University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

It was with feelings of a tumultuous satisfaction that Mat Dunbar
found himself in possession of this new prize. He at once
conceived a new sense of his power, and prepared to avail himself
of all his advantages. But we must suffer our friend Brough
to become the narrator of this portion of our history. Anxious
about events, Coulter persuaded the old African, nothing loath, to
set forth on a scouting expedition to the farmstead. Following
his former footsteps, which had been hitherto planted in security,
the negro made his way, an hour before daylight, toward
the cabin in which Mimy, and her companion Lizzy, a young
girl of sixteen, were housed. They, too, had been compelled to
change their abodes under the tory usurpation; and now occupied
an ancient tenement of logs, which, in its time, had gone
through a curious history. It had first been a hog-pen, next a
hunter's lodge; had stabled horses, and had been made a temporary
fortress during Indian warfare. It was ample in its
dimensions — made of heavy cypresses; but the clay which had
filled its interstices had fallen out; of the chimney nothing remained
but the fireplace; and one end of the cabin, from the
decay of two or more of its logs, had taken such an inclination
downward, as to leave the security which it offered of exceedingly
dubious value. The negro does not much regard
these things, however, and old Mimy enjoyed her sleeps here
quite as well as at her more comfortable kitchen. The place,
indeed, possessed some advantages under the peculiar circumstances.
It stood on the edge of a limestone sink-hole — one of
those wonderful natural cavities with which the country abounds.
This was girdled by cypresses and pines, and, fortunately for
Brough, at this moment, when a drought prevailed, was entirely
free from water. A negro loves anything, perhaps, better than
water — he would sooner bathe in the sun than in the stream, and
would rather wade through a forest full of snakes than suffuse
his epidermis unnecessarily with an element which no one will
insist was made for his uses. It was important that the sink-hole
near Mimy's abode should be dry at this juncture, for it was
here that Brough found his hiding-place. He could approach
this place under cover of the woods. There was an awkward

interval of twelve or fifteen feet, it is true, between this place
and the hovel, which the inmates had stripped of all its growth
in the search for fuel; but a dusky form, on a dusky night, careful
to crawl over the space, might easily escape the casual
glance of a drowsy sentinel; and Brough was partisan enough
to know that the best caution implies occasional exposure. He
was not unwilling to incur the risk. We must not detail his
progress. Enough that, by dint of crouching, crawling, creeping,
rolling, and sliding, he had contrived to bury himself, at
length under the wigwam, occupying the space, in part, of a decayed
log connected with the clayed chimney, and fitting himself
to the space in the log, from which he had scratched out the
rotten fragments, as snugly as if he were a part of it. Thus,
with his head toward the fire, looking within — his body hidden
from those within by the undecayed portions of the timber — with
Mimy on his side of the fireplace, squat upon the hearth, and
busy with the hominy pot; Brough might carry on the most interesting
conversation in the world, in whispers, and occasionally
be fed from the spoon of his spouse, or drink from the calabash,
without any innocent person suspecting his propinquity. We
will suppose him thus quietly ensconced, his old woman beside
him, and deeply buried in the domestic histories which he came
to hear. We must suppose all the preliminaries to be despatched
already, which, in the case of an African dramatis personœ, are
usually wonderfully minute and copious.

“And dis nigger tory, he's maussa yer for true?”

“I tell you, Brough, he's desp'r't bad! He tek' ebbry ting
for he'sef! He sway [swears] ebbry ting for him — we nigger,
de plantation, hoss, hog, hominy; and ef young misses no marry
um — you yeddy? [hear] — he will hang ole maussa up to de
sapling, same as you hang scarecrow in de cornfiel'!”

Brough groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.

“Wha' for do, Brough?”

“Who gwine say? I 'spec he mus fight for um yet. Mass
Dick no chicken! He gwine fight like de debbil, soon he get
strong, 'fore dis ting gwine happen. He hab sodger, and more
for come. Parson 'Lijah gwine fight too — and dis nigger
gwine fight, sooner dan dis tory ride, whip and spur, ober we
plantation.”

“Why, wha' you tink dese tory say to me, Brough?”

“Wha' he say, woman?”

“He say he gwine gib me hundred lash ef I no get he breckkus
[breakfast] by day peep in de morning!”

“De tory wha' put hick'ry 'pon you' back, chicken, he hab
answer to Brough.”

“You gwine fight for me, Brough?”

“Wid gun and bagnet, my chicken.”

“Ah, I blieb you, Brough; you was always lub me wid you'
sperrit!”

“Enty you blieb? You will see some day! You got 'noder
piece of bacon in de pot, Mimy? Dis hom'ny 'mos' too dry in
de t'roat.”

“Leetle piece.”

“Gi' me.”

