University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

In 1766, the beautiful district of Greenville, in South Carolina,
—which is said to have had its name in consequence of the verdant
aspect which it bore in European eyes,—received its first
white settlers from Virginia and Pennsylvania. Among these
early colonists were the families of Holt and Houston,—represented
by two fearless borderers, famous in their day as Indian
hunters;—men ready with the tomahawk and rifle, but not less
distinguished, perhaps, for the great attachment which existed between
them. Long intercourse in trying periods—the habit of
referring to each other in moments of peril—constant adventures
in company—not to speak of similar tastes and sympathies in numerous
other respects, had created between them a degree of affection,
which it would be difficult, perhaps, to find among persons
of more mild and gentle habits. Each had his family—his wife
and little ones—and, traversing the mountain paths which lie between
Virginia and the Carolinas, they came in safety to the
more southern of the last-named colonies. Charmed with the appearance
of the country, they squatted down upon the borders of
Reedy River, not very far from the spot now occupied by the
pleasant town of Greenville. Family division, for the present,
there was none. Congeniality of tastes, the isolation of their

abodes, the necessity of concentration against the neighbouring
Indian nation of Cherokees, kept them together; and, continuing
the life of the hunter, rather than that of the farmer, John Holt
and Arthur Houston pursued the track of bear, deer, and turkey,
as before, with a keenness of zest which, possibly, derived its impulse
quite as much from attachment to one another, as from any
great fondness for the pursuit itself.

Meanwhile, their families, taking fast hold upon the soil, began
to flourish together after a fashion of their own. Flourish they
did, for the boys thrived, and the girls grew apace. But tradition
has preserved some qualifying circumstances in this history, by
which it would seem that their prosperity was not entirely without
alloy. The sympathies between Mesdames Holt and Houston
were not, it appears, quite so warm and active as those which
distinguished the intercourse of their respective husbands. Civil
enough to one another in the presence of the latter, they were not
unfrequently at “dagger-draw” in their absence. The husbands
were not altogether ignorant of this condition of things at home,
but they had their remedy; and there is little doubt that, like
some other famous sportsmen of my acquaintance, they became
happy hunters only when there was no longer any hope that they
could become happy husbands. Now, as quarrels most commonly
owe their spirit and excellence to the presence of spectators,
we may assume that some portion of the virulence of our two
wives underwent diminution from the absence of those before
whom it might hope to display itself with appropriate eloquence;
and the wrath of the dames, only exhibited before their respective
children, was very apt to exhale in clouds, and slight flashes, and
an under-current of distant thunder. Unhappily, however, the
evil had consequences of which the weak mothers little thought,
and the feud was entailed to the children, who, instead of assimilating,
with childish propensities, in childish sports, took up the
cudgels of their parents, and under fewer of the restraints,—
arising from prudence, and the recognition of mutual necessities,
—by which the dames were kept from extreme issues, they played
the aforesaid cudgels about their mutual heads, with a degree
of earnestness that very frequently rendered necessary the interposition
of their superiors.

The miserable evil of this family feud fell most heavily upon
the natures of the two eldest boys, one a Holt, the other a Houston,—spoiling
their childish tempers, impressing their souls with
fearful passions, and embittering their whole intercourse.

At this period young Houston has reached the age of fourteen,
and Holt of twelve years of age. The former was a tall, slender,
and very handsome youth; the latter was short, thickset,
and of rather plain, unpromising appearance. But he was modest,
gentle, and subdued in temper, and rather retiring and shy.
The former, on the contrary, was bold, vain, and violent—the
petted boy of his mother, insolent in his demands, and reckless in his
resentments—a fellow of unbending will, and of unmeasured impulses.
He had already gone forth as a hunter with his father;
he had proved his strength and courage; and he longed for an
opportunity to exercise his youthful muscle upon his young companion,
with whom, hitherto,—he himself could not say how or
why—his collisions had fallen short of the extremities of personal
violence. For such an encounter the soul of young Houston
yearned; he knew that Holt was not wanting in strength—he
had felt that in their plays together; but he did not doubt that his
own strength, regularly put forth, was greatly superior.

