University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

The pledge which Munro had given to his niece
in behalf of Colleton was productive of no small
inconvenience to the former personage. Though
himself unwilling, we must do him the justice to
believe, that the youth should perish for a crime so
completely his own, he had in him no great deal
of that tenacious conscientiousness, of itself sufficiently
strong to have persuaded him to such a
risk, as that he had undertaken at the supplication
of Lucy. The more he reflected upon the matter,
the more trifling seemed the consideration. Money,

now—the spoil or the steed of the traveller—would
have been a far more decided stimulant to action.
In regarding such an object, he certainly would
have overlooked much of the danger, and have
been less regardful of the consequences. The
selfishness of the motive would not merely have
sanctioned, but have smoothed the enterprise; and
he thought too much with the majority—allowing
for any lurking ambition in his mind—not to perceive
that where there is gain, there must be glory.
None of these consolatory thoughts came to him
in the contemplation of his present purpose. To
adventure his own life—perhaps to exchange
places with the condemned he proposed to save—
though, in such a risk, he only sought to rescue the
innocent from the doom justly due to himself—
was a flight of generous impulse somewhat above
the usual aim of the landlord;—and, but for the
impelling influence of his niece—an influence
which, in spite of his own evil habits, swayed him
beyond his consciousness—we should not now
have to record the almost redeeming instance in
the events of his life at this period—the one virtue,
contrasting with, if it could not lessen or relieve,
the long tissue of his offences.

There were some few other influences, however
—if this were not enough—coupled with that of his
niece's entreaty, which gave strength and decision
to his present determination. Munro was not insensible
to the force of superior character, and a
large feeling of veneration led him, from the
first, to observe the lofty spirit and high sense of
honour which distinguished the bearing and deportment
of Ralph Colleton. He could not but
admire the native superiority which characterized
the manner of the youth, particularly when brought
into contrast with that of Guy Rivers, for whom
the same feeling had induced a like, though not a

parallel respect, on the part of the landlord. It
may appear strange to those accustomed only to a
passing and superficial estimate of the thousand
inconsistencies which make up that contradictory
creation, the human mind, that such should be a
feature in the character of a ruffian like Munro;
but, to those who examine for themselves, we shall
utter nothing novel when we assert, that a respect
for superiority of mental and even mere moral
attribute, enters largely into the habit of the ruffian
generally. The murderer is not unfrequently
found to possess benevolence as well as veneration
in a high degree; and the zealots of all countries
and religions are almost invariably creatures
of strong and violent passions, to which the extravagance
of their zeal and devotion furnishes an
outlet, which is not always innocent in its direction
or effects. Thus, in their enthusiasm—which
is only a minor madness—whether the Eastern
brahmin or the Spanish bigot, the English round-head
or the follower of the “only true faith” at
Mecca, be understood, it is but a word and a blow
—though the word be a hurried prayer to the God
of their adoration, and the blow be aimed with all
the malevolence of hell at the bosom of a fellow-creature.
There is no greater inconsistency in the
one character than in the other. The temperament
which, under false tuition, makes the zealot, and
drives him on to the perpetration of wholesale murder,
while uttering a prayer to the Deity, prompts
the same individual who, as an assassin or a high-wayman,
cuts your throat, and picks your pocket,
and at the next moment bestows his ill-gotten gains
without reservation upon the starving beggar by
the wayside.

