University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
WILLIE SINCLAIR'S VISIT TO HIS FATHER.

For the first few moments after the disappearance of Nelly
Floyd, a feeling of wonder and admiration, if not awe, overspread
the little circle, and hung like a cloudy spell upon the
senses of all.

“What an astonishing creature!” cried Sinclair. “Did she
drop from the clouds?”

“There is certainly some curious mystery about her,” answered
St. Julien. Such a wonderful mingling of rudeness and
refinement, simplicity of manner and high tone of character, is
exceedingly rare. It shows superiority of endowment, with a
certain peculiar piquancy of training, or nature has executed one
of her marvels.”

“What an eye she has! so large, dewy, and dilating, yet
fiery; and how animated the expression of her face! How
every muscle seems to speak. I have certainly met her somewhere
before. The mere features strike me as familiar.”

“Yes, do you not remember; at the house of the old woman,
Ford, whither we went in search of Mrs. Travis and her
daughter.”

“Yes, yes; now I remember! But then she was silent, and
there was none of that fiery enthusiasm which she has just exhibited.
Either she is an angel, or the subtlest counterfeit that
ever knew how to put on the guise of virtue, and warm it with
the fires of zeal.”

“She is an angel!” said St. Julien. “There is no trick
about her. Cunning could never rise to that altitude. She is,
in brief, a wonder.”

“I reckon she's nothing better than a cunning gipsy,” quoth
Ballou, “artful as the d—l, and full of all sorts of mischief. I've
seen a good many of that class of people.”

“You've been more fortunate than other people, Ballou,” responded
Sinclair — “I never had the fortune to meet such a
person before.”

“Well, you've let her off, and you'll be sorry for it. She's
tricked you.”

“Even if she has, I shall not be sorry that I let her off. Better
I should be deceived, than that I should be troubled with a
constant misgiving lest I had done a great wrong to humanity.
We had no right, besides, to detain her.”

“Well, I reckon we can't consider about rights so closely in
war time. If we did, we'd half the time do nothing — nothing.
We've got to strain the laws mighty hard, sometimes, if we
would make a proper headway against the enemy. It ain't the
laws that's going to make an obstinate rogue give in, and let
out what he knows. We have to put the pinchers to his tender
feelings, and the hickories to his back, or we can't always untie
his tongue, and get at his secrets.”

“And you'd have subjected such a girl as that to the lash,
Ballou? I really had a better opinion of your humanity.”

“Well, I don't pretend to too much humanity in war time.
I don't mean to say that I'd have the gal whipped, exactly,
though, once, when she dodged me before, I felt in my heart
like licking her soundly, if I could have caught her; but I'd
have taken her into captivity, and kept her on short commons,
till she let out all we wanted to know. And she's so eager to
get off, that I'm sure she'd have let out her secrets, had you
only pinned her up in a ploughline for awhile. You had her at
your mercy, colonel, and could have got all her secrets by a little
squeezing. But it's no use talking now. You've let her off,
and we must now work our own traverse, after the track, to that
hiding-place of Inglehardt.”

“So be it! That we had her at our mercy was no good
reason why we should abuse our power, and in the case of a
young creature like that, and a woman too. You would have
us, Ballou, imitate the practice of our tories, and these Florida
refugees, with whom women and the weak are always chosen

victims. Your scouting business teaches you some hard lessons.”

“It makes me mighty suspicious of the cunning of sich sort
of cattle.”

“You don't believe much in the virtues, Ballou.”

“Well, I see too little of them now-a-days, to be easy of belief.
Besides, here's a matter I may say of life and death.
You set me to hunt up Captain Travis and the boy Henry; and
I find the very person that can carry you to their hiding-place;
and when it only wants a little tight squeezing to make her do
it, you listen to all her cunning stories, and let's her off. I don't
believe a word of her story. She's just come over you with a
sarcumvention of her own, and she's a-laughing at you now,
even as she rides.”

