University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

The fugitives, meanwhile, pursued their way,
with the additional speed of men conscious that
life and death hung upon their progress. There
needed no exhortations from his companion to
Ralph Colleton. More than life, with him, depended
upon his speed. The shame of such a death
as that to which he had been destined was for ever

before his eyes, and with a heart nerved to its utmost
by a reference to the awful alternative of
flight, he grew reckless in the audacity with which
he drove his horse forward in defiance of all obstacle
and over every impediment. Nor were the
present apprehensions of Munro much less than
those of his companion. To be overtaken, as the
participant of the flight of one whose life was forfeit,
would necessarily invite to such an examination
of himself as must result in the development
of his true character, and such a discovery
must only terminate in his conviction and sentence
to the same doom. His previously uttered presentiment
grew more than ever strong with the
strengthening consciousness of his danger; and
with an animation, the fruit of an anxiety little
short of absolute fear, he stimulated the progress
of Colleton, while himself driving the rowel ruthlessly
into the smoking sides of the animal he
bestrode.

“On, sir—on, Mr. Colleton—this is no moment for
graceful attitude. Bend forward—free rein—force
spur. We ride for life—for life. They must not
take us alive—remember that. Let them shoot—
strike, if they please, but they must put no hands
on us as living men. If we must die, why—any
death but a dog's. Are you prepared for such a
finish to your ride?”

“I am—but I trust it has not come to that.
How much have we yet to the river?”

“Two miles at the least, and a tough road.
They gain upon us—do you not hear them—we
are slow—very slow. These horses—on, Syphax,
dull devil—on—on!”

And at every incoherent and unconnected syllable,
the landlord struck his spurs into his animal,
and incited the youth to do the same.

“There is an old mill upon the branch to our
left, where for a few hours we might lie in secret,
but daylight would find us out. Shall we try a
birth there, or push on for the river?” inquired
Munro.

“Push on, by all means—let us stop nowhere—
we shall be safe if we make the nation,”—was the
reply.

“Ay, safe enough, but that's the rub. If we
could stretch a mile or two between us, so as to
cross before they heave in sight, I could take you
to a place where the whole United States would
never find us out—but they gain on us—I hear
them every moment more and more near. The
echoes are very clear to-night—always clearer and
more distinct by moonlight, and they must hear us,
as we hear them.”

“But I hear them not—I hear no echoes but our
own—” replied the youth.

“Ah, that's because you have not the ears of
an outlaw. There's a necessity for using our
ears, one of the first that we acquire, and I can
hear sounds farther, I believe, than any man I
ever met, unless it be Guy Rivers. He has the
ears of the devil, when his blood's up. Then he
hears further than I can, though I'm not much
behind him even then. Hark! they are now
winding the hill not more than half a mile off,
and we hear nothing of them now until they get
round—the hill throws the echo to the rear, as it
is more abrupt on that side than on this. At this
time, if they heard us before, they cannot hear us.
We could now make the old mill with some
hope of their losing our track, as we strike into a
blind path to do so. What say you, Master Colleton—shall
we turn aside or go forward?”

“Forward, I say. If we are to suffer, I would

suffer on the high road, in full motion, and not be
caught in a crevice like a lurking thief. Better be
shot down—far better—I think with you—than
risk recapture.”

“Well—it's the right spirit you have, and we
may clear them. We cease again to hear them.
They are driving through the close grove where
the trees hang so much over. God—it is but a
few moments since we went through it ourselves—
they gain on us—but the river is not far—speed
on—bend forward, and use the spur—a few minutes
more close pushing, and the river is in sight.
Kill the beasts—no matter—but make the river.”

“How do we cross?” inquired the youth, hurriedly,
though with a confidence something increased
by the manner of his companion.

“Drive in—drive in—there are two fords,
each within twenty yards of the other, and the
river is not high. You take the path and ford to
the right, as you come in sight of the water, and
I'll keep the left. Your horse swims well,—so
don't mind the risk; and if there's any difficulty,
leave him, and take to the water yourself. The
side I give you is the easiest; though it don't matter
what side I take. I've gone through worse
chances than this, and if we hold on for a few moments,
we are safe. The next turn, and we are on
the banks.”

“The river—the river,” exclaimed the youth,
involuntarily, as the broad and quiet stream wound
before his eyes, glittering like a polished mirror in
the moonlight.