There was yet another reason which swayed
Munro not a little in his determination, if possible,

to save the youth—and this was a lurking sentiment
of hostility to Rivers. His pride, of late, on
many occasions, had taken alarm at the frequent
encroachments of his comrade upon its boundaries.
The too much repeated display of that very
mental superiority in his companion, which had so
much fettered him, had aroused his own latent
sense of independence; and the utterance of sundry
pungent rebukes on the part of Rivers had
done much towards provoking within him a new
sentiment of dislike for that person, which gladly
availed itself of the first legitimate occasion for
exercise and development. The very superiority
which commanded, and which he honoured, he
hated for that very reason; and, in our analysis of
moral dependency, we may add, that, in Greece,
and the mere Hob of the humble farm-house, Munro
might have been the countryman to vote Aristides
into banishment because of his reputation for justice.
The barrier is slight, the space short, the
transition easy, from one to the other extreme of
injustice; and the peasant who voted for the banishment
of the just man, in another sphere and under
other circumstances, would have been a Borgia or
a Catiline. With this feeling in his bosom, Munro
was yet unapprized of its existence. It is not with
the man, so long hurried forward by his impulses
as at last to become their creature, to analyze
either their character or his own. Vice, though
itself a monster, is yet the slave of a thousand influences,
not vicious in themselves; and their
desires it not uncommonly performs when blind-folded.
It carries the knife, it strikes the blow, but
is not always the chooser of its own victim.

But, fortunately for Ralph Colleton, whatever
and how many or how few were the impelling
motives leading to this determination, Munro had

decided upon the preservation of his life; and,
with that energy of habit, which, in a rash office,
or one violative of the laws, he had always heretofore
displayed, he permitted no time to escape
him unemployed for the contemplated purpose.
His mind immediately addressed itself to its
chosen duty, and, in one disguise or another, and
those perpetually changing, he perambulated the
village, making his arrangements for the desired
object. The difficulties in his way were not trifling
in character nor few in number; and the greatest
of these was that of finding coadjutors willing to
second him. He felt assured that he could confide
in none of their well-known associates, who
were to a man the creatures of Rivers; that outlaw,
by a liberality which seemed to disdain money,
and yielding every form of indulgence, having acquired
over them an influence almost amounting to
personal affection. Fortunately for his purpose,
Rivers dared not venture much into the village or
its neighbourhood; therefore, though free from
any fear of obstruction from one in whose despite
his whole design was undertaken, Munro was yet
not a little at a loss for his co-operation. To whom,
at that moment, could he turn, without putting himself
in the power of an enemy? Thought only
raised up new difficulties in his way, and in utter
despair of any better alternative, though scarcely
willing to trust to one of whom he thought so
lightly, his eyes were compelled to rest, in the last
hope, upon the person of the pedler, Bunce.

Bunce, if the reader will remember, had, upon
his release from prison, taken up his abode temporarily
in the village. Under the protection now
afforded by the presence of the judge, and the
other officers of justice—not to speak of the many
strangers from the adjacent parts, whom one cause

or another had brought to the place—he had presumed
to exhibit his person with much more audacity
and a more perfect freedom from apprehension
than had ever formed a part of his spirit
and character before. He now—for ever on the go
—thrust himself fearlessly into every cot and corner.
No place escaped the searching analysis of his
glance; and, in a scrutiny so nice, it was not long before
he had made the acquaintance of every body and
every thing at all worthy, in that region, to be known.
He could now venture to jostle Pippin with impunity;
for, since the trial in which he had so much
blundered, the lawyer had lost no small portion of
the confidence and esteem of his neighbours. Accused
of the abandonment of his client—an offence
particularly monstrous in the estimation of those
who are sufficiently interested to acquire a personal
feeling in such matters,—and compelled, as he had
been—a worse feature still in the estimation of the
same class—to “eat his own words”—he had lost
caste prodigiously in the last few days, and his fine
sayings ceased to own a flavour in the estimation of
his neighbours. His speeches sunk below par along
with himself; and the pedler, in his contumelious
treatment of the disconsolate jurist, simply obeyed
and indicated the direction of the popular opinion.
One or two rude replies, and a nudge which the
elbow of Bunce effected in the ribs of the lawyer,
did provoke the latter so far as to repeat his threat
on the subject of the prosecution for the horse, but
the pedler snapped his fingers in his face as he did
so, and bade him defiance. He also reminded
Pippin of the certain malfeasances to which he
had referred previously, and the consciousness of
the truth was sufficiently strong and awkward to
prevent his proceeding to any further measure of
disquiet with the pedler. Thus, without fear, and
with an audacity of which he was not a little proud,
Bunce perambulated the village and its neighbourhood,
in a mood and with a deportment he had
never ventured upon before in that quarter.

