University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The scene is very much altered now. Dorchester
belongs to Ashley no longer. It is a name—a shadow.
The people are gone; the site is distinguished by its
ruins only. The owl hoots through the long night
from the old church-tower, and the ancient woods and
the quiet waters of the river give back, in melancholy
echoes, his unnoted cries. The Carolinian looks on
the spot with a saddened spirit. The trees crowd
upon the ancient thoroughfare; the brown viper hisses
from the venerable tomb, and the cattle graze along
the clustering bricks that distinguish the old-time chimney-places.
It is now one of those prospects that kindle
poetry in the most insensible observer. It is one
of the visible dwelling-places of Time; and the ruins
that still mock, to a certain extent, his destructive
progress, have in themselves a painful chronicle of
capricious change and various affliction. They speak
for the dead that lie beneath them in no stinted number;
they record the leading features of a long history,
crowded with vicissitudes.

But our purpose now is with the past, and not with the
present. We go back to the time when the village of
Dorchester was full of life, and crowded with inhabitants;
when the coaches of the wealthy planters of
the neighbourhood thronged the highway; when the

bells from the steeple sweetly called to the Sabbath
worship; and when, through the week, the shops were
crowded with buyers, and the busy hammer of the
mechanic, and the axe of the labourer, sent up their
crowding noises, imaging, upon a small scale, many of
the more stirring attributes of the great city, and all
of its life. Dorchester then had several hundred inhabitants.
The plan of the place lies before me now—
a regularly laid-out city, of perfect squares, with its
market-place, its hotels, and its churches; its busy
wharves, and its little craft of sloop and schooner,
lying at anchor, or skimming along the clear bosom of
the Ashley in all the show of impulse and prosperity.
It had its garrison also, and not the smallest portion
of its din and bustle arose from the fine body of red-coated
and smartly-dressed soldiers then occupying the
square fort of tapia-work, which to this day stands
upon the hill of Dorchester—just where the Ashley
bends in with a broad sweep to the village site—in a
singular state of durability and preservation.

This fort commanded the river and village alike.
The old bridge of Dorchester, which crossed the river
at a little distance above it, was also within its range.
The troops at frequent periods paraded in the market-place,
and every art was made use of duly to impress
upon the people the danger of any resistance to a
power so capable to annoy and to punish. This being
the case, it was amusing to perceive how docile, how
loyal indeed, were those inhabitants, who, but a few
weeks before, were in arms against their present rulers,
and who now only waited a convenient season to resume
the weapons which policy had persuaded them
to lay aside.

None of the villagers were more dutiful or devout in
their allegiance than Richard Humphries—Old Dick,
as his neighbours more familiarly styled him—who
kept the “Royal George,” then the high tavern of the
village. The fat, beefy face of the good-natured Hanoverian
hung in yellow before the tavern door, on one of
the two main roads leading from the country through

the town. The old monarch had, in this exposed situation,
undergone repeated trials. At the commencement
of the Revolution, the landlord, who really cared
not who was king, had been compelled by public opinion
to take down the sign, replacing it with another
more congenial to the popular feeling. George, in the
mean time, was assigned less conspicuous lodgings in
an ancient garret. The change of circumstances restored
the venerable portrait to its place, and under the
eye of the British garrison, there were few more
thorough-going loyalists in the village than Richard
Humphries. He was a sociable old man, fond of
drink, and generally serving his own glass whenever
called upon to replenish that of his customer. His
house was the common thoroughfare of the travelling
and the idle. The soldier, not on duty, found it a pleasant
lounge; the tory, confident in the sympathies of
the landlord, and solicitous of the good opinion of the
ruling powers, made it his regular resort; and even the
whig, compelled to keep down his patriotism, not unwisely
sauntered about in the same wide hall with the
enemy he feared and hated, but whom it was no part
of his policy at the present moment to alarm or irritate.
Humphries, from these helping circumstances,
distanced all competition in the village. The opposition
house was maintained by a suspected whig—one
Pryor—who was avoided accordingly. Pryor was a
sturdy citizen, who asked no favours; and if he did
not avow himself in the language of defiance, at the
same time scorned to take any steps to conciliate patronage
or do away with suspicion. He simply cocked
his hat at the old-time customer, now passing to the
other house; thrust his hands into the pockets of his
breeches, and, with a manful resignation, growled
through his teeth as he surveyed the prospect—“He
may go and be d—d.”

