University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

It was an easy victory, and won without loss.
Wiping his bloody sword upon the mane of his steed,
Major Singleton rode up to his captives, who, by this
time, were all properly secured. Four persons had
fallen in the conflict, and among these was their leader,
Travis. He was shot dead upon the spot. Clough
was severely wounded in the breast, though perhaps
not mortally, and lay gasping, but without a groan,
upon the ground where he had fallen, and around which
the surviving prisoners were grouped. Three others
had fallen, either killed outright or mortally wounded:
two of these by the sabre, not including the corporal,
who fell by the hand of Frampton, and who was at
once rolled into the swamp. The prisoners, five in

number, were natives, generally of the very lowest
class, and just the sort of men to fight, according to the
necessity of the case, on either side. Such, indeed,
were the tories throughout the state, with very few
exceptions. Without leading principles, and miserably
poor—not recognised, except as mercenaries, in the social
aristocracies which must always prevail in slave-holding
nations—they had no sympathy with the
more influential classes,—those who were the first to
resist the authority of England. The love of gain,
the thirst for rapine, and that marauding and gipsy habit
of life which was familiar to them, were all directly
appealed to in the tory mode of warfare. They were
ready on any side which offered them the greatest
chance for indulging in these habits; and the sudden
preponderance of British power after the fall of Charlestown
determined the major part of this class of people in
favour of the invaders. The tories forming Huck's
cavalry were all of this sort; and the small detachment
just overthrown by Singleton had no sympathy with
their leader, only as his known character promised them
plunder. Defeat had no attraction in their eyes; and,
as that is always the true cause which is triumphant,
they now freely tendered themselves, with clamorous
tongues, and to the no small chagrin of the wounded
Clough, as recruits for Singleton. The Briton denounced
their perfidy in fearless language, and threatened
them terribly with the vengeance of Huck and
Tarleton; but the remote fear is no fear with the vulgar.
They seldom think in advance of the necessity,
and the exhortation of their wounded officer had no
visible effect. They persisted in their determination
to fight on the right side, and earnestly asserted their
love of country, alleging that force only had placed
them in the ranks of the enemy. Major Singleton conferred
with Humphries on the course to be taken in
this matter. The latter knew most of the parties, but
had been prudent to keep from sight, and they had not
seen him, only in the brief glimpse which they had of
him in the pursuit, when, at such a distance, perpetually
moving, and with his face well smeared with the
rank ooze from the creek around him, he must have been
unknown, except upon the narrowest examination, even
to the mother that had borne him. It was still his policy
to keep from sight in connection with his whig partisans;
for, passing in Dorchester as a loyal citizen—
a character in part obtained through his father's loudly-voiced
attachment to the existing powers—he was of
far greater advantage to the cause of the country than
he possibly could have been even in active military service.
He obtained intelligence with singular adroitness,
conveyed it with despatch, and planned enterprises
upon what he knew, with no little tact and ingenuity.
To remain unknown, therefore, or only known
as he had been heretofore, in close connection with
loyalty alone, was clearly the policy of our lieutenant.

There was one man from whom Humphries seemed
willing to withhold his confidence. He counselled his
commander to accept the services of the remaining
four, recommending that they should be so distributed
among the men who had been tried, as to defeat any
concert between them, should they feel any motive to
disaffection. In this manner it was also thought a
proper bias would be given to their minds, which, as
they both knew, were sufficiently flexible to find but
little difficulty in conforming to any circumstances
which should for a moment take the shape of a necessity.

“But the fifth—the other fellow—the blear-eyed—
what of him? You say nothing of him, Humphries.”

Singleton pointed through the copse as he spoke,
where the individual referred to leaned against a tree,
a little apart from the rest; his head cast down, his
arms relaxed beside him, one leg at ease, while the
whole weight of his body rested upon the other. The
features of his face were dark and unprepossessing—
dark and sallow; his cheeks lank and colourless; a
small nose; retreating forehead, covered with long thin
black hair, that streamed from under a broad white hat,
something the worse for wear. A strange protrusion of

his eyes gave his face a sinister expression, which was
not before lacking to produce distrust, or even dislike,
in the mind of the observer. Humphries gazed on
him a moment before he spoke, then, as if satisfied, he
proceeded to reply—

“I know nothing against the chap, major; but the
truth is, I don't like him. Indeed, I know nobody that
does. His right name is Blonay, but we all know
him better by the name of Goggle—a nickname which
he got on account of his eyes. Something has hurt
them when young, which, you see, makes him stare
when he looks at you.”