One day the boys had gone down together to the banks of
Reedy River to bathe. There they met a deformed boy of the
neighbourhood, whose name was Acker. In addition to his deformity,
the boy was an epileptic, and such was his nervous
sensibility, that, merely to point a finger at him in mischief, was
apt to produce in him the most painful sensations. Sometimes,
indeed, the pranks of his playmates, carried too far, had thrown
him into convulsions. This unhappy lad had but just recovered
from a sickness produced by some such practices, and this fact
was well known to the boys. Disregarding it, however, John
Houston proceeded to amuse himself with the poor boy. Holt,
however, interposed, and remonstrated with his companion, but
without effect. Houston persisted, until, fairly tired of the sport,
he left the diseased boy in a dreadful condition of mental excitement
and bodily exhaustion. This done, he proceeded to bathe.

Meanwhile, with that sort of cunning and vindictiveness which
often distinguishes the impaired intellect of persons subject to

such infirmities, the epileptic boy watched his opportunity, and
stole down, unobserved, to the river's edge, among the rocks,
where the boys had placed their clothes. There he remained in
waiting, and when John Houston appeared to dress himself, and
was stooping down for his garments, the epileptic threw himself
violently upon him, bore him to the ground, and, grasping a
heavy rock, would have beaten out the brains of the offending
lad, but for the timely assistance of Arthur Holt, who drew off
the assailant, deprived him of his weapon, and gave his comrade
a chance to recover, and place himself in a situation to defend
himself.

But Acker, the epileptic boy, was no longer in a condition to
justify the hostility of any enemy. His fit of frenzy had been
succeeded by one of weeping, and, prostrate upon the ground,
he lay convulsed under most violent nervous agitation. While
he remained in this state, John Houston, who had now partially
dressed himself, furious with rage at the indignity he had suffered,
and the danger he had escaped, prepared to revenge himself
upon him for this last offence; and, but for Arthur Holt, would,
no doubt, have subjected the miserable victim to a severe beating.
But the manly nature of Arthur resented and resisted this brutality.
He stood between the victim and his persecutor.

“You shall not beat him, John—it was your own fault. You
begun it.”

“I will beat you then,” was the reply.

“No! you shall not beat me, either.”

“Ha! Take that!”

The blow followed on the instant. A first blow, and in the
eye, too, is very apt to conclude an ordinary battle. But this
was to be no ordinary battle. Our young hero was stunned by
the blow;—the fire flashed from the injured eye;—but the unfairness
of the proceeding awakened a courage which had its best
sources in the moral nature of the boy; and, though thus taken
at advantage, he closed in with his assailant, and, in this manner,
lessened the odds at which he otherwise must have fought with
one so much taller and longer in the arms than himself. In the
fling that followed, John Houston was on his back. His conqueror
suffered him to rise.

“Let us fight no more, John,” he said, on relaxing his hold;
“I don't want to fight with you.”

The answer, on the part of the other, was a renewal of the assault.
Again was he thrown, and this time with a considerable
increase of severity. He rose with pain. He felt his hurts.
The place of battle was stony ground. Fragments of rock
were at hand. Indignant and mortified at the result of the second
struggle—aiming only at vengeance—the furious boy snatched
up one of these fragments, and once more rushed upon his
companion. But this time he was restrained by a third party—
no less than his own father—who, unobserved, had emerged from
the neighbouring thicket, and, unseen by the combatants, had witnessed
the whole proceeding. The honourable nature of the old
hunter recoiled at the conduct of his son. He suddenly took the
lad by the collar, wrested the stone from him, and laying a heavy
hickory rod some half dozen times over his shoulders, with no
moderate emphasis, sent him home, burning with shame, and
breathing nothing but revenge.