 | CHAPTER I. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
The world has become monstrous matter-of-fact in latter days.
We can no longer get a ghost story, either for love or money.
The materialists have it all their own way; and even the little
urchin, eight years old, instead of deferring with decent reverence
to the opinions of his grandmamma, now stands up stoutly for his
own. He believes in every “ology” but pneumatology. “Faust”
and the “Old Woman of Berkeley” move his derision only, and
he would laugh incredulously, if he dared, at the Witch of Endor.
The whole armoury of modern reasoning is on his side;
and, however he may admit at seasons that belief can scarcely
be counted a matter of will, he yet puts his veto on all sorts of
credulity. That cold-blooded demon called Science has taken
the place of all the other demons. He has certainly cast out innumerable
devils, however he may still spare the principal.
Whether we are the better for his intervention is another question.
There is reason to apprehend that in disturbing our human
faith in shadows, we have lost some of those wholesome moral restraints
which might have kept many of us virtuous, where the
laws could not.
The effect, however, is much the more seriously evil in all that
concerns the romantic. Our story-tellers are so resolute to deal
in the real, the actual only, that they venture on no subjects the
details of which are not equally vulgar and susceptible of proof.
With this end in view, indeed, they too commonly choose their
of the evidence which led to their conviction; and, to prove
more conclusively their devoted adherence to nature and the truth,
they depict the former not only in her condition of nakedness, but
long before she has found out the springs of running water. It
is to be feared that some of the coarseness of modern taste arises
from the too great lack of that veneration which belonged to,
and elevated to dignity, even the errors of preceding ages. A
love of the marvellous belongs, it appears to me, to all those who
love and cultivate either of the fine arts. I very much doubt
whether the poet, the painter, the sculptor, or the romancer, ever
yet lived, who had not some strong bias—a leaning, at least,—
to a belief in the wonders of the invisible world. Certainly, the
higher orders of poets and painters, those who create and invent,
must have a strong taint of the superstitious in their composition.
But this is digressive, and leads us from our purpose.
It is so long since we have been suffered to see or hear of a
ghost, that a visitation at this time may have the effect of novelty,
and I propose to narrate a story which I heard more than once in
my boyhood, from the lips of an aged relative, who succeeded, at
the time, in making me believe every word of it; perhaps, for the
simple reason that she convinced me she believed every word of
it herself. My grandmother was an old lady who had been a resident
of the seat of most frequent war in Carolina during the Revolution.
She had fortunately survived the numberless atrocities
which she was yet compelled to witness; and, a keen observer,
with a strong memory, she had in store a thousand legends of that
stirring period, which served to beguile me from sleep many and
many a long winter night. The story which I propose to tell was
one of these; and when I say that she not only devoutly believed
it herself, but that it was believed by sundry of her contemporaries,
who were themselves privy to such of the circumstances as
could be known to third parties, the gravity with which I repeat
the legend will not be considered very astonishing.
The revolutionary war had but a little while been concluded.
The British had left the country; but peace did not imply repose.
The community was still in that state of ferment which was natural
enough to passions, not yet at rest, which had been brought
through which the nation had just passed. The state was
overrun by idlers, adventurers, profligates, and criminals. Disbanded
soldiers, half-starved and reckless, occupied the highways,
—outlaws, emerging from their hiding-places, skulked about the
settlements with an equal sentiment of hate and fear in their
hearts;—patriots were clamouring for justice upon the tories, and
sometimes anticipating its course by judgments of their own;
while the tories, those against whom the proofs were too strong
for denial or evasion, buckled on their armour for a renewal of
the struggle. Such being the condition of the country, it may easily
be supposed that life and property lacked many of their necessary
securities. Men generally travelled with weapons which
were displayed on the smallest provocation: and few who could
provide themselves with an escort ventured to travel any distance
without one.
There was, about this time, said my grandmother, and while
such was the condition of the country, a family of the name of
Grayling, that lived somewhere upon the skirts of “Ninety-six”
district. Old Grayling, the head of the family, was dead. He
was killed in Buford's massacre. His wife was a fine woman,
not so very old, who had an only son named James, and a little
girl, only five years of age, named Lucy. James was but fourteen
when his father was killed, and that event made a man of
him. He went out with his rifle in company with Joel Sparkman,
who was his mother's brother, and joined himself to Pickens's
Brigade. Here he made as good a soldier as the best. He had
no sort of fear. He was always the first to go forward; and his
rifle was always good for his enemy's button at a long hundred
yards. He was in several fights both with the British and tories;
and just before the war was ended he had a famous brush with
the Cherokees, when Pickens took their country from them. But
though he had no fear, and never knew when to stop killing while
the fight was going on, he was the most bashful of boys that I ever
knew; and so kind-hearted that it was almost impossible to believe
all we heard of his fierce doings when he was in battle.