This sort of philosophy was agreeable enough to
Humphries, who, though profligate in some respects,
was yet sufficiently worldly to have a close eye to the
accumulation of his sixpences. His household was

well served; for though himself a widower, his daughter
Bella, a buxom, lively, coquettish but gentle-natured
creature, proved no common housekeeper. She was but
a girl, however, and, wanting the restraining presence of
a matron, and possessing but little dignity herself, the
house had its attractions for many, in the freedoms which
the old man either did not or would not see, and which
the girl herself was quite too young, too innocent, and
perhaps too weak, often to find fault with. Her true
protection, however, was in a brother not much older
than herself, a fine manly fellow, and—though with the
cautious policy of all around him suppressing his predilections
for the time—a stanch partisan of American
liberty.

It was on a pleasant afternoon in June, that a tall,
well-made youth, probably twenty-four or five years
of age, rode up to the door of the “George,” and throwing
his bridle to a servant, entered the hotel. His
person had been observed, and his appearance duly
remarked upon, by several persons already assembled
in the hall which he now approached. The new comer,
indeed, was not one to pass unnoticed. His person
was symmetry itself, and the ease with which he managed
his steed, the unhesitating boldness with which
he kept on his way and gazed around him at a period
and in a place where all were timid and suspicious,
could not fail to fix attention. His face, too, was significant
of a character of command, besides being finely
intelligent and tolerably handsome; and though he
carried no weapons that were visible, there was something
exceedingly military in his movement, and the
cap which he wore, made of some native fur and
slightly resting upon one side of his thickly clustering
brown hair, imparted a daring something to his look,
which gave confirmation to the idea. Many were the
remarks of those in the hall as, boldly dashing down
the high-road, he left the church to the right, and moving
along the market-place, came at once towards the
“George,” which stood on the corner of Prince and
Bridge streets.

“A bold chap with his spurs, that,” exclaimed Sergeant
Hastings, of the garrison, who was a frequent
guest of the tavern, and had found no small degree
of favour with the landlord's daughter. “A bold chap,
that—do you know him, Humphries?”

This question brought the landlord to the window.
He looked intently upon the youth as he approached, but
seemed at fault.

“Know him? why yes, I think I do know him, sergeant:
that's—yes—that's—bless my soul, I don't
know him at all!”

“Well, be sure, now, Humphries,” coolly spoke the
sergeant. “Such a good-looking fellow ought not
to be forgotten. But he 'lights, and we shall soon know
better.”

A few moments, and the stranger made his appearance.
The landlord bustled up to him, and offered
assistance, which the youth declined for himself, but
gave directions for his horse's tendance.

“Shall be seen to, captain,” said the landlord.

“Why do you call me captain?” demanded the youth,
sternly.

“Bless me, don't be angry, squire; but didn't you
say you was a captain?” apologetically replied Humphries.

“I did not.”

“Well, bless me, but I could have sworn you did
—now didn't he, gentlemen?—sergeant, didn't you
hear—”

“It matters not,” the stranger interrupted; “it matters
not. You were mistaken, and these gentlemen
need not be appealed to. Have my horse cared for if
you please. He has come far and fast to-day, and will
need a good rubbing. Give him fodder now, but no
corn for an hour.”

“It shall be done, captain.”

“Hark'ee, friend,” said the youth angrily, “you will
not style me captain again, unless you would have
more than you can put up with. I am no captain, no
colonel, no commander of any sort, and unless you

give me the army, will not wear the title. So, understand
me.”