“Be it so, Ballou. Yet, though something of a soldier, and
not over-confiding myself — not easily imposed upon, I'm sure
— I believe every syllable that was uttered by that strange
girl. Every word, every look, was truth.”

“It was!” interposed St. Julien. “Ballou can not understand
such a nature. The woman is an anomaly. In the old world
she would probably be accounted a genius — one of that class
with whom a most fiery impulse is yet subordinated to a true
controlling thought. She is true. Nay, more: she will seek
us out. She will bring us voluntarily the information we seek.
She will not be coerced, except by her own will. She does not
will to do so now, because of the concentration, upon some one
earnest purpose now, of all her hopes, fears, thoughts, and feelings.
Had we kept that girl in bonds, in the hope to compel
her to our purpose, we might have driven her to madness, but
never to submission.”

Here 'Bram, who had been showing himself very impatient
of a conversation in which he had been suffered to take no part,
interposed and said, abruptly enough:—

“I yer somet'ing 'bout dat same gal, Mass Willie. I yer from
old Cato, who's carriage-driber for Miss Trabis. He true, wha'
de gal tell you, 'bout he gitting shoot in de arm, by dem rascal
wha' bin cotch de ladies; he shoot 'em jis when de Lawd
Roddin come up — den de gal fall down and faint 'way; den
de British sodger run at de rascal in de woods: shoot some —

hang odder some; den day pick up de gal, put 'em in de carriage
wid Miss Trabis, and bring 'em to we house. He 'tay
day, two, tree, fibe, seben day, maybe, tell he git better ob he
hu't; den he gone — nobody know whay he gone; and day
nebber sees 'em 'gain, tell Ballou catches 'em, and brings 'em
yer.”

“You see, Ballou, 'Bram's story confirms that of the girl.”

“In that matter, may be: but not in the other. I tell you
she had to do with Inglehardt's gang. I have seen her talking
with one of them.”

“That proves nothing. You have seen her talking with us,
yet she had no connection with us, except against her will.”

“Ay, but it was not against her will that she talked with
them.”

“Ballou, you are inveterate. According to your own previous
report, this girl's track was always after, and about the tracks
of these ruffians. You yourself admit to have made her separate
track your guide to the places where they were to be found.”

“Yes, and it always led me right.”

“But that it was still always separate fully confirms her assertion,
that she harbored about them, even as you did, but did
not mingle with them.”

“Ah! that's her assertion only.”

“It seems confirmed by all other testimony. But enough,
now. I am satisfied that she is as innocent as yourself. Your
pride has been hurt by the girl; and you feel it a little too
deeply. You have been faithful and zealous, but unfortunate,
so far; and this mortifies you. She has spoken offensively to
you, and this has vexed you into injustice. But for these things
you would probably see her in the same light with ourselves.
Her words to you were harsh; but, if she spoke the truth of
herself, she was justified in what she said of you. Do not
suppose that I question your truth and fidelity, because I believe
in her. And now for 'Bram's story.”

We need not give the details of that long narrative. 'Bram
had much to tell. Of his escort of Travis's negroes safely
across the Santee; of his subsequently attaching himself to
Mrs. Travis, whom he encountered on the road; of the finding
of his master and the young ladies in the highway, foundered;

