9. CHAPTER IX.
In the meantime, our captain of loyalists had gone forward
in his projects with a very free and fearless footstep. The
course which he pursued, in the present instance, affords one of
a thousand instances which go to illustrate the perfect recklessness
with which the British conquerors, and their baser allies,
regarded the claims of humanity, where the interests, the rights,
or the affections of the whig inhabitants of South Carolina were
concerned. Though resolutely rejected by Frederica, Dunbar
yet seemed determined to attach no importance to her refusal,
but, despatching a messenger to the village of Orangeburg, he
brought thence one Nicholas Veitch, a Scotch Presbyterian parson,
for the avowed object of officiating at his wedding rites.
The parson, who was a good man enough perhaps, was yet a
weak and timid one, wanting that courage which boldly flings
itself between the victim and his tyrant. He was brought into
the Dutchman's cottage, which Dunbar now occupied. Thither
also was Frederica brought, much against her will; indeed, only
under the coercive restraint of a couple of dragoons. Her
parents were neither of them present, and the following dialogue
ensued between Dunbar and herself, Veitch being the
only witness.
“Here, Frederica,” said Dunbar, “you see the parson. He
comes to marry us. The consent of your parents has been
already given, and it is useless for you any longer to oppose
your childish scruples to what is now unavoidable. This day,
I am resolved that we are to be made man and wife. Having
the consent of your father and mother, there is no reason for
not having yours.”
“Where are they?” was the question of Frederica. Her
face was very pale, but her lips were firm, and her eyes gazed,
without faltering, into those of her oppressor.
“They will be present when the time comes. They will be
present at the ceremony.”
“Then they will never be present!” she answered firmly.
“Beware, girl, how you provoke me! You little know the
power I have to punish—”
“You have no power upon my voice or my heart.”
“Ha!”
The preacher interposed: “My daughter, be persuaded.
The consent of your parents should be enough to incline you
to Captain Dunbar. They are surely the best judges of what
is good for their children.”
“I can not and I will not marry with Captain Dunbar.”
“Beware, Frederica!” said Dunbar, in a voice studiously
subdued, but with great difficulty — the passion speaking out in
his fiery looks, and his frame that trembled with its emotions.
“`Beware?'” said Frederica. “Of what should I beware?
Your power? Your power may kill me. It can scarcely go
farther. Know, then, that I am prepared to die sooner than
marry you.”
Though dreadfully enraged, the manner of Dunbar was still
carefully subdued. His words were enunciated in tones of a
laborious calm, as he replied:—
“You are mistaken in your notions of the extent of my power.
It can reach where you little imagine. But I do not desire to
use it. I prefer that you should give me your hand without
restraint or coercion.”
“That, I have told you, is impossible.”
“Nay, it is not impossible.”
“Solemnly, on my knees, I assure you that never can I, or
will I, while I preserve my consciousness, consent to be your wife.”
The action was suited to the words. She sunk on her knees
as she spoke, and her hands were clasped and her eyes uplifted,
as if taking a solemn oath to heaven. Dunbar rushed furiously
toward her.
“Girl!” he exclaimed, “will you drive me to madness? will
you compel me to do what I would not?”
The preacher interposed. The manner of Dunbar was that
of a man about to strike his enemy. Even Frederica closed
her eyes, expecting the blow.
“Let me endeavor to persuade the damsel, captain,” was the
suggestion of Veitch. Dunbar turned away and went toward
the window, leaving the field to the preacher. To all the entreaties
of the latter, Frederica made the same reply.
“Though death stared me in the face, I should never marry
that man!”
“Death shall stare you in the face!” was the fierce cry of
Dunbar. “Nay, you shall behold him in such terrors as you
have never fancied yet; but you shall be brought to know and
to submit to my power. Ho, there! Nesbitt, bring out the
prisoner.”
This order naturally startled Frederica. She had continued
kneeling. She now rose to her feet. In the same moment
Dunbar turned to where she stood, full of fearful expectation,
grasped her by the wrist, and dragged her to the window. She
raised her head, gave but one glance at the scene before her,
and fell back swooning. The cruel spectacle which she had
been made to witness, was that of her father, surrounded by a
guard, and the halter about his neck, waiting only the terrible
word from the ruffian in authority.
In that sight, the unhappy girl lost all consciousness. She
would have fallen upon the ground, but that the hand of Dunbar
still grasped her wrist. He now supported her in his arms.
“Marry us at once,” he cried to Veitch.
“But she can't understand — she can't answer,” replied the
priest.”
“That's as it should be,” answered Dunbar, with a laugh;
“silence always gives consent.”
The reply seemed to be satisfactory, and Veitch actually stood
forward to officiate in the disgraceful ceremony, when a voice at
the entrance drew the attention of the parties within. It was
that of Elijah Fields. How he had made his way to the building
without arrest or interruption is only to be accounted for by his
pacific progress — his being without weapons, and his well-known
priestly character. It may have been thought by the troopers,
knowing what was in hand, that he also had been sent for; and
probably something may be ascribed to the excitement of most
of the parties about the dwelling. At all events, Fields reached
it without interruption, and the first intimation that Dunbar had
of his presence was from his own lips.
“I forbid this proceeding in the name and by the authority
of God,” was the stern interruption. “The girl is already
married!”