He had a variety of reasons for lingering in the
village seemingly in a state of idleness. Bunce
was a long-sighted fellow, and beheld the promise
which it held forth, at a distance, of a large and
thriving business in the neighbourhood, and he had
too much sagacity not to be perfectly aware of the
advantage, to a tradesman, resulting from a priority
of ground. He had not lost every thing in the
conflagration which destroyed his cart-body and
calicoes; for, apart from sundry little debts due
him in the surrounding country, he had carefully
preserved around his body, in a black silk handkerchief,
a small wallet, holding a moderate amount of
the best paper—none of the issue of the small
banks with a specie capital of thirty-seven and a half
cents in the vaults,[1] and a gross circulation in gorgeously
printed notes of two hundred thousand
dollars. No—Bunce, among other things, had
soon learned to discriminate between good and
bad paper, and the result of his education in this
respect assured him of the perfect integrity of the
three hundred and odd dollars which kept themselves
snugly about his middle—ready to be
expended for clocks and calicoes, horn buttons
and wooden combs, knives and negro-handkerchiefs,
whenever their proprietor should determine upon a
proper whereabouts in which to fix himself. Bunce
had grown tired of peddling—the trade was not
less uncertain than fatiguing. Besides, travelling

so much among the southrons, he had imbibed not
a few of their prejudices against his vocation, and,
to speak the truth, had grown somewhat ashamed
of his present mode of life. He was becoming
rapidly aristocratic, as we may infer from a very
paternal and somewhat patronizing epistle, which
he despatched about this time to his elder brother
and co-partner, Ichabod Bunce, who carried on
his portion of the business at their native place in
Meriden, Connecticut. He told him, in a manner
and vein not less lofty than surprising to his coadjutor,
that it “would not be the thing, no how, to
keep along, lock and lock with him, in the same
gears.” It was henceforward his “idee to drive
on his own hook. Times warn't as they used to
be;” and the fact was—he did not say it in so many
words—that the firm of Ichabod Bunce and Brother,
was scarcely so creditable to the latter personage
as he should altogether desire among his
southern friends and acquaintances. He “guessed,
therefore, best haul off,” and each—here Bunce
showed his respect for his new friends by quoting
their phraseology—“must paddle his own canoe.”
We have minced this epistle, and have contented
ourselves with providing a scrap, here and there, to
the reader—despairing, as we utterly do, to gather
from memory a full description of a performance
so perfectly unique in its singular compound of
lofty vein, with the patois and vulgar contractions
of his native, and those common to his adopted
country. It proved to his more staid and veteran
brother, that Jared was the only one of his family
likely to get above his bread and business; but
while he lamented over the wanderings and follies
of his brother, he could not help enjoying a sentiment
of pride as he looked more closely into the
matter. Who knows, thought the clock-maker to
himself, but that Jared, who is a monstrous sly
fellow, will pick up some southern heiress, with a
thousand blackies—and a hundred acres of prime
cotton land to each, and thus ennoble the blood of
the Bunces by a rapid ascent, through the various
grades of office in a sovereign state, until a seat in
congress—in the administration itself—receives
him:—and Ichabod grew more than ever pleased
and satisfied with the idea, when he reflected that
Jared had all along been held to possess a goodly
person, and a very fair development of the parts
of speech.