robbed of their carriage-horses; of the extreme illness of the
old man; of the fond attentions and care shown by Mrs. Travis
and her daughter, during the veteran's extremity; of the intimacy
which had grown up into affection between the parties;
of his own indefatigable exertions, great merits, and sufferings
as a scout; of his capture by Dick of Tophet, and his subsequent
transfer to the custody of Griffith, the promiscuous dealer
in contraband, near Wantoot and Pooshee: of all these particulars
'Bram delivered himself at great length. His prolixity
underwent due increase, when he came to narrate the particulars
of his connection with Griffith, and final escape. We must not
suffer him to speak, or he will take up too much of our time.
Enough to state that, finding himself in the hands of Griffith,
his sagacity at once scented his danger. He soon learned that
he was to be sent to the British West India islands. Griffith,
himself, who had already accumulated a score of similar captives,
destined to a similar fate — all of whom he kept in a log
pen in the swamp — had told him, and the rest, that they were
to go thither; that they were to be slaves no longer, but free
to enjoy the fat of the land; a region in which rum-juice run in
the canes, filling all their hollows; sugar grew upon the bushes
in place of berries; where the sun always shone, day and
night; and where the sole employment was to eat, drink, and
keep their wives in order, taking as many as they chose. “The
heaven of each is but what each desires,” and the heaven thus
painted for the negroes in the log-pen, was so painted, by the
cunning Griffith, as effectually to intoxicate the fancies of these
sable sons of Africa, who were all eager to be gone. According
to 'Bram, however, his wisdom was more than a match for
Griffith's cunning. But seeing, he pretended not to see. Doubting,
he appeared religiously to believe. He put on the look of the
simpleton; opened his mouth from ear to ear; drank in delightedly
all he heard; and was so easy of faith, so happy in the prospect,
that Griffith was effectually deceived. Having need of a
vigorous laborer, he preferred 'Bram to the office of a clerk or
assistant. There was a boat, run up the creek, containing casks
of rum and sugar; these had to be unloaded at midnight, and
wagoned up to the secret post which our contrabandista maintained.
To assist in this duty, 'Bram was employed, and by
little and little, his opportunities grew, and he did not suffer
them to escape him. He watched his chance, while at the boat;
and, having sent off his last cargo, emptying the boat, and
finding himself alone, he cut her loose, allowed her to drift a
short way down stream, and when she struck upon the opposite
bank, a mile below, he jumped out and took to the woods,
where he effectually hid himself from pursuit, until, in his subsequent
wanderings, he threw himself in the way of Ballou and
his party.

“We caught the rascal asleep,” quoth Ballou.

“I no bin sleep, Ballou. I bin mak' b'lieb I sleep. I jis bin
lay myself down to res' my leg, when I see de sodger. I
knows dem and le' 'em come up and find me. Ef I hadn't a'
bin know 'em, day nebber bin find me for t'ousand years.”

“I had to waken him by kicking,” said Ballou.

“Psho, Ballou, enty I bin know whose foot it was? Enty I
bin know you all de time? Ha! you s'pose dis nigger fool!”

“Well, I can only say, you must have loved kicking mightily
to have taken so much of it from your friends, without any
reason for it.”

“Psho! he ain't hu't. You kin kick me all day yer” — striking
the invulnerable region with complacency — “an' I nebber
feel 'em.”

It will be seen that 'Bram was equally insensible in the
point and seat of honor; and this insensibility was, in considerable
degree, a matter of pride and satisfaction with him; even
as the alligator congratulates himself that his hide defies a rifle
bullet; as a turtle exults that his coating laughs at the teeth of
the shark, and the bill of the sword-fish; as a well-provisioned
garrison chuckles over the strength of its walls, when the foe
thunders against them from without.

The bugle was sounded.

“Whither now, Willie?” demanded St. Julien.

“To this good Widow Avinger's, of course; to see all the
dear ones — father and sister, and my poor Bertha! Heavens!
how they all suffered.”

“Willie!”

“Well! what?”

“You forget your commission.”

“What! shall I find myself only a few miles from my father
and sisters and deny myself to see them.”

“Yet the instructions of General Marion, touching Pooshee
and Wantoot.”

“The devil take Pooshee and Wantoot, if they are to keep
me from one hour's enjoyment of home — at a moment like this
— after such anxieties as I have borne so long — after such toils
as we have undergone! No! no! my dear Peyre, you are
quite too much of a martinet. Nay, you are cold-blooded, man;
for you seem to forget that you shall see Carrie when I see
Bertha. By Heavens! if this is the philosophic mode — stoical
all over — with which you are to love my sister, you sha'n't
have her after all! I'll second my father's objections. I'll
admit that you are not only a Frenchman, but but an unnatural
Frenchman, who has no proper sense of la belle passion.”