But they were nevertheless quite true for all his bashfulness.
Well, when the war was over, Joel Sparkman, who lived with
down into the low country. I don't know what reason he had
for it, or what they proposed to do there. They had very little
property, but Sparkman was a knowing man, who could turn
his hand to a hundred things; and as he was a bachelor, and
loved his sister and her children just as if they had been his own,
it was natural that she should go with him wherever he wished.
James, too, who was restless by nature—and the taste he had enjoyed
of the wars had made him more so—he was full of it; and
so, one sunny morning in April, their wagon started for the city.
The wagon was only a small one, with two horses, scarcely
larger than those that are employed to carry chickens and fruit
to the market from the Wassamaws and thereabouts. It was
driven by a negro fellow named Clytus, and carried Mrs. Grayling
and Lucy. James and his uncle loved the saddle too well
to shut themselves up in such a vehicle; and both of them were
mounted on fine horses which they had won from the enemy.
The saddle that James rode on,—and he was very proud of it,—
was one that he had taken at the battle of Cowpens from one of
Tarleton's own dragoons, after he had tumbled the owner. The
roads at that season were excessively bad, for the rains of March
had been frequent and heavy, the track was very much cut up, and
the red clay gullies of the hills of “Ninety-six” were so washed
that it required all shoulders, twenty times a day, to get the wagon-wheels
out of the bog. This made them travel very slowly,
—perhaps, not more than fifteen miles a day. Another cause
for slow travelling was, the necessity of great caution, and a
constant look-out for enemies both up and down the road. James
and his uncle took it by turns to ride a-head, precisely as they
did when scouting in war, but one of them always kept along
with the wagon. They had gone on this way for two days, and
saw nothing to trouble and alarm them. There were few persons
on the high-road, and these seemed to the full as shy of them
as they probably were of strangers. But just as they were about
to camp, the evening of the second day, while they were splitting
light-wood, and getting out the kettles and the frying-pan, a person
rode up and joined them without much ceremony. He was
a short thick-set man, somewhere between forty and fifty: had
horse of remarkable strength and vigour. He was very civil of
speech, though he had but little to say, and that little showed him
to be a person without much education and with no refinement. He
begged permission to make one of the encampment, and his manner
was very respectful and even humble; but there was something
dark and sullen in his face—his eyes, which were of a light
gray colour, were very restless, and his nose turned up sharply,
and was very red. His forehead was excessively broad, and his
eyebrows thick and shaggy—white hairs being freely mingled
with the dark, both in them and upon his head. Mrs. Grayling
did not like this man's looks, and whispered her dislike to her
son; but James, who felt himself equal to any man, said,
promptly—
“What of that, mother! we can't turn the stranger off and say
`no;' and if he means any mischief, there's two of us, you know.”
The man had no weapons—none, at least, which were then
visible; and deported himself in so humble a manner, that the
prejudice which the party had formed against him when he first
appeared, if it was not dissipated while he remained, at least
failed to gain any increase. He was very quiet, did not mention
an unnecessary word, and seldom permitted his eyes to rest upon
those of any of the party, the females not excepted. This, perhaps,
was the only circumstance, that, in the mind of Mrs. Grayling,
tended to confirm the hostile impression which his coming
had originally occasioned. In a little while the temporary encampment
was put in a state equally social and warlike. The
wagon was wheeled a little way into the woods, and off the road;
the horses fastened behind it in such a manner that any attempt
to steal them would be difficult of success, even were the watch
neglectful which was yet to be maintained upon them. Extra
guns, concealed in the straw at the bottom of the wagon, were kept
well loaded. In the foreground, and between the wagon and the
highway, a fire was soon blazing with a wild but cheerful gleam;
and the worthy dame, Mrs. Grayling, assisted by the little girl,
Lucy, lost no time in setting on the frying-pan, and cutting into
slices the haunch of bacon, which they had provided at leaving
home. James Grayling patrolled the woods, meanwhile for a
foot to foot with the stranger, seemed—if the absence of all
care constitutes the supreme of human felicity—to realize the
most perfect conception of mortal happiness. But Joel was very
far from being the careless person that he seemed. Like an old
soldier, he simply hung out false colours, and concealed his real
timidity by an extra show of confidence and courage. He did
not relish the stranger from the first, any more than his sister;
and having subjected him to a searching examination, such as
was considered, in those days of peril and suspicion, by no means
inconsistent with becoming courtesy, he came rapidly to the conclusion
that he was no better than he should be.
“You are a Scotchman, stranger,” said Joel, suddenly drawing
up his feet, and bending forward to the other with an eye
like that of a hawk stooping over a covey of partridges. It was a
wonder that he had not made the discovery before. The broad
dialect of the stranger was not to be subdued; but Joel made slow
stages and short progress in his mental journeyings. The answer
was given with evident hesitation, but it was affirmative.