Whether the individual of whom so much was
expected, himself entertained any such anticipations
or ideas, we do not pretend to say; but, certain
it is, that the southern candidate for the popular
suffrage could never have taken more pains to extend
his acquaintance or to ingratiate himself
among the people, than did our worthy friend the
pedler. In the brief time which he had passed in
the village after the arrest of Colleton, he had contrived
to have something to say or do with almost
everybody in it. He had found a word for his
honour the judge, and having once spoken with that
dignitary Bunce was not the man to fail at future
recognition. No distance of manner, no cheerless
response, to the modestly urged or moderate suggestion,
could prompt him to forego an acquaintance.
With the jurors he had contrived to enjoy
a sup of whiskey at the tavern bar-room, and had
actually, and with a manner the most adroit, gone
deeply into the distribution of an entire packet of
steel pens, one of which he accommodated to a
reed, and to the fingers of each of the worthy twelve,
who made the panel on that occasion—taking care,
however, to assure them of the value of the gift,
by saying, that if he were to sell the article,

twenty-five cents each would be his lowest price,
and that he could scarcely save himself at that.
But this was not all. Having seriously determined
upon abiding at the south, he adventured upon some
few of the practices prevailing in that region, and on
more than one occasion, a gallon of whiskey had
circulated `free gratis,' and pro bono publico, at the
cost of our worthy tradesman. These things, it
may not be necessary to say, had elevated that
worthy into no moderate importance among those
around him; and, that he himself was not altogether
unconscious of the change, it may be remarked
that an ugly kink, or double in his back—the consequence
of his pack and past humility—had gone
down wonderfully, keeping due pace in its descent
with the progress of present manifestations.

Such was the somewhat novel position of
Bunce, in the village and neighbourhood of Chestatee,
when the absolute necessity of the case
prompted Munro's application to him for assistance
in the proposed extrication of Ralph Colleton.
The landlord had not been insensible to
the interest which the pedler had taken in the
youth's fortune, and not doubting his perfect sympathy
with the design in view, he felt the fewer
scruples in approaching him for the purpose. Putting
on, therefore, the disguise, which, as an old
woman, had effectually concealed his true person
from Bunce on a previous occasion, he waited until
evening had set in fairly, and then proceeded to the
abode of him he sought. The pedler was alone
in his cottage, discussing, most probably, his future
designs, and calculating to a nicety the various
profits of each premeditated branch of his future
business. Munro's disguise was intended rather to
facilitate his progress without detection through the
village, than to impose upon the pedler merely;

but it was not unwise that he should be ignorant
also of the person with whom he dealt. Affecting
a tone of voice, therefore, which, however masculine,
was yet totally unlike his own, the landlord
demanded a private interview, which was readily
granted, though, as the circumstance was really
strange, with some few signs of trepidation. Bunce
was no lover of old women, nor, indeed, of young
ones either. He was habitually and constitutionally
cold and impenetrable on the subject of all
passions save that of trade, and would rather have
sold a dress of calico than have kissed the prettiest
damsel in creation. His manner, to the old
woman who appeared before him, seemed that of
one who had an uncomfortable suspicion of having
pleased rather more than he intended; and it was
no small relief, therefore, the first salutation being
over, when the masculine tones reassured him.
Munro, without much circumlocution, immediately
proceeded to ask whether he was willing to lend a
hand for the help of Colleton, and to save him
from the gallows.

“Colleton—save Master Colleton—do tell—is
that what you mean?”

“It is—are you the man to help your friend—
will you make one along with others who are going
to try for it.”

“Well, now—don't be rash—give a body time
to consider. It's so strange—” and the pedler
showed himself bewildered by the sudden manner
in which the subject had been broached.

“There's little time to be lost, Bunce—if we
don't set to work at once, we needn't set to work
at all. Speak out, man! will you join us—now or
never—to save the young fellow?”

With something like desperation in his manner,
as if he scrupled to commit himself too far, yet had

the will to contribute considerably to the object,
the pedler replied:—

“Save the young fellow—well, I guess I will
—but what's to be done—I'll lend a hand, to be
sure, if there's no trouble to come of it. He's
now somehow a likely chap, and not so stiff neither,
though I did count him rather high-headed at
first. But after that, he sort a smoothed down, and
now I don't know nobody I'd sooner help jest now
out of the slush; but I can't see how we're to set
about it.”