“Well, but we must not refuse him because he has
got a blear eye; we are too much in need of men to
stand upon trifles. Know you nothing against him?”

“The blood's bad that's in him. His father was a
horse-thief, and they do say, a mulatto or an Indian.
As for himself, the worst is, that we know nothing
about him; and that's no good sign, major, in a country
where everybody knows the business of everybody.
How he lives, and where and by what means he gets
his bread, is a secret. He will not work; but see
him when you will, you see him as you see him now
—one half of him sleeping, while the other half takes
the watch. Not that he can't move when the time
comes for it—or rather when he's in the humour for it.
Touch him close upon his goggle eye, and he's up in
arms in a moment. He will fight like a wildcat, too,
and that's in his favour; but the worst is, he fights
with a bad heart, and loves to remember injuries. I do
believe they keep him from sleep at night. He's not
like Carolinians in that; he can't knock at once and
have done with it, but he goes to bed to think about it,
and to plan when to knock, so as never to have done
with it. He loves to keep his wrongs alive, so that he
may always be revenging.”

“Still, I see nothing, lieutenant, that should make us
discourage his desires; and, truth to say, it is far
easier for us now to keep doubtful friends in our
ranks, moving with us, and continually under our eye,

than positive enemies in our camp in the form of prisoners,
whom we are bound to keep guard over. We
can manage our allies if they show signs of bad faith,
although we risk something, doubtless, even by the partial
confidence. Better do this than break up our little
force watching those who profess themselves friends,
and may yet prove so.”

“You may be right, major, and I only speak perhaps
from an old prejudice; but keep an eye upon him, for
he certainly will keep one on you. Even now he is
looking slyly to this bush, although he can't see or hear
either of us, but, after the old fashion, to find out what
he can. If he were only honest, he'd be a spy among
a thousand.”

“I will see to him in particular, and if it be possible
to drill honesty into him, something may be got out of
him yet. We must take him.”

“Very good, sir;—and you now go back into the
camp?”

“Yes: we must put the wounded man into some
sort of care, though he will suffer, wanting attendance.”

“Leave that to me, sir. You take him into camp,
and I have two men to come out this very day, one of
whom is a sort of doctor—good as any one hereabout.
He used to drench horses in Dorchester; and some
of the grannies did say, that there were no drinks like
those made by Doctor Oakenburg—that was because
he put more of brandy in them than any thing else;
and if a Dorchester granny loves one thing more than
another, after opium, it is brandy; and sometimes,
liking them equally well, she takes both together. He,
major, and the old negro, with some one of the troop,
will be guard enough, and Frampton's son Lance can
stay with them in the swamp. He's quite too young to
be of much service, and will only learn what's bad,
going with the troop.”

“I have thought better of that, and shall endeavour
to attach the boy to myself, and probably, in the end,
place him at `The Oaks' with my uncle. But time
wears, and we must move for the camp. I shall take

these men into service, and place the wounded man
under the charge of one of the troopers, and your doctor
can relieve him.”

“He comes to-day, with another—a fat overgrown
creature, just fit for the camp, though he fights well and
is true,” was the reply of Humphries.

Having thus counselled, the two proceeded to confer
apart upon other matters connected with their enterprise.
To visit “The Oaks” during the day, where his
uncle and sister resided, was the object of Singleton;
but his desire was also to intercept the supply of arms
and ammunition of which Huck had spoken as on their
way to Dorchester. They were looked for hourly, and
could not be very remote. It was determined, therefore,
to intercept them, if practicable, as an acquisition
of the last importance. To arrange their route, plan
the place of their next meeting, provide the means of intelligence,
and concert what local measures might
seem necessary in future, was the work of but little
time between the two; and this done, Humphries,
withdrawing silently from the cover in which this conference
had been carried on, unperceived by the rest,
made his way by a different route out of the swamp,
and keeping the forest all the way, was, after no long
time, safely in Dorchester—looking for all the world as
pacific and quiet as ever—without weapon of any
kind, as, with a wonted precaution, he had left his
sword in the woods, safely hidden, and his hands now
grasped only the common wagon-whip, which he
handled with a dexterity which seemed to indicate but
little acquaintance with any more dangerous or deadly
instruments.

