 | CHAPTER VII. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
It was while his mind was thus occupied, that the ferment of
colonial patriotism drew to a head. The Revolution was begun,
and the clamours of war and the rattle of arms resounded through
the land. Such an outbreak was the very event to accord with
the humours of our morbid raftsman. Gradually, his mind had
grasped the objects and nature of the issue, not as an event simply
calculated to work out the regeneration of a decaying and impaired
government, but as a sort of purging process, the great beginning
of the end, in fact, by which the whole world was to be again
made new. The exaggerated forms of rhetoric in which the orators
of the time naturally spoke, and in which all stump orators are apt to speak, when liberty and the rights of man are the
themes—and what themes, in their hands, do not swell into these?
—happily chimed in with the chaotic fancies and confused thoughts
which filled the brain of Barnacle Sam. In conveying his rafts
to Charleston, he took every opportunity of hearing the great orators
of that city—Gadsden, Rutledge, Drayton and others—and
imbued with what he had heard, coupling it, in singular union,
with what he had read—he proceeded to propound to his wondering
companions, along the road and river, the equally exciting
doctrines of patriotism and religion. In this way, to a certain
extent, he really proved an auxiliary of no mean importance to a
cause, to which, in Carolina, there was an opposition not less serious
and determined, as it was based upon a natural and not discreditable
principle. Instead now of avoiding the people, and of
dispensing his thoughts among them only when they chanced to
meet, Barnacle Sam now sought them out in their cabins. Returning
from the city after the disposal of his rafts, his course
lay, on foot, a matter of seventy miles through the country. On
this route he loitered and lingered, went into by-places, and sought
in lonely nooks, and “every bosky bower,” “from side to side,”
the rustics of whom he either knew or heard. His own history,
he was generally received with open hands and that sympathy,
which was naturally educed wherever his misfortunes were understood.
His familiarity with the Bible, his exemplary life, his
habits of self-denial, his imposing manner, his known fearlessness
of heart; these were all so many credentials to the favour of a
simple and unsophisticated people. But we need dwell on this
head no longer. Enough, in this place, to say that, on the first
threat of the invader against the shores of Carolina, Barnacle
Sam leapt from his rafts, and arrayed himself with the regiment
of William Thompson, for the defence of Sullivan's Island. Of
his valour, when the day of trial came, as little need be said.
The important part which Thompson's riflemen had to play at the
eastern end of Sullivan's Island, while Moultrie was rending
with iron hail the British fleet in front, is recorded in another
history. That battle saved Carolina for two years, but, in the interregnum
which followed, our worthy raftsman was not idle.
Sometimes on the river with his rafts, earning the penny which
was necessary to his wants, he was more frequently engaged in
stirring up the people of the humbler classes, by his own peculiar
modes of argument, rousing them to wrath, in order, as he conclusively
showed from Holy Writ, that they might “escape from
the wrath to come.” This logic cost many a tory his life; and,
what with rafting, preaching and fighting, Barnacle Sam was as
busy a prophet as ever sallied forth with short scrip and heavy
sandal on the business of better people than himself.
During the same period of repose in Carolina from the absolute
pressure of foreign war, and from the immediate presence
of the foreign enemy, the city of Charleston was doing a peculiar
and flourishing business. The British fleets covering all the
coast, from St. Augustine to Martha's Vineyard, all commerce by
sea was cut off, and a line of wagons from South, and through
North Carolina, to Virginia and Pennsylvania, enabled the enterprising
merchants of Charleston to snap their fingers at the
blockading squadrons. The business carried on in this way,
though a tedious, was yet a thriving one; and it gave many a
grievous pang to patriotism, in the case of many a swelling
tradesman, when the final investment of the Southern States compelled
from principle, to this unhappy turn in the affairs of local
trade. It happened on one occasion, just before the British army
was ordered to the South, that General Huger, then in command
of a fine regiment of cavalry, somewhere near Lenud's Ferry on
the Santee, received intelligence which led him to suspect the
fidelity of a certain caravan of wagons which had left the city
some ten or twelve days before, and was then considerably advanced
on the road to North Carolina. The intelligence which
caused this suspicion, was brought to him by no less a person
than our friend Barnacle Sam, who was just returning from one
of his ordinary trips down the Edisto. A detachment of twenty
men was immediately ordered to overtake the wagons and sift
them thoroughly, and under the guidance of Barnacle, the detachment
immediately set off. The wagons, eleven in number,
were overhauled after three days' hard riding, and subjected to
as close a scrutiny as was thought necessary by the vigilant officer
in command. But it did not appear that the intelligence
communicated by the raftsman received any confirmation. If
there were treasonable letters, they were concealed securely, or
seasonably destroyed by those to whom they were entrusted; and
the search being over, and night being at hand, the troops and
the persons of the caravan, in great mutual good humour, agreed
to encamp together for the night. Fires were kindled, the wagons
wheeled about, the horses were haltered and fed, and all
things being arranged against surprise, the company broke up into
compact groups around the several fires for supper and for sleep.