“Can you fight, Bunce—are you willing to
knock down and drag out, when there's need
for it?”

“Why, if I was fairly listed, and if so be there's
no law agin it. I don't like to run agin the law,
no how, and if you could get a body clear on it,
why—and there's no way to do the thing no other
how—I guess I shouldn't stand too long to consider
when it's to help a friend.”

“It may be no child's play, Bunce, and there
must be stout heart and free hand. One mustn't
stop for trifles in such cases—and as for the law—
when a man's friend's in danger he must make his
own law.”

“That wasn't my edication, no how—” said the
pedler, as he paused to consider. The landlord
saw no necessity for consideration, and fearful that
the scruples of Bunce would be something too
strong, he proceeded to smooth away the difficulty.

“After all, Bunce, the probability is, we shall be
able to manage the affair without violence; so we
shall try, for I like blows just as little as anybody
else—but it's best, you know, to make ready for the
worst—nobody knows how things will turn up,
and if it comes to the scratch, why one musn't

mind knocking a fellow on the head if he stands in
the way.”

“No, to be sure not—twould be foolish to stop
and think and be knocked down yourself—”

“Certainly, you're right, Bunce; that's only
reason.”

“And yet, mister—I guess you wouldn't want
that I should know your raal name, now, would
you—or maybe you're going to tell it to me now—
well—”

“To the business—what matters it whether I
have a name or not. I have a fist, you see, and—”

“Yes, yes, I see—” exclaimed he of the notions,
rapidly retreating, as Munro, suiting the action to
the word, thrust rather more closely to the face of
his companion than was altogether encouraging
the ponderous mass which courtesy alone would
consider a fist—

“Well, I don't care, you see, to know the name,
mister, but somehow it raally aint the thing, no
how, to be mistering nobody knows who. I see
you aint a woman plain enough from your face,
and I pretty much conclude you must be a man—
though you have got on—what's that now?—It's a
kind of calico, I guess; but them's not fast colours,
friend. I should say, now, you had been taken in
pretty much by that bit of goods. It aint the kind
of print, now, that's not afeared of washing.”

“And if I have been taken in, Bunce, in these
calicoes, you're the man that has done it—” said
the landlord, laughing—“this piece was sold by you
into my own hands, last March was a year, when
you came back from the Cherokees.”

“Now, don't. Well, I guess there must be some
mistake—you aint sure, now, friend—might be
some other dealer that you bought from?”

“None other than yourself, Bunce. You are

the man, and I can bring a dozen to prove it on
you.”

“Well, I 'spose what you say's true, and that
jest lets me know how to mister you now, 'cause,
you see, I do recollect now all about who I sold to
that season.”

The landlord had been overreached; and,
amused with the ingenuity of the trader, he contented
himself with again lifting the huge fist in a
threatening manner, though the smile which accompanied
the action fairly deprived it of its terrors.

“Well—well,” said the landlord—“we burn
daylight in such talk as this—I come to you as the
only man who will or can help me in this matter,
and Lucy Munro tells me you will—you made her
some such promise.”

“Well, now, I guess I must toe the chalk, after
all—though, to say truth, I don't altogether remember
any such promise. It must be right though, if
she says it; and sartain she's a sweet body—I'll go
my length for her any day.”

“You'll not lose by it; and now hear my plan.
You know Brooks, the jailer, and his bull-dog brother-in-law,
Tongs? I saw you talking with both
of them yesterday.”

“Guess you're right. Late acquaintance though
—they aint neither on 'em to my liking.”

Enough for our purpose. Tongs is a brute
who will drink as long as he can stand, and some
time after it. Brooks is rather shy of it, but he
will drink enough to stagger him, for he is pretty
weak-headed. We have only to manage these
fellows, and there's the end of it. They keep the
jail.”

“Yes, I know; but you don't count young
Brooks?”