Major Singleton, in the mean while, had returned to
his troop. They had been busied during his absence
in collecting the scattered horses and arms, and repairing
their own little losses. The captives were
loud in their desire to be received among them; and, as
rebellion loves company, the whigs were not unwilling
to receive an accession, even from their late enemies.
Major Singleton declared his acceptance of their services,

taking care to address himself particularly to
the man Blonay, or, as they styled him more familiarly,
Goggle. An awkward touch of the hat acknowledged
this last courtesy, and one eye of Goggle, as he made
the movement, peered up into those of Singleton with
a searching and doubtful glance. The major did
not appear to notice him or them any farther, but,
giving directions for the disposal of the wounded sergeant,
Clough, so as to spare him as much pain as possible,
he led the way once more to the cover of the secluded
place, in the centre of the swamp, which had
been chosen as their camping-ground. Here they arrived
at length, and having completed his arrangements,
placing Clough in the charge of one of his dragoons,
and in as much comfort as possible, Major Singleton
gave the word, and the squad moved forward on
their way out of the swamp, and in the direction of
the village. But this course was only kept while he
yet remained in the swamp. As soon as he emerged
from it, he drew up his men, and then, for the first
time, perceived the absence of the elder Frampton.
The two sons had kept with the troop, and seemed
to know nothing of their father. The younger had ridden
close beside his commander, who had so willed it.
Nobody could give him any account of the absent man
after his removal from the body of the corporal whom
he had slain. He had disappeared suddenly then, it
was thought; and there were not wanting those who
insisted upon his absence from that time; but Singleton
remembered to have seen him after they had
reached the camp, and to have noted the singular
composedness of his features. But few farther inquiries
were made after the absentee, as the major
well knew that with a man in such a mood but little
could be done. He was, perhaps, perfectly satisfied
that nothing could have happened to him, from the
composure of the two sons, who, doubtless, were acquainted
with the father's movement. Conjecture succeeded
to inquiry, only interrupted by the order to
move on.

The course of the troop lay now towards the Goose
Creek road. Major Singleton dared not carry his squad
along the Ashley without exposing himself, unnecessarily,
to unequal encounter; and, at Dorchester, with a
force far superior to his own. Pursuing a northerly direction
for a while, therefore, he placed himself at equal
distances between the Wassamasah and Dorchester
roads; then striking to the left, he passed over an
untravelled surface of country, broken with frequent
swamps, and crowded with luxuriant undergrowth. In
a few hours, however, he had gone over the ground
almost unseen, and certainly unobstructed. Davis was
his guide in this quarter, and he could not have had a
better. The discarded lover had given sufficient earnest
of his truth and valour, in the courage and perfect
coolness of his conduct in the preceding struggle; and
he now led the party with all the caution of the veteran,
and all the confidence of a thorough-bred soldier. The
road, like all in that country, was low and miry;
and the path taken for greater security, being little travelled,
was still more troubled with obstructions. They
reached the desired point at length, which was the
Goose Creek Bridge; then leaving it to the left, they
once more departed from the beaten track, and throwing
themselves directly across the country, were, after a
few hours, again upon the Dorchester road, and some
two or three miles below the garrison. They covered
themselves in the close forest by Archdale Hall, and
Singleton then proceeded to inspect the road. To his
great satisfaction, he saw that the wagons had not yet
made their appearance, and must be still below them.
Overjoyed at this, he despatched scouts to bring him
intelligence, and then proceeded to arrange an ambush
for the entrapping of the looked-for detachment.

The road, at the spot chosen for this purpose, was narrow—but
a single track, and that raised into a causeway
from a ditch on either side, at that time filled with
water, and scarcely passable without great difficulty.
The woods, growing close and thickly, formed a natural
defile, of which Singleton, with the eye of experience,

soon availed himself. He divided his little force
into two equal bodies; and giving the command of one
of them to Davis, placed him upon the right of the
road in the route from Charlestown, while he himself
occupied the left. The former division lying in ambush
some thirty yards below, was ready, in the event of
a struggle between the baggage guard and Singleton's
troop, to which it was to be left, to secure the precious
charge which the guard had undertaken to defend, and
at the same time to cut off their retreat. Thus arranged,
and with the plan of conduct properly understood on all
hands, the parties lay in cover, impatiently awaiting
the approach of the enemy.