“Ay, there it is—now to the right—to the right.
Look not behind you. Let them shoot—let them
shoot, but lose not an instant to look. Plunge forward
and drive in. They are close upon us, and the
flat is on the other side. They can't pursue, unless

they do as we, and they have no such reason for
so desperate a course. They will stop—they will
not follow. In—in—not a moment is to be lost—”
and speaking, as they pursued their several ways,
he to the left, and Ralph Colleton to the right ford,
the obedient steeds plunged forward under the application
of the rowel, and were fairly in the bosom
of the stream, as the pursuing party rode headlong
up the bank.

Struggling onwards, in the very centre of the
stream, with the steed, which, to do him all manner
of justice, swam nobly, Ralph Colleton could not
resist the temptation to look round upon his pursuers.
Writhing his body in the saddle, therefore,
a single glance was sufficient; and in the full glare
of the moonlight, unimpeded by any interposing
foliage, the prospect before his eyes was imposing
and terrible enough. The pursuers were four in
number—the jailer, two of the Georgia Guard, and
another person unknown to him. As Munro had
predicted, they did not venture to plunge in as the
fugitives had done—they had no such fearful motive
for the risk; and the few moments which they
consumed in deliberation as to what they should do,
contributed not a little to the successful experiment
of the swimmers. But the youth at length caught
a fearful signal of preparation,—his ear noted the
sharp click of the lock, as the rifle was referred to
in the final resort; and his ready sense conceived
but of one, and the only mode of evading the danger
so immediately at hand. Too conspicuous in
his present situation to hope for escape, short of a
miracle, so long as he remained upon the back of
the swimming horse, he relaxed his hold, carefully
drew his feet from the stirrups, resigned his seat, and
only a second before the discharge of the rifle was
deeply buried in the bosom of the Chestatee. The

steed received the bullet in his head—plunged forward
madly, to the no small danger of Ralph, who
had now got a little before him—but in a few moments
lay supine upon the stream, and was borne
down by its current. The youth, practised in
such exercises, pressed forward under the surface
for a sufficient time to enable him to avoid the
present glance of the enemy, and at length, in
safety, rounding a jutting point of the shore, which
effectually concealed him from their eyes, he gained
the dry land, at the very moment in which Munro,
with more success, was clambering, still mounted,
up the steep sides of a neighbouring and slippery
bank. Familiar with such scenes, the landlord had
duly estimated the doubtful chances of his life in
swimming the river directly in sight of the pursuers.
He had therefore taken the precaution to
oblique considerably to the left from the direct
course, and did not, in consequence, appear in sight,
owing to the sinuous windings of the stream, until
he had actually gained the shore. The youth beheld
him at this moment, and shouted aloud his own
situation and safety. In a voice indicative of restored
confidence in himself, no less than in his fate,
the landlord, by a similar shout, recognised him,
and was bending forward to the spot where he
stood, when the sharp and joint report of three
rifles from the opposite banks attested the discovery
of his person; and, in the same instant, the
rider tottered forward in his saddle—his grasp
was relaxed upon the rein, and without a word,
he toppled from his seat, and was borne for a few
paces by his horse, dragged forward by one of his
feet, which had not been released from the stirrup.
He fell at length, and the youth came up with him.
He heard the groans of the wounded man, and
though exposing himself to the same chance, he
could not determine upon flight. He might possibly
have saved himself by taking the now freed
animal which the landlord had ridden, and at once
burying himself in the nation. But the noble
weakness of pity determined him otherwise; and
without scruple or fear, he resolutely advanced to
the spot where Munro lay, though full in the sight
of the pursuers, and prepared to render him what
assistance he could. One of the troopers, in the
mean time, had swum the river himself; and freeing
the flat from its chains, had directed it across
the stream for the passage of his companions. It
was not long before they had surrounded the fugitives,
and Ralph Colleton was again a prisoner, and
once more made conscious of the dreadful doom
from which he had, at one moment, almost conceived
himself to have escaped.

Munro had been shockingly wounded. One ball
had pierced his thigh, inflicting a severe, though
probably not a fatal wound. Another, and this
had been enough, had penetrated directly behind
the eyes, keeping its course so truly across, as to
tear and turn the bloody orbs completely out upon
the cheek beneath. The first words of the dying
man were—

“Is the moon gone down—lights—bring lights!”

“No, Munro—the moon is still shining without
a cloud, and as brightly as if it were day”—was
the reply of Ralph.

“Who speaks—speak again, that I may know
how to believe him.”

“It is I, Munro—I, Ralph Colleton.”

“Then it is true—and I am a dead man. It is
all over, and he came not to me for nothing. Yet,
can I have no lights—no lights?—Ah!”—and the
half reluctant reason grew more terribly conscious
of his situation, as he thrust his fingers into the

bleeding sockets from which the fine and delicate
conductor of light had been so suddenly driven.
He howled aloud for several moments in his agony
—in the first agony which came with that consciousness—but,
recovering at length, he spoke with
something of calm and coherence.