“Willie,” said the other, while his bronze visage showed
warmer tints through the skin than ever.

“Oh! you mean that I do you injustice; but, by Heavens,
Peyre! to think of your opposing such a visit, only for an hour,
under such circumstances, is absolutely monstrous! What
would Carrie say!”

“That I did not forget honor in love.”

“And who forgets honor? What is there in conflict with
honor in this proposed visit?”

“With duty, then? Do you not see, from this very story
of 'Bram, that there are new reasons rendering the reconnoisance
of these posts doubly necessary?”

“And will the delay of a few hours affect the duty?”

“It may!”

“Well, let it! I am a man as well as a soldier. I have not
had an hour's respite for the last three months — have not
wasted an hour idly. Shall I be denied a few brief moments
of pleasure — a single hurried embrace with those who are dear
to my heart? Oh, Peyre, Peyre, how can you deny me?”

“I deny myself, Willie.”

“I don't believe it! You are a stoic, a cynic, an ascetic!
You have no more heart than a millstone. I tell you, Peyre, I
will pay this visit. An hour's riding will carry us there. I
will but kiss all round, and say, `God bless you!' and `How

d'ye do?' and `Good-by!' all in the same breath; and then cry
aloud, to appease your conscience, `Captain St. Julien, sound
to-saddle!' There! will that promise serve you?”

“I can only counsel, Willie.”

“And you persist in counselling for Pooshee and Wantoot,
and against this visit?”

“I do — however reluctantly, I do! It is against the desires
of my own heart that I so counsel.”

“That for your counsel!” snapping his fingers. “Boot and
saddle, there! Shall there be no sunshine, because I am a soldier?
— no smile, because I must scout and fight? — not a kiss
from loving lips, because, a moment after, I may have a bullet
through my breast? Come on, Peyre! Never look so dreary,
man — so stern! — don't treat yourself so unkindly. I know
your heart — know that you long, as much as I do, for this
meeting with our friends; and that your virtue and duty are
quite too severe for ordinary humanity. They will starve you
yet in the midst of plenty. To-saddle, man! We shall see all
the dear ones in an hour!”

And so they rode!

But they had not ridden a mile before they encountered one
of Marion's scouting-parties, post-haste, “spurring, fiery red,”
who brought despatches for Sinclair, commanding his immediate
return to the brigade. Marion wrote:—

Another despatch was from Rutledge:—

Sinclair read with evident vexation. He handed the despatches
to St. Julien, with the single remark

“Was ever anything so malaprop?”

Then he addressed himself to the bearer of despatches, and
asked sundry questions about the position of the brigade, its
numbers, and so forth.

“Of course, Willie, you obey these mandates?”

“To be sure! Could you doubt? But if you mean, by this
question, Peyre, to convey the idea that I am to be cut off from
this visit to my father, you are mistaken. No, by Heavens!
I will see him — see them all — feel the gripe of their hands
once more, though Stewart with all his army came thundering to
the interview! Ho, there!”

And he called up a couple of lieutenants.

“Mazyck, take ten men, and scout along the road above.
Rendezvous in two hours at Mrs. Avinger's. You, Postell, take
another ten men on the road below. Watch well, both of you,
and keep to time.” To Ballou he gave instructions for finding
Vanderhorst and Conyers. “Coulter,” said he, “may be about
the Four-Hole Bridge. But he is too far to reach now. Unless
by some fortunate accident, we can hardly find him in proper
season. At all events, take this paper” — here he penciled
upon a scrap of letter a single sentence. “Drop it in the old
hollow at Green Fork. It is just possible that he may be in
the precinct, and will look there. You” (to Ballou) “can resume
your scouting about the hiding-place of Inglehardt. You
must find out the secrets of that fastness, man, or die! Your
reputation as a scout depends upon it. Do not let this wild
girl beat you at your own business. — And now, Peyre, my
brother — my cynical, duty-loving friend — you go with me! I
am resolved that we shall not lose the one hour which I dedicate
to our hearts, for all the British armies that ever left Land's
End!”