They had not long to wait; for scarcely had their
arrangements been well completed, before the scouts
came at full gallop along the path, crying loudly that
the enemy was at hand. A shot or two whistled over
the heads of the fugitives at the same moment, giving
full confirmation to their intelligence; and a few seconds
after, the rush of half a score of British dragoons was
heard upon their footsteps. Passing through the ambuscade
without pausing for an instant, the scouts kept on
their flight, bringing the pursuers fairly between the two
parties. Once enclosed, a shrill whistle from Singleton
announced the charge which he led in person; and
dashing out from his cover, he threw his men quickly
between the flying scouts and the assailants. In the
same moment the squad of Davis obeying the same
signal, as repeated by their leader, followed him as
he charged upon the force left in possession of the munition
wagons. The guard in this quarter seeing the
inequality of the force, and struck with the surprise,
offered but a feeble resistance, and were soon put to
flight. Davis followed them a little distance, and then
returned to the aid of Singleton. His approach and
attack upon the rear of the party with which his commander
had been contending, put an end to the fight—
the dragoons having lost three men killed and two
wounded. With the charge of Davis, they threw down
their arms and were made prisoners.

The whole affair was over in the space of ten minutes.
In as little time the wagons were ransacked.
The swords and pistols were strewn upon the ground,
and each trooper made his selection without stint or
limit. In addition to this, each soldier was required to
carry an extra sword, and holsters with their contents;
and in this manner supplies were secured for a much
larger force than that which Singleton now commanded.
The rest were broken against the trees—muskets, pistols,
and swords sharing the same fate—while the wagons
themselves, carefully tumbled from their axles, and
their wheels torn apart, were thrown into the slough by
the road-side. The necessity which called for this
destruction of property, so valuable at the time, was the
subject of no small regret with the troopers. Even
Davis muttered to the major his desire that the wagons,
or at least one of them, should be preserved and
filled with spoils so highly important to the enterprise.
But Singleton knew better than to encumber his party,
whose utility consisted chiefly in the rapidity of its
movement, with such burdens, and peremptorily enforced
the order which destroyed the valuable residue. This
done, he gave orders to mount; and having carefully
secured his prisoners, the party moved at a brisk pace
along the road downward until they came within ten
miles of the city; then moving to the right, they crossed
Ashley ferry without molestation, and towards evening
had placed themselves in safety, with all their spoils,
in the close swamp thickets of the Stonoe river, just
where it inclines to the Ashley, and but a short distance
from Dorchester itself.

Here Singleton made his camp, within a few miles
of his uncle's plantation. He now felt secure for a
brief period, as he was taught to believe that the affections
of the people were with his cause, and the rapidity
of his proceedings must baffle any pursuit. Still he
knew that he could not hope to maintain this security
for any time. The audacity of the two efforts which
he had made that day, so nigh the garrison, could not
long be concealed, and must soon call out a superior

force equal to his annihilation. This he well knew;
yet he required but a few days for all his purposes.
His object was twofold—the attainment of recruits,
and the arousing of his uncle, whose bravery was well
known, and whose influence in the country was considerable,
to a proper sense of his duty. The first of
these objects promised well, so far as opportunity had
been given him;—of the second he did not despair,
particularly as he well knew what must be the influence
upon Colonel Walton of the recent proclamation of
Sir Henry Clinton. He knew the stern sense of integrity
which the colonel insisted upon with the tenacity
of a professional moral disciplinarian; and he did not
err in the thought, that his sense of humanity was sufficiently
alive to prompt a due indignation at the many
atrocities hourly committed by the tory leaders under
the especial sanction of the British. Other motives
for the contemplated visit might not be wanting to his
mind, as he thought of his lovely cousin—the stately
and the beautiful Katharine Walton—one of those high-souled
creatures that awe while they attract; and, even
while they invite and captivate, control and discourage.
His sister, too—she was there; a meek, sad, but
uncomplaining girl, perishing of disease, without having
lived—one of the unrepining sufferers, whose melancholy
fortunes, so at variance with what we know of
their deservings, would lead us sometimes improperly to
doubt of that justice which we assume to mark all the
decrees of Providence. But let us not anticipate.

Having placed his camp in such security as he
thought necessary and was practicable, Major Singleton
towards sunset rode forth in the direction of Dorchester
Bridge to meet Humphries, as had been agreed upon
between them. The lieutenant was in waiting at the
time appointed, and came forward to meet his superior.

“Ride aside, Major Singleton, if you please. The
brush is best for us just now. There are strange birds
on our roost that we must sheer from.”

“What mean you, Humphries—what birds?”