“Oh, he's a mere boy. Don't matter about him.
He's easily managed. Now hear to my design.
Provide your jug of whiskey, with plenty of eggs
and sugar, so that they shan't want any thing, and
get them here. Send for Tongs at once, and let
him once know what's in the wind, then ask
Brooks, and he will be sure to force him to come.
Say nothing of the boy—let him stay or come as
they think proper. To ask all might make them
suspicious. When here, ply them well, and then
we shall go on according to circumstances. Brooks
carries the keys along with him—get him once in
for it, and I'll take them from him. If he resists or
any of them—”

“Knock 'em down?”

“Ay, quick as you say it.”

“Well, but how if they do not bring the boy,
and they leave him in the jail?”

“What then! Can't we knock him down too?”

“But, then, they'll fix the whole business on my
head. Won't Brooks and Tongs say where they
got drunk, and then shan't I be in a scant fixin'?”

“They dare not. They won't confess themselves
drunk—it's as much as their place is worth.
They will say nothing till they get sober, and then
they'll get up some story that will fly against
nobody.”

“But—”

“But what—will you never cease to but against
obstacles? Are you a man—are you ready—bent
to do what you can? Speak out, and let me
know if I can depend on you—” exclaimed the
landlord, impatiently.

“Now, don't be in a passion—you're as soon off
as a fly-machine, and a thought sooner. Why, didn't
I say now, I'd go my length for the young gentleman?
And I'm sure I'm ready, and aint at all

afeared, no how. I only did want to say, that if
the thing takes wind, as how it stood, it spiles all
my calkilations. I couldn't stablish a consarn here,
I guess, for a nation long spell of time after.”

“And what then—where's your calculations?
Get the young fellow clear, and what will his
friends do for you? Think of that, Bunce. You
go off to Carolina with him, and open store in his
parts, and he buys from you all he wants—his
negro cloths—his calicoes—his domestics, and
stripes, and every thing. Then his family, and
friends and neighbours, under his recommendation
—they all buy from you; and then—the presents
they will make you—the fine horses—and who
knows but even a plantation and negroes may all
come out of this one transaction?”

“To be sure—who knows. Well—things do
look slick enough, and there's a mighty deal of
reason now in what you say. Large business that,
I guess, in the long run. Aint I ready?—let's see
—a gallon of whiskey—aint a gallon a heap too
much for only three people?”

“Better have ten than want. Then there must
be pipes, tobacco, segars; and mind, when they
get well on in drinking, I shall look to you through
that window. Be sure and come to me then.
Make some pretence, for as Brooks may be slow
and cautious, I shall get something to drop into
his liquor—a little mixture which I shall hand you.”

“What mixture! No pizon, I hope. I don't go
that—not I—no pizoning for me.”

“Pshaw! fool,—nonsense!—if I wanted their
lives, could I not choose a shorter method, and a
weapon which I could more truly rely upon than
I ever can upon you? It is to make them sleep
that I shall give you the mixture.”

“Oh, laudnum. Well, now, why couldn't you

say laudnum at first, without frightening people so
with your mixtures. There's no harm in laudnum,
for my old aunt Tabitha chaws laudnum jest as
other folks chaws tobacco.”

“Well, that's all—it's only to get them asleep
sooner. See now about your men at once. We
have no time to lose, and if this contrivance fails, I
must look about for another. It must be done to-night,
or it cannot be done at all. In an hour I
shall return; and hope, by that time, to find you
busy with their brains. Ply them well—don't be
slow or stingy—and see that you have enough of
whiskey—here's money—have every thing ready.”

The pedler took the money, and Munro left him.
Bunce gave himself but little time and less trouble
for reflection. The prospects of fortune which the
landlord had magnified to his vision, were quite too
enticing to be easily resisted by one whose morale
was none of the largest; and having provided
every thing, as agreed upon, necessary for their
accommodation, he sallied forth for the more important
purpose of getting his company.