The partisan and the wagoner squatted, foot to foot, in circles the
most equal and sociable, and the rice and bacon having been
washed down by copious draughts of rum and sugar, of which
commodities the Carolinas had a copious supply at the time of the
invasion—nothing less could follow but the tale and the song,
the jest and the merry cackle, natural enough to hearty fellows,
under such circumstances of equal freedom and creature comfort.
As might be guessed from his character, as we have described it,
Barnacle Sam took no part in this sort of merriment. He mixed
with none of the several groups, but, with his back against a tree,
with crossed hands, and chin upon his breast, he lay soundly
upon memory, which is supposed to be equally sweet and bitter.
In this position he lay, not mingling with any of the parties, perhaps
unseen of any, and certainly not yielding himself in any
way to the influences which made them temporarily happy. He
was in a very lonely and far removed land of his own. He had
not supped, neither had he drank, neither had he thirsted, nor
hungered, while others indulged. It was one peculiarity of his
mental infirmities that he seemed, whenever greatly excited by
his own moods, to suffer from none of the animal wants of nature.
His position, however, was not removed from that of the
rest. Had his mind been less absorbed in its own thoughts
—had he willed to hear—he might have been the possessor
of all the good jokes, the glees and every thoughtless or
merry word, which delighted those around him. He lay between
two groups, a few feet only from one, in deep shadow,
which was only fitfully removed as some one of those around
the fire bent forward or writhed about, and thus suffered the
ruddy glare to glisten upon his drooping head or broad manly
bosom. One of these groups—and that nearest him—was composed
entirely of young men. These had necessarily found each
other out, and, by a natural attraction, had got together in the
same circle. Removed from the restraints and presence of their
elders, and after the indulgence of frequent draughts from the
potent beverage, of which there was always a supply adequate to
the purposes of evil, their conversation soon became licentious;
and, from the irreverent jest, they soon gave way to the obscene
story. At length, as one step in vice, naturally and inevitably,—unless promptly resisted—impels another—the thoughtless reprobates
began to boast of their several experiences in sin. Each
strove to outdo his neighbour in the assertion of his prowess, and
while some would magnify the number of their achievements,
others would dilate in their details, and all, at the expense of poor,
dependent woman. It would be difficult to say—nor is it important—at
what particular moment, or from what particular circumstance,
Barnacle Sam was induced to give any attention to
what was going on. The key-note which opened in his own soul
all its dreadful remembrances of horror, was no doubt to be found
which effectually commanded his continued attention, even though
it was yielded with loathing and against the stomach of his sense.
He listened with head no longer drooping, eyes no longer shut,
thought no longer in that far and foreign world of memory.
Memory, indeed, was beginning to recover and have a present
life and occupation. Barnacle Sam was listening to accents
which were not unfamiliar to his ear. He heard one of the
speakers, whose back was turned upon him, engaged in the narrative
of his own triumphs, and every syllable which he uttered was
the echo of a dreadful tale, too truly told already. The story
was not the same—not identical in all its particulars—with that
of poor Margaret Cole; but it was her story. The name of the
victim was not given—and the incidents were so stated, that,
without altering the results, all those portions were altered which
might have placed the speaker in a particularly base or odious
position. He had conquered, he had denied his victim the only
remedy in his power—for was he to confide in a virtue, which he
had been able to overcome?—and she had perished by her own
hands. This was the substance of his story; but this was not
enough for the profligate, unless he could show how superior were
his arts of conquest, how lordly his sway, how indifferent his
love, to the misery which it could occasion; a loud and hearty
laugh followed, and, in the midst of the uproar, while every tongue
was conceding the palm of superiority to the narrator, and his
soul was swelling with the applause for which his wretched vanity
had sacrificed decency and truth, a heavy hand was laid upon
his shoulder, and his eyes, turning round upon the intruder, encountered
those of Barnacle Sam!
“Well, what do you want?” demanded the person addressed.
It was evident that he did not recognize the intruder. How could
he? His own mother could not have known the features of Barnacle
Sam, so changed as he was, from what he had been, by wo
and misery.
“You! I want you! You are wanted, come with me!”
The other hesitated and trembled. The eye of the raftsman
was upon him. It was the eye of his master—the eye of fate.
It was not in his power to resist it. It moved him whither it
was stationary for an instant, and the hand of Barnacle Sam
rested upon his wrist. The touch appeared to smite him to the
bone. He shuddered, and it was noted that his other arm was
extended, as if in appeal to the group from which he had risen.
Another look of his fate fixed him. He shrunk under the full,
fierce, compelling glance of the other. He shrunk, but went
forward in silence, while the hand of the latter was still slightly
pressed upon his wrist.
| CHAPTER VII. The wigwam and the cabin | |