“British officers! Col. Proctor himself and another
have just gone by, and if I mistake not, on a visit to
`The Oaks.' They say he looks hard upon your
cousin, sir, the beautiful Miss Katharine.”

“Ha! do they say that?” responded Major Singleton,
with something like a start—“and she?” he continued,
inquiringly.

“They say nothing of her, whether she likes it or not;
but young ladies will be young ladies, major; and a
smart officer, with a king's commission in his pocket,
and a showy red coat on his back, is no small danger
to an easy heart.”

“No, indeed!” replied the other, in a tone which
seemed to have found nothing consolatory in his companion's
reflection, and in which there may have been
something of latent bitterness—“no, indeed!—such
attractions are at all times sweet with the sex, and seldom
utterly unsuccessful. They love the conquest,
always, even when they may despise the game. It's
with them all after this fashion, and the goodly outside
is a fair offset to worth and good manners. But how
shall we know, of a certainty, the destination of Proctor?”

“Only by dogging his footsteps, major. We may
do that with some safety, however, as I happen to know
the back track which hugs the river, and is seldom
travelled. This brings us close on the park, yet gives
us a good shelter all the way along the copse. We
shall take our watch, and yet be all the time hidden;
and where I shall carry you shall give us a fair peep
at all the grounds as well as the river.”

“That is well. And now of Dorchester: what stirs
in the village, and what of Huck? Do they know yet
of the affair of the swamp, or are they ever like to
know?”

“They know not yet, certainly; but Huck musters
strong, and talks of a drive to Camden. There is news,
too, which moves the garrison much. They talk of the
continentals from Virginia.”

“Do they? they must be De Kalb's. And what do

they say on the subject? do they speak of him as at
hand?”

“Nothing much, but they look a deal, and the whigs
talk a little more boldly. This provokes Huck, who
threatens a start on the strength of it, and is hurrying
his recruits for that purpose. There is also some talk
of a force from North Carolina under Sumter, and they
have got wind of the last move of our Colonel Marion,
thereaway among Gainey's corps of tories, where you
cut them up in such fine style; but there's nothing certain,
and this I get out of Huck in curses now and then.
He's mighty anxious that I should join him, and I'm
thinking to do so, if it promises to give me a better
hold on him.”

“Think not of it, Humphries; it will be twice putting
your neck in the halter, and the good that it may
do is too doubtful to encourage such a risk.”

“He presses me mighty hard, major, and I must
keep out of his way or consent. He begins to wonder
why I do not join his troop, and with some reason too,
believing me to be a loyalist, for certainly, were I to
do so, it would be the very making of me.”

“Thou wouldst not turn traitor, Humphries?” replied
the other, looking sternly upon the speaker.

“Does Major Singleton ask the question now?” was
the reply, in a tone which had in it something of reproach.

“I should not, certainly, Humphries, knowing what
I do. Forgive me; but in these times there is so
much to make us suspect our neighbours, that suspicions
become natural to every mind. You I know, however,
and I have trusted you too long not to continue
in my confidence now. But how come on our recruits?”

“Tolerably: as you say, these are suspicious times,
major, and they are slow to trust. But the feeling is
good with us, and they only wait to see some of the
chances in our favour before they come out boldly in
the cause.”

“Now, out upon the calculating wretches! Will
they dare nothing, but always wait for the lead of others?

Chances, indeed! as if true courage and a bold heart
did not always make their own. But what of the villagers?
How of that old tavern-keeper of whom you
spake—your father's rival?”

“But so no longer. Old Pryor, you mean. He is
a prime piece of stuff, and will not scruple to do what's
wanted. He was always true with us, though kept
down by those about him; yet he only wants to see
others in motion to move too. He'll do any thing now
—the more readily, as the Royal George, being entirely
loyal, does all the business; and poor Pryor, being all
along suspected, has not a customer left. He'd burn
the town, now, if we put it into his head?”

“Well, just now we lack no such spirit. May not
his rashness prompt him to too much speech?”

“No, sir; that's the beauty of rebellion with old
Pryor. It has hands and a weapon, but it wants
tongue. If he felt pain, and was disposed to tell
of it, his teeth would resist, and grin down the feeling.
No fear of him; he talks too little: and as for blabbing,
his wife might lie close, and listen all night, and
his dreams would be as speechless as his humour.
He locks up his thoughts in close jaws, and at best
only damns a bit when angered, and walks off with
his hands in his breeches-pocket.”

