from Aunt Barbara, he contemplated the prospect
before him, and devised more fully his plans for the
rescue of his uncle. His fair cousin was in the same
dwelling, and he engaged her company at such brief moments
as he could steal from his labours, and she from

the presence of her aunt. Humphries was in the village
also, having his hiding-place in his father's stable
loft. Obeying his instructions, Davis came to him
there late the same night, and once more found himself
in the presence of the fair coquette, Bella. The Goose
Creeker turned upon her an unfriendly shoulder, and,
humbled as she had been by circumstances of which
Davis knew nothing, his conduct distressed her to a
degree which she could not conceal. She turned
away to conceal her tears, and the heart of the trooper
smote him. When she retired, Humphries bluntly
asked Davis why he was so rough to his sister. The
subject was a delicate one; but the person addressed
was a plain-spoken fellow, who did not scruple at any
time to speak what he thought. Accordingly, he went
over briefly the whole course of difficulty between
them, and particularly insisted upon the preference
shown to Hastings.

“But he's dead, man; there's no fear of him now.”

“I never was afeard of him, Bill; but then I didn't
love him; and the girl that did can't love me, for there's
nothing alike between us.”

“Oh, pshaw, man! but she didn't love him, you see,”
said the other. “I know all about it. A gal's a gal,
and there's no helping it—she will be foolish sometimes.
There's none of them that don't like a dozen
chaps hanging at their skirts—that's the fun of the
thing with them; and Bella is jist like all the rest.
But the gal is good stuff after all, you see; for though
I did think when Hastings was dancing about her that
she had a liking after the fellow, I soon found out that
she liked somebody else all the time.”

“You don't say so! Who?” demanded the other,
violently and hurriedly, as if taking the alarm anew at
the prospect of a rivalry, which, whatever might be
his cause of anger with the girl, he had no desire to
hear of.

“A man,” replied Humphries coolly.

“Oh, speak out, Bill. I'm sure I don't care; I
shouldn't quarrel with him for it.”

“No, I reckon not, when you know him. His name's
Davis.”

“What Davis?”

“John.”

“Who—what—why, you don't mean me?”

“You're mighty dull, John Davis, for a man that's
seen so much of the world. That's you, for certain—
gospel-true, now, as I tell you. Bella Humphries, my
sister that is, has really a greater liking for you, in
your way, as a man, and a good swamp sucker, than
for any other body that I know of.”

“But Bill, old fellow, you're joking now; it's all fun
and foolishness. How do you know, now? what makes
you think so?” and chuckling and sidling close to his
companion, Davis wound his arm affectionately round
the neck of Humphries as he listened to this narrative,
and put his doubting inquiries in reply.

“How do I know? I'll tell you.”

Humphries then proceeded to give a brief account
of the dialogue between Bella and Mother Blonay,
prior to the assault of Hastings upon the former. We
need not describe the joy of Davis on the recital.
That very night an interview between the coquette and
her lover put all things right between them.

“But you were cross, Bella, you know; and then
you took such pains to please that fellow.”

“Yes, I was foolish, John; but you know you had
no patience; and if I only looked at any other body
than yourself, you were all in a blaze, and spoke so
angry that you frightened me more than once. But
you won't be angry with me again, and I promise I'll
love you always, and you only.”

Davis made similar promises, and both, perhaps, kept
them. With this, however, we have nothing now to do.
Both Davis and his sweetheart were put in requisition
for the contemplated rescue. Other persons, in the
village, known whigs, were also intrusted with parts of
the general performance; and, in the brief space of time
intervening between the arrival of Singleton in Dorchester,
and the day of execution, a bold scheme had been

prepared for the rescue of the destined victim. The
partisan discovered that the whole force of Colonel
Proctor at the garrison scarcely exceeded the command
of a captain; sixty regulars was the estimated
number given him by Humphries. The greater part
of these would in all probability form the escort of the
solemn procession; and these were too numerous, too
well armed, and too well drilled for his little force of
thirty men, unless he could form a scheme of surprise,
by which to distract their attention and defeat their
unanimity. The plan was suggested by old Pryor, and
its boldness won the confidence of Singleton.

“Here's the road, Major Singleton, you see—here's
the red clay hill, and here's the blasted tree that's borne
better fruit than was ever born on it. Here comes the
red-coats, d—n 'em, I say. Now, look here—here's
the bush, thick enough on both sides to cover a troop
quietly. You fix your men here, and here, and here;
and the guard comes; and here's the colonel—he's in
the centre. What do you want then? Something to
make a noise and a confusion is it? Well, you must begin
with the crowd; them that's got nothing particular
to do, and that goes only to look on: there'll be enough
of them. Begin with them, I say; only get them
frightened, and when once the fright begins, it goes
like wildfire in dry grass—it goes everywhere. First
the people, then the soldiers, all get it; and them that
don't scamper will be sure to be very stupid. When
that's done, all's done. Then you tumble among 'em,
now on one side, now on the other, cutting up and
cutting down, shouting and screaming all the while, till
you've done as much as you think will answer. That's
what you want, is it?”