“Well, Mr. Colleton—what I said was true. I
knew it would be so; I had warning enough to prepare,
and I did try, but it's come over soon and
nothing is done. I have my wages, and the text
spoke nothing but the truth. I cannot stand this
pain long—it is too much—and—” The pause in
his speech, from extreme agony, was filled up by a
shriek that rung fearfully amid the silence of such
a scene, but it lasted not long. The mind of the
landlord was not enfeebled by his weakness, even
at such a moment. He recovered and proceeded:

“Yes, Mr. Colleton—I am a dead man. I have
my wages—but my death is your life. Let me
tell the story—and save you, and save Lucy,—and
thus—(oh, could I believe it for an instant)—save
myself! But no matter—we must talk of other
things. Is that Brooks—is that Brooks beside
me?”

“No, it is I—Colleton.”

“I know—I know”—impatiently—“who else?”

“Mr. Brooks, the jailer—Ensign Martin and
Brincle, of the Georgia Guard,” was the reply of
the jailer.

“Enough, then, for your safety, Mr. Colleton.
They can prove it all, and then remember Lucy—
poor Lucy! You will be in time—save her from
Guy Rivers—Guy Rivers—the wretch—not Guy
Rivers—no—there's a secret,—there's a secret
for you, my men, shall bring you a handsome reward.
Stoop—stoop, you three,—where are you?
—stoop, and hear what I have to say. It is my

dying word—and I swear it by all things, all powers,
all terrors that can make an oath solemn with
a wretch whose life is a long crime. Stoop—hear
me—heed all—lose not a word—not a word—not
a word. Where are you?”

“We are here, beside you—we hear all that you
say. Go on!”

“Guy Rivers is not his name—he is not Guy
Rivers—hear now—Guy Rivers is the outlaw for
whom the governor's proclamation gives a high reward—a
thousand dollars—the man who murdered
Judge Jessup. Edward Creighton, of Gwinnett
Court House—he is the murderer of Jessup—he is
the murderer of Forrester, for whose death the life
of Mr. Colleton here is forfeit. I saw him kill them
both,—I saw more than that, but that is enough to
save the innocent man and punish the guilty. Take
down all that I have said. I, too, am guilty; would
make amends, but it is almost too late—the night
is very dark, and the earth swings about like a
cradle. Ah—have you taken down on paper what
I said!—I will tell you nothing more till all is written—write
it down—on paper—every word—
write that before I say any more.”

They complied with his requisition. One of the
troopers, on a scrap of paper furnished by the
jailer, and placed upon the saddle of his horse,
standing by, in the pale light of the moon, recorded
word after word, with scrupulous exactness, of the
dying man's confession. He proceeded duly to the
narration of every particular of all past occurrences,
as we ourselves have already detailed them
to the reader, together with many more, unnecessary
to our narrative, of which we had heretofore
no cognizance. When this was done, the landlord
required it to be read, commenting, during its perusal,
and dwelling, with more circumstantial minuteness,
upon many of its parts.

“That will do—that will do. Now swear me,
Brooks—you are in the commission,—lift my
hand and swear me, so that nothing be wanting to
the truth. What if there is no Bible”—he exclaimed,
suddenly, as some one of the individuals
present suggested a difficulty on this subject.—
“What—because there is no Bible, shall there be
no truth? I swear—though I have had no communion
with God—I swear to the truth by him.
Write down my oath—he is present—they say he
is always present. I believe it now,—I only wish
I had always believed it. I swear by him—he will
not falsify the truth—write down my oath, while I
lift my hand to him. Would it were a prayer—
but I cannot pray—I am more used to oaths than
prayers, and I cannot pray. Is it written—is it
written? Look, Mr. Colleton, look—you know the
law. If you are satisfied, I am. Will it do?”

Colleton replied quickly in the affirmative, and
the dying man went on:—“Remember Lucy—the
poor Lucy. You will take care of her. Say no
harsh words in her ears—but, why should I ask this
of you, whom—Ah—it goes round—round—round
—swimming—swimming. Very dark—very dark
night, and the trees dance—Lucy—”

The voice sunk into a faint whisper whose
sounds were unsyllabled—an occasional murmur
escaped them once after, in which the name of his
niece was again apparent; exhibiting, at the last,
the affection, however latent, which he entertained
in reality for the orphan trust of his brother. In
a few moments, and the form stiffened before them
in all the rigid sullenness of death.