“Ask pardon, squire; but it comes so common—ask
pardon, sir;” and the landlord shuffled off, as he spoke,
to see after his business. As he retired, Sergeant
Hastings made up to the new comer, and with all
the consequence of one having a portion of authority,
and accustomed to a large degree of deference from
those around him, proceeded to address the youth on
the subject matter of his momentary annoyance.

“And, with your leave, young master, where's the
harm in being captain or colonel? I don't see that
there's any offence in it.”

“None, none in the world, sir, in being captain or
colonel, but some, I take it, in being styled such undeservedly.
The office is good enough, and I have no
objections to it; but I have no humour to be called by
any nickname.”

“Nickname—why, d—n it, sir—why, what do you
mean? Do you pretend that it's a nickname to be
called an officer in his majesty's troops, sir? If you
do—” and the sergeant concluded with a look.

“Pistols and daggers! most worthy officer in his
majesty's troops, do not look so dangerous,” replied the
youth, very coolly. “I have no sort of intention to
offend captain or sergeant. I only beg that, as I am
neither one nor the other, nobody will force me into
their jackets.”

“And why not, young master?” said the sergeant,
somewhat pacified, but still, as he liked not the non-chalance
of the stranger, seemingly bent to press upon
him a more full development of his opinions. “Why
not? Is it not honourable, I ask you, to hold his majesty's
commission, and would you not, as a loyal subject,
be very glad to accept one at his hands?”

There was no little interest manifested by the spectators
as this question was put, and they gathered more
closely about the beset stranger, but still keeping at a
deferential distance from the sergeant. He, too, looked
forward to the reply of the youth with some interest.

His head was advanced and his arms akimbo, and,
stationed in front of the person he examined, in the
centre of the hall, his clumsy compact person and
round rosy face looked exceedingly imposing in every
eye but that of the person for whose especial sight their
various terrors had been put on. The youth seemed
annoyed by the pertinacity of his assailant, but he
made an effort at composure, and after a brief pause
replied to the inquiry.

“Honourable enough, doubtless. I know nothing
about the employment, and cannot say. As for taking
a commission at his majesty's hands, I don't know that
I should do any such thing.”

The declaration produced a visible emotion in the
assembly. One or two of the spectators slid away
silently, and the rest seemed variously agitated, while,
at the same time, one person whom the stranger had
not before seen—a stout, good-looking man, seemingly
in humble life, and not over his own age—came forward,
and, with nothing ostentatious in his manner, placed
himself alongside of the man who had so boldly declared
himself. Sergeant Hastings seemed for an
instant almost paralyzed by what appeared the audacity
of the stranger. At length, detaching his sword partially
from the sheath, so that a few inches of the blade
became visible, he looked round with a potential aspect
upon the company, and then proceeded—

“Hah!—not take a commission from the hands of
his majesty—indeed!—and why not, I pray?”

Unmoved by the solemnity of the proceeding, the
youth with the utmost quietness replied—

“For the very best reason in the world—I should
scarcely know what to do with it.”

“Oh, that's it!” said the sergeant. “And so you
are not an officer?”

“No. I've been telling you and this drinking fellow,
the landlord, all the time, that I am no officer, and
yet neither of you seems satisfied. Nothing will do,
but you will put me in his majesty's commission, and

make me a general and what not, whether I will or
no. But where's the man?—Here, landlord!”

“Can I serve, sir?” said a soft voice, followed by
the pretty maid of the inn, the fair Bella Humphries,
whose person was now visible behind the bar.

“Yes, my dear, you can;” and as the stranger youth
spoke, and the maid courtesied, he tapped her gently
upon the cheek, and begged that he might be shown
his apartment, stating, at the same time, the probability
that he would be an inmate for several days of the
tavern. The sergeant scowled fiercely at the liberty
thus taken, and the youth could not help seeing that
the eye of the girl sank under the glance that the
former gave her. He said nothing, however, and taking
in his hand the little fur valise that he carried, the only
furniture, besides saddle and bridle, worn by his horse,
he followed the steps of Bella, who soon conducted
him to his chamber, and left him to those ablutions
which a long ride along a sandy road had rendered
particularly necessary.