And again they rode.

Under 'Bram's guidance, they soon reached the widow Avinger's.
They got a glimpse of old Cato as they dashed into
the enclosure. Old Sam was seen to take off his cap and grin,
and make a leg; but they stopped nowhere short of the piazza,
where, dismounting, they hurried up the steps, and were in the
hall of the dwelling, before the inmates were aware of the character
of the visiters.

The baron lay drowsing upon his sofa. Carrie Sinclair was

in her chamber, in her bed, still suffering from her terrors, her
bruises, and the natural excitement and anxiety of her soul.
Mrs. Travis was in attendance upon her. Mrs. Avinger was in
the kitchen. St. Julien lingered in the piazza, as Sinclair
darted in.

“My father!” he cried, as he recognised the old man on the
sofa, and rushed up to him, and threw his arms about his neck.
The veteran started from his drowse, with a cry of joy and pain:

“My son! oh, Willie, my son, my son!” he cried, and burst
into a sobbing lamentation, like a child, utterly overcome. The
son was shocked.

“Why, sir, why do you weep thus?”

“Weep! ha! ha! Rather ask why I do not rave — why I
do not tear my hair — why I am not a madman!”

“I knew that you were sick, sir; but you are better now.”

“Sick, sir? D—n the sickness! I have been nigh to death,
sir! Oh, Willie, I have been nigh to death! But I am a
man — a soldier. Do you suppose I trembled at the thought
of death? do you suppose that death, or danger of my own, of
any kind, would cause these eyes to fill and overflow? It is
worse than death! Oh, Willie, have you not heard — do you
not know? That girl — that sweet, loving, dear creature —
Annie Smith — no, not Annie Smith (d—n the Smiths!) — but
your girl, your affianced — yes, Bertha — she! — O my God, preserve
my brain!”

“Bertha! what of her! I know that she is here!”

“You know no such thing! She is gone, I tell you! Why
the devil will you not understand, at once, without my telling
it again and again, as if it were a pleasure to rub afresh the
wounds in my heart.”

“Gone! Bertha, gone! Where?”

“Ay, where? Why are you not able to answer the question?
Why were you not here to protect, and defend, and rescue,
the innocent creature from the wolves and vultures — from
the dark, damnable ruffians that have carried her off.”

“Carried off! Ruffians!”

“Why do you echo me!” with a fearful oath. “Do you
suppose it a pleasure with me to have the infernal thorn for ever
in my side! Ay, carried off, by ruffians, with violence, carried

off, no one knows whither, or for what purpose; but, as we suppose,
by Inglehardt, since that hell-born ruffian, whom you once
let escape you, Hell-fire Dick, was the leader of the gang!”

“Great God!” cried Willie Sinclair, as he staggered back,
convulsed and trembling with emotions that denied him further
speech. At that moment, Carrie Sinclair, who had heard her
brother's voice above stairs, and could not be restrained, rushed
into the room, and threw her arms sobbing, as if her heart would
break, about his neck.

“Oh! Willie, oh! my brother! I strove for her; I would
have died to save her, but I had no strength! Look at me,
how they have beaten, and disfigured me in defence of her!”

“My poor Carrie!” cried Willie, recovering strength from
the feeling of horror as he beheld her bruised and blackened
face — “Why was I not here?”

“Why? why? Oh! Willie, all was going on so well! The
dear girl is an angel, and won all our hearts!”

Willie's second thought, as he beheld his sister's face, was —
“St. Julien must not see her thus!” But St. Julien, as he
heard her voice, entered the apartment. He took her hand,
pressed it — oh! how earnestly — looked into her eyes, which
drooped before him, and with one look from his own, which had
in it a world of intelligence, he dropped her hand softly and
advanced to the baron.