His creature wants were accordingly supplied. We must not
forget that the dialogue was carried on in the intervals in which
he paused from eating the supper which, in anticipation of his
coming, the old woman had provided. Then followed the recapitulation
of the narrative; details being furnished which showed
that Dunbar, desperate from opposition to his will, had thrown
off the restraints of social fear and decency, and was urging his
measures against old Sabb and his daughter with tyrannical severity.
He had given the old man a sufficient taste of his power,
enough to make him dread the exercise of what remained. This
rendered him now, what he had never been before, the advocate
himself with his daughter in behalf of the loyalist. Sabb's virtue
was not of a self-sacrificing nature. He was not a bad man
— was rather what the world esteems a good one. He was just,
as well as he knew to be, in his dealings with a neighbor; was
not wanting in that charity which, having first ascertained its
own excess of goods, gives a certain proportion to the needy;
he had offerings for the church, and solicited its prayers. But
he had not the courage and strength of character to be virtuous
in spite of circumstances. In plain language, he valued the securities
and enjoyments of his homestead, even at the peril of
his daughter's happiness. He urged, with tears and reproaches,
that soon became vehement, the suit of Dunbar, as if it had been
his own; and even his good vrow Minnicker Sabb, overwhelmed

by his afflictions and her own, joined somewhat in his entreaty.
We may imagine poor Frederica's afflictions. She had not dared
to reveal to either the secret of her marriage with Coulter. She
now dreaded its discovery, in regard to the probable effect which
it might have upon Dunbar. What limit would there be to his
fury and brutality, should the fact become known to him? How
measure his rage — how meet its excesses? She trembled as
she reflected upon the possibility of his making the discovery;
and, while inwardly swearing eternal fidelity to her husband, she
resolved still to keep her secret close from all, looking to the
chapter of providential events for that hope which she had not
the power to draw from anything within human probability.
Her eyes naturally turned to her husband, first of all mortal
agents. But she had no voice which could reach him — and
what was his condition? She conjectured the visits of old
Brough to his spouse, but with these she was prevented from all
secret conference. Her hope was, that Mimy, seeing and hearing
for herself, would duly report to the African; and he, she
well knew, would keep nothing from her husband. We have
witnessed the conference between this venerable couple. The
result corresponded with the anticipations of Frederica. Brough
hurried back with his gloomy tidings to the place of hiding in
the swamp; and Coulter, still suffering somewhat from his
wound, and conscious of the inadequate force at his control, for
the rescue of his wife and people, was almost maddened by the
intelligence. He looked around upon his party, now increased
to seven men, not including the parson. But Elijah Fields was
a host in himself. The men were also true and capable — good
riflemen, good scouts, and as fearless as they were faithful. The
troop under Dunbar consisted of eighteen men, all well armed
and mounted. The odds were great, but the despair of Richard
Coulter was prepared to overlook all inequalities. Nor was
Fields disposed to discourage him.

“There is no hope but in ourselves, Elijah,” was the remark
of Coulter.

“Truly, and in God!” was the reply.

“We must make the effort.”

“Verily, we must.”

“We have seven men, not counting yourself, Elijah.”

“I too am a man, Richard,” said the other, calmly.

“A good man and a brave; do I not know it, Elijah? But
we should not expose you on ordinary occasions.”

“This is no ordinary occasion, Richard.”

“True, true! And you propose to go with us, Elijah?”

“No, Richard! I will go before you. I must go to prevent
outrage. I must show to Dunbar that Frederica is your wife.
It is my duty to testify in this proceeding. I am the first witness.”

“But your peril, Elijah! He will become furious as a wild
beast when he hears. He will proceed to the most desperate
excesses.”

“It will be for you to interpose at the proper moment. You
must be at hand. As for me, I doubt if there will be much if
any peril. I will go unarmed. Dunbar, while he knows that I
am with you, does not know that I have ever lifted weapon in
the cause. He will probably respect my profession. At all
events, I must interpose and save him from a great sin, and a
cruel and useless violence. When he knows that Frederica is
irrevocably married, he will probably give up the pursuit. If
Brough's intelligence be true, he must know it now or never.”

“Be it so,” said Coulter. “And now that you have made
your determination, I will make mine. The odds are desperate,
so desperate, indeed, that I build my hope somewhat on that
very fact. Dunbar knows my feebleness, and does not fear me.
I must effect a surprise. If we can do this, with the first advantage,
we will make a rush, and club rifles. Do you go up
in the dug-out, and alone, while we make a circuit by land. We
can be all ready in five minutes, and perhaps we should set out
at once.”

“Right!” answered the preacher; “but are you equal to the
struggle, Richard?”

The young man upheaved his powerful bulk, and leaping up
to the bough which spread over him, grasped the extended limb
with a single hand, and drew himself across it.

“Good!” was the reply. “But you are still stiff. I have
seen you do it much more easily. Still you will do, if you will
only economize your breath. There is one preparation first to
be made, Richard. Call up the men.”

They were summoned with a single, shrill whistle, and Coulter
soon put them in possession of the adventure that lay before
them. It needed neither argument nor entreaty to persuade
them into a declaration of readiness for the encounter. Their
enthusiasm was grateful to their leader, whom they personally
loved.

“And now, my brethren,” said Elijah Fields, “I am about
to leave you, and we are all about to engage in a work of peril.
We know not what will happen. We know not that we shall
meet again. It is proper only that we should confess our sins
to God, and invoke his mercy and protection. My brothers, let
us pray.”

With these words, the party sank upon their knees, Brough
placing himself behind Coulter. Fervent and simple was the
prayer of the preacher — inartificial but highly touching. Our
space does not suffer us to record it, or to describe the scene, so
simple, yet so imposing. The eyes of the rough men were
moistened, their hearts softened, yet strengthened. They rose
firm and resolute to meet the worst issues of life and death, and,
embracing each of them in turn, Brough not excepted, Elijah
Fields led the way to the enemy, by embarking alone in the
canoe. Coulter, with his party, soon followed, taking the route
through the forest.