The sergeant meanwhile was not so well satisfied
with what had taken place. He was vexed that he had
not terrified the youth—vexed at his composure—vexed
that he had tapped Bella Humphries upon her cheek,
and doubly vexed that she had submitted with such
excellent grace to the aforesaid tapping. The truth is,
Sergeant Hastings claimed some exclusive privileges
with the maiden. He was her regular gallant—bestowed
upon her the greater part of his idle time, and
had flattered himself that he stood alone in her estimation;
and so, perhaps, he did. His attentions had
given him a large degree of influence over her, and
what with his big speech, swaggering carriage, and
flashy uniform, poor Bella had long since been taught to
acknowledge his power over her heart. But the girl was
coquettish, and her very position as maid of the inn
had contributed to strengthen and confirm the natural
predisposition. The kind words and innocent freedoms
of the handsome stranger were not disagreeable to her,
and she felt not that they interfered with the claims of

the sergeant, or would be so disagreeable to him, until
she beheld the scowling glance with which he surveyed
them.

In the hall below, to which the landlord had now
returned, Hastings gave utterance to the spleen which
this matter had occasioned.

“That's an impudent fellow—a very impudent fellow.
I don't like him.”

The landlord looked up timidly, and after a brief
pause, in which the sergeant continued to pace the
apartment, again ventured upon speech.

“And what do you think—what do you think he is,
sergeant?”

“How should I know? I asked you: you know
every thing; at least, you pretend to. Why are you
out here? Who is he?”

“Bless me, I can't say; I don't know.”

“What do you think he is?”

“God knows!”

“He certainly is an impudent—a very suspicious
person.”

“Do you think so, sergeant?” asked one of the persons
present, with an air of profound alarm.

“I do—a very suspicious person—one that should
be watched.”

“I see nothing suspicious about him,” said another,
the same individual who had placed himself beside the
stranger when the wrath of the sergeant was expected
to burst upon him, and when he had actually laid his
hand upon his sword. “I see nothing suspicious about
the stranger,” said the speaker, boldly, “except that he
doesn't like to be troubled with foolish questions.”

“Foolish questions—foolish questions! Bless me,
John Davis, do you know what you're a-saying?”
The landlord spoke in great trepidation, and placed
himself, as he addressed Davis, between him and
the sergeant.

“Yes, I know perfectly what I say, Master Humphries;
and I say it's very unmannerly, the way in which
the stranger has been pestered with foolish questions.

I say it, and I say it again; and I don't care who hears
it. I'm ready to stand up to what I say.”

“Bless me, the boy's mad! Now, sergeant, don't
mind him—he's only foolish, you see.”

“Mind him—oh no! Look you, young man, do you
see that tree? It won't take much treason to tuck you
up there.”

“Treason, indeed! I talk no treason, Sergeant
Hastings, and I defy you to prove any agin me. I'm
not to be frightened this time o' day, I'd have you to
know; and though you are a sodger, and wear a red
coat, let me tell you there's a tough colt in the woods
that your two legs can't straddle. There's no treason
in that, for it only concerns one person, and that one
person is your own self.”

“You d—d rebel, is it so you speak to a sergeant
in his majesty's service? Take that”—and with the
words, with his sword drawn at the instant, he made a
stroke with the flat of it at the head of the sturdy disputant,
which, as the latter somewhat anticipated it, he
was prepared to elude. This was done adroitly enough,
and with a huge club which stood conveniently in the
corner, he had prepared himself without fear to guard
against a repetition of the assault, when the stranger,
about whom the coil had arisen, now made his appearance,
and at once interposed between the parties.