“Oh! you are both here, now, when it is too late!” was the
old man's only salutation. “And what are you about to do for
her recovery. You will seek—”

“Ay, seek! slay!” cried Willie Sinclair, with a fierce burst
which was unrestrainable. “I will drink of that villain's blood?”

But we dismiss the scene. We can add nothing to it. It's
facts were so much — no more. Of what avail the narrative
— the sobs which accompanied it — the deep agonizing groan,
or wail, and the fierce exclamation, which followed the cruel
details. It was storm and rain throughout — thunder and lightning,
and a pitchy cloud over all! But there was one spot
through which the blue heavens shone with promise! There
was no longer one hostile feeling in old Sinclair's heart, to the
object of his son's affection. So much had been gained, at least,
to love, and hope supplied the rest.

And the two captains tore themselves away, at last, as the
bugles sounded without the assemblage of their several squads
at the place of rendezvous. They had brought a glimpse of
consolation to the family by their presence, though they could
offer none. But how changed was the scene, in reality, to themselves,
from that which had awakened poor Willie Sinclair's
glowing anticipations.

“And what now, Willie?” demanded St. Julien, as they
reached the woods.

“Pursue! pursue! hunt! search! Take no rest, no respite,
no sleep, till I track that wolf-robber to his den, and rescue the
victim from his jaws!”

“That is impossible now, Willie! Remember the orders of
Marion, the despatches of Rutledge.”

“And what right has Marion, or Rutledge, to deny that I
shall be human — have a heart — seek to save the dearest object
of my soul from hurt and shame!” was the wild fierce response
of the roused and passionate man.

“You are not sane now, Willie. You must obey orders.”

“Go, Peyre! Do your duty. Take the men with you!
Leave me, my brother. I have one duty — over all — to her —
to myself — which I can no longer forego!”

“No, Willie, this must not be. I must save you from yourself.
Submit to me. You know that I would not counsel you
to error. You must not leave the army on the eve of battle!
Leave it in my hands. Bertha is, really, in no danger. She
is only under temporary constraint. The object of Inglehardt
is to force her to marry him, not to wrong or harm her otherwise!”

“And suppose he succeeds.”

“Then let her go!”

“Ha!”

“Yes, let her go! If his threats or artifices can prevail upon
a sensible mind like that of Bertha Travis, then is her love of
too little value to provoke a care!”

“But, Peyre, my brother—”

“I know what you would say. Fidelity, Willie, means faith,
and truth, and resolution, against force, power, threats, terror,
bonds, everything! That is the meaning of all such pledges if

they mean anything! To be faithful only when the skies
smile, and the seas are smooth, and there is no danger, no suffering,
is a butterfly sort of fidelity which you may whistle down the
wind in all seasons. Have faith in your betrothed! She will
defy the arts of this ruffian, mock his threats — come out of the
furnace purer, stronger, truer, and more devoted than before.
It is your want of faith that questions hers!”

“I do not question her faith, but her strength, Peyre.”

“Faith makes strength. You must go with me. You must
not be absent from the army now.”

“Honor! Honor! Duty! Country! what sacrifices of the
heart ye ask at our hands!”

Enough, that, with a loving zeal, tenderness, and authority,
Peyre St. Julien clung to his refractory friend till he coerced
his submission. He was unexpectedly succored in his arguments
and entreaties, by the arrival of Lieutenant Mazyck and
his scouting party, who reported Colonel Stewart with the whole
British army to be only two miles above, and rapidly pressing
down upon them.

With a deep groan, Sinclair gave the orders to sound to saddle,
and prepared to reconnoitre the advancing columns of the
enemy, before returning to Marion's camp on the Santee; and,
if possible, to harass their flanks, and cut off stragglers: a duty
which he performed with his usual energy — perhaps with a
savage increase of energy — giving the enemy, an hour's cause
of disquiet, and picking up half a score of prisoners. All this,
with the British deficiency in horse, he executed with equal
spirit and success.