“Well, now, it's mighty strange that you should ha' fou't with
us and not agin us,” responded Joel Sparkman. “There was a
precious few of the Scotch, and none that I knows on, saving
yourself, perhaps,—that didn't go dead agin us, and for the tories,
through thick and thin. That `Cross Creek settlement' was a
mighty ugly thorn in the sides of us whigs. It turned out a raal
bad stock of varmints. I hope,—I reckon, stranger,—you aint
from that part.”
“No,” said the other; “oh no! I'm from over the other
quarter. I'm from the Duncan settlement above.”
“I've hearn tell of that other settlement, but I never know'd
as any of the men fou't with us. What gineral did you fight
under? What Carolina gineral?”
“I was at Gum Swamp when General Gates was defeated;”
was the still hesitating reply of the other.
“Well, I thank God, I warn't there, though I reckon things
wouldn't ha' turned out quite so bad, if there had been a leetle
sprinkling of Sumter's, or Pickens's, or Marion's men, among them
two-legged critters that run that day. They did tell that some of
Now, stranger, I hope you warn't among them fellows.”
“I was not,” said the other with something more of promptness.
“I don't blame a chap for dodging a bullet if he can, or being
too quick for a bagnet, because, I'm thinking, a live man is always
a better man than a dead one, or he can become so; but to
run without taking a single crack at the inimy, is downright cowardice.
There's no two ways about it, stranger.”
This opinion, delivered with considerable emphasis, met with
the ready assent of the Scotchman, but Joel Sparkman was not
to be diverted, even by his own eloquence, from the object of his
inquiry.
“But you ain't said,” he continued, “who was your Carolina
gineral. Gates was from Virginny, and he stayed a mighty short
time when he come. You didn't run far at Camden, I reckon,
and you joined the army ag'in, and come in with Greene? Was
that the how?”
To this the stranger assented, though with evident disinclination.
“Then, mou'tbe, we sometimes went into the same scratch together?
I was at Cowpens and Ninety-Six, and seen sarvice at
other odds and eends, where there was more fighting than fun.
I reckon you must have been at `Ninety-Six,'—perhaps at Cowpens,
too, if you went with Morgan?”
The unwillingness of the stranger to respond to these questions
appeared to increase. He admitted, however, that he had been
at “Ninety-Six,” though, as Sparkman afterwards remembered,
in this case, as in that of the defeat of Gates at Gum Swamp, he
had not said on which side he had fought. Joel, as he discovered
the reluctance of his guest to answer his questions, and perceived
his growing doggedness, forbore to annoy him, but mentally resolved
to keep a sharper look-out than ever upon his motions.
His examination concluded with an inquiry, which, in the plain-dealing
regions of the south and south-west, is not unfrequently
put first.
“And what mout be your name, stranger?”
“Macnab,” was the ready response, “Sandy Macnab.”
“Well, Mr. Macnab, I see that my sister's got supper ready
Sparkman rose while speaking, and led the way to the spot, near
the wagon, where Mrs. Grayling had spread the feast. “We're
pretty nigh on to the main road, here, but I reckon there's no
great danger now. Besides, Jim Grayling keeps watch for us,
and he's got two as good eyes in his head as any scout in the
country, and a rifle that, after you once know how it shoots,
'twould do your heart good to hear its crack, if so be that twa'n't
your heart that he drawed sight on. He's a perdigious fine shot,
and as ready to shoot and fight as if he had a nateral calling that
way.”
“Shall we wait for him before we eat?” demanded Macnab,
anxiously.
“By no sort o' reason, stranger,” answered Sparkman.
“He'll watch for us while we're eating, and after that I'll change
shoes with him. So fall to, and don't mind what's a coming.”
Sparkman had just broken the hoecake, when a distant whistle
was heard.
“Ha! That's the lad now!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet.
“He's on trail. He's got a sight of an inimy's fire, I reckon.
'Twon't be onreasonable, friend Macnab, to get our we'pons in
readiness;” and, so speaking, Sparkman bid his sister get into the
wagon, where the little Lucy had already placed herself, while
he threw open the pan of his rifle, and turned the priming over
with his finger. Macnab, meanwhile, had taken from his holsters,
which he had before been sitting upon, a pair of horseman's
pistols, richly mounted with figures in silver. These were large
and long, and had evidently seen service. Unlike his companion,
his proceedings occasioned no comment. What he did seemed a
matter of habit, of which he himself was scarcely conscious.
Having looked at his priming, he laid the instruments beside him
without a word, and resumed the bit of hoecake which he had
just before received from Sparkman. Meanwhile, the signal
whistle, supposed to come from James Grayling, was repeated.