“Yes—let us once create the panic without breaking
our own little force for the purpose, and we will
then take advantage of it. The odds then will not be
so great, and the prospect of success no longer doubtful.”

Such was the reply of Singleton, whose previous
suggestions Pryor had only adopted and reiterated in

his long and prosy speech. The old man, hitching up
his waistbands with a most provoking gravity, approached
the chair where the partisan sat, and whispered
a single sentence in his ear.

“Can you do it—will you do it?” was the quick inquiry
of Singleton.

“I can—I will.”

“Then set about your preparations directly, and I
shall prepare for the rest.”

There was no time for delay, and that night, after
the return of Katharine from her customary visit to her
father, Singleton sought her in private. She was hopeful,
but doubtful. The manner and the words of her
lover strengthened and assured her.

“Katharine, I have strong hopes—very strong hopes,
though we depend greatly on circumstances. We have
many agents at work, and you too must contribute.
You must go to `The Oaks' to-night, and provide horses,
as many as possible, and of the fleetest. We shall
probably want them all. Have them sent, by daylight,
to the little wood, just above the—”

He paused, and his cheek grew pale. She understood
the occasion of his pause. But her spirit was
strong, greatly nerved for the necessity; and, at the
moment, masculine in the highest degree.

“The place of execution—the gallows—you would
say. Go on, go on, Robert. Let me hear—let me
do.”

“Yes; there—in the little wood above—I shall station
trusty men to receive and dispose of them. This
you must do—and do quickly; and this is all—all that
you will be required to perform. To me, and others,
you must leave the rest. Go now, Kate, and”—he
passed his arm about her, and his voice grew tremulous—“I
shall not again see you, Kate—my own—my
love—until it is all over. If I fail—”

“You must not fail,” she cried, hurriedly, starting
from his embrace, and looking almost sternly into his
countenance. “You must not fail, Robert; rather than
that—hear me—my father must not die in shame—

the gallows must not pollute him—the rope must not
dishonour his neck. There is an alternative—a dreadful
alternative, Robert—but still an alternative.” She
put her hand upon the pistols at his side, as she concluded
the sentence, wildly, but in a voice subdued to
a whisper, “If he must die, there is another mode—
another. Only do not hesitate, Robert: if you cannot
save him from death, you may from dishonour. Fear
not to spare him the shame which is worse than death
to his spirit, and quite as dreadful to mine.”

She threw her arms around his neck, and sobbed
audibly for an instant.

“And if I fall, Kate—”

“In life or death, Robert, I am still yours.” She
had withdrawn her face from his bosom as she spoke.
Her glistening eyes, with a holy earnestness, were fixed
upon his own, and truth was in all their language.
How holy, how sweet, how ennobling, how endearing,
was the one kiss—the last embrace they took that
night! That night, preceding a day of so much—of
such an awful—interest to them both. A hurried word
of encouragement from both—a parting prayer, sent
up in unison to Heaven from their mutual lips and united
spirits—and they separated—the one to pray for that
success for which the other was appointed to fight.

From this conference, the partisan proceeded to another
with his coadjutors, Humphries and Davis. The
whole plan was then matured, and Bella was made a
party to the labour by her brother. His instructions to
her were simple enough.

“Bella, you're not afraid to go to the church, just
before daylight?”

“Afraid, brother William! no, I'm not afraid; but
what am I to do there?”

“Listen. Go there by daydawn, and go up to the
steeple.”

“But how am I to get in?”

“Through the window; the door will be locked fast
enough, and no getting the key out of old Johnson's
hands. Get in at the window, which you can do easy

enough, and keep quiet until you see the soldiers
marching off with the colonel.”

“Well?”

“Watch them—you can see every thing easy enough
from the tower. Look to the red hill, and when you
see them arrived at the foot of it, set the bells a-going
hard as you can, as if you were ringing for dear life;
and ring away until you can't ring any more,—you may
then stop. That's all you've got to do. Will you do
it?”

“But what's it for—what's the good of it?”

“No matter—I can't tell you now; but it must be
done by somebody, and you're the best one to do it.
Will you promise me?—now come, be a good girl, Bella,
and I'll tell John Davis all about you.”

The girl promised, and the conspirators then proceeded
to other preparations, all preliminary, and all
deemed essential to the complete success of their enterprise.
They had all returned to the swamp, long
before the daylight opened upon them.