Silence ensued then for a brief space, which Sparkman employed
in perambulating the grounds immediately contiguous. At length,
just as he had returned to the fire, the sound of a horse's feet
was heard, and a sharp quick halloo from Grayling informed his
moment after accompanied by a stranger on horseback; a tall,
fine-looking young man, with a keen flashing eye, and a voice
whose lively clear tones, as he was heard approaching, sounded
cheerily like those of a trumpet after victory. James Grayling
kept along on foot beside the new-comer; and his hearty laugh,
and free, glib, garrulous tones, betrayed to his uncle, long ere he
drew nigh enough to declare the fact, that he had met unexpectedly
with a friend, or, at least, an old acquaintance.
“Why, who have you got there, James?” was the demand of
Sparkman, as he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the ground.
“Why, who do you think, uncle? Who but Major Spencer—
our own major?”
“You don't say so!—what!—well! Li'nel Spencer, for sartin!
Lord bless you, major, who'd ha' thought to see you in
these parts; and jest mounted too, for all natur, as if the war was
to be fou't over ag'in. Well, I'm raal glad to see you. I am,
that's sartin!”
“And I'm very glad to see you, Sparkman,” said the other,
as he alighted from his steed, and yielded his hand to the cordial
grasp of the other.
“Well, I knows that, major, without you saying it. But
you've jest come in the right time. The bacon's frying, and
here's the bread;—let's down upon our haunches, in right good
airnest, camp fashion, and make the most of what God gives us
in the way of blessings. I reckon you don't mean to ride any
further to-night, major?”
“No,” said the person addressed, “not if you'll let me lay my
heels at your fire. But who's in your wagon? My old friend,
Mrs. Grayling, I suppose?”
“That's a true word, major,” said the lady herself, making her
way out of the vehicle with good-humoured agility, and coming
forward with extended hand.
“Really, Mrs. Grayling, I'm very glad to see you.” And
the stranger, with the blandness of a gentleman and the hearty
warmth of an old neighbour, expressed his satisfaction at once
more finding himself in the company of an old acquaintance.
Their greetings once over, Major Spencer readily joined the
reluctance—disappeared to resume his toils of the scout while the
supper proceeded.
“And who have you here?” demanded Spencer, as his eye
rested on the dark, hard features of the Scotchman. Sparkman
told him all that he himself had learned of the name and character
of the stranger, in a brief whisper, and in a moment after
formally introduced the parties in this fashion—
“Mr. Macnab, Major Spencer. Mr. Macnab says he's true
blue, major, and fou't at Camden, when General Gates run so
hard to `bring the d—d militia back.' He also fou't at Ninety-Six,
and Cowpens—so I reckon we had as good as count him one
of us.”
Major Spencer scrutinized the Scotchman keenly—a scrutiny
which the latter seemed very ill to relish. He put a few questions
to him on the subject of the war, and some of the actions in
which he allowed himself to have been concerned; but his evident
reluctance to unfold himself—a reluctance so unnatural to
the brave soldier who has gone through his toils honourably—had
the natural effect of discouraging the young officer, whose sense
of delicacy had not been materially impaired amid the rude jostlings
of military life. But, though he forbore to propose any
other questions to Macnab, his eyes continued to survey the features
of his sullen countenance with curiosity and a strangely
increasing interest. This he subsequently explained to Sparkman,
when, at the close of supper, James Grayling came in, and
the former assumed the duties of the scout.
“I have seen that Scotchman's face somewhere, Sparkman,
and I'm convinced at some interesting moment; but where, when,
or how, I cannot call to mind. The sight of it is even associated
in my mind with something painful and unpleasant; where could
I have seen him?”
“I don't somehow like his looks myself,” said Sparkman, “and
I mislists he's been rether more of a tory than a whig; but that's
nothing to the purpose now; and he's at our fire, and we've
broken hoecake together; so we cannot rake up the old ashes to
make a dust with.”
“No, surely not,” was the reply of Spencer. “Even though
occasion none now. But it should produce watchfulness and
caution. I'm glad to see that you have not forgot your old business
of scouting in the swamp.”
“Kin I forget it, major?” demanded Sparkman, in tones which,
though whispered, were full of emphasis, as he laid his ear to the
earth to listen.
“James has finished supper, major—that's his whistle to tell
me so; and I'll jest step back to make it cl'ar to him how we're
to keep up the watch to-night.”
“Count me in your arrangements, Sparkman, as I am one of
you for the night,” said the major.
“By no sort of means,” was the reply. “The night must be
shared between James and myself. Ef so be you wants to keep
company with one or t'other of us, why, that's another thing, and,
of course, you can do as you please.”
“We'll have no quarrel on the subject, Joel,” said the officer,
good-naturedly, as they returned to the camp together.
| CHAPTER I. The wigwam and the cabin | |