“A goodly comrade for a dark night! But let us
move. Dusk closes upon us, and we may travel now
with tolerable security. Our course is for the river?”

“Yes; a hundred yards will take us in sight of it,
and we keep it the whole way. But we must hug the
bush, as much out of sight there as if we were upon
the high-road. There are several boats, chiefly armed,
upon it now, besides the galley which runs up and
down—some that have brought supplies to the garrison.
Their shot would be troublesome, did they see us.”

They rode down the hill, entered a long copse, and
the river wound quietly on its way a little below them.
They were now on a line with the fortress of Dorchester;
the flag streamed gaudily from the staff,
and they could see through the bushes that several

vessels of small burden were passing to and fro.
They sank back again into the woods, and kept on
their course in comparative silence, until, close upon
sunset, they found themselves at a few hundred yards
from “The Oaks;” the spacious and lofty dwelling
rising dimly out of the woods before them, while from
their feet the extensive grounds of the park spread
away in distance and final obscurity.

Leaving them to amuse themselves as they may, let
us now return to the Cypress Swamp, where we left
the wounded Clough under the charge of the dragoon
and negro. The injury he had received, though not,
perhaps, a fatal one, was yet serious enough to render
immediate attention highly important to his safety;
but in that precarious time surgeons were not readily
to be found, and the Americans, who were without
money, were not often indulged with their services.
The several corps of the leading partisans, such as
Marion, and Sumter, Pickens, Horry, &c., fought daily
in the swamps and along the highways, with the painful
conviction that, save by some lucky chance, their
wounds must depend entirely upon nature to be healed.
In this way, simply through want of tendance, hundreds
perished in that warfare of privation, whom, with a few
simple specifics, medical care would have sent again
into the combat, after a few days' nursing, hearty and
unimpaired. The present circumstances of Clough's
condition were not of a character to lead him to hope
for a better fortune, and he gave himself up despondingly
to his fate, after having made a brief effort to
bribe his keeper to assist in his escape. But attendance
was at hand, if we may so call it, and after a few
hours' suffering, the approach of Doctor Oakenburg
was announced to the patient.

The doctor was a mere culler of simples, a stuffer
of birds and reptiles, a digger of roots, a bark and
poultice doctor—in other words, a mere pretender.
He was wretchedly ignorant of every thing like medical
science, but he had learned to physic. He made
beverages which, if not always wholesome, were, at

least, sometimes far from disagreeable to the country
housewives, who frequently took the nostrum for the
sake of the stimulant. Doctor Oakenburg knew perfectly
the want, if he cared little for the need, of his
neighbours; and duly heedful of those around him who
indulged in pipe and tobacco, he provided the bark and
the brandy. A few bitter roots and herbs constituted
his entire stock of medicines; and with these well
armed at all points and never unprovided, he had worked
out for himself no small reputation in that section of
country. But this good fortune lasted only for a season.
Some of his patients took their departure after the
established fashion; some, more inveterate with that
prejudice which distinguishes the bad subject, turned
their eyes on rival remedies; many were scattered
abroad and beyond the reach of our doctor by the
chances of war; and with a declining reputation and
wofully diminished practice, Oakenburg was fain,
though a timid creature, to link his own with the equally
doubtful fortunes of the partisan militia. This decision,
after some earnest argument, and the influence of a
more earnest necessity, Humphries at length persuaded
him to adopt, after having first assured him of the perfect
security and unharming character of the warfare in
which he was required to engage.

With a dress studiously disposed in order, a head
well plastered with pomatum, and sprinkled with the
powder so freely worn at the time, a ragged frill carefully
adjusted upon his bosom to conceal the injuries
of time, and an ostentatious exhibition of the shrunken
shank, garnished at the foot with monstrous buckles
that once might have passed for silver, Oakenburg
still persisted in exhibiting as many of the evidences
of the reduced gentleman as he possibly could preserve.
His manner was tidy, like his dress. His
snuff-box twinkled for ever between his fingers, one of
which seemed swollen by the monstrous paste ring
which enriched it; and his gait was dancing and elastic,
as if his toes had volunteered to do all the duty of
his feet. His mode of speech, too, was excessively

finical and delicate—the words passing through his
lips with difficulty; for he dreaded to open them too
wide, lest certain deficiences in his jaws should become
too conspicuously notorious. These deficiencies
had the farther effect of giving him a lisping accent,
which not a little added to the pretty delicacies of his
other features.

He passed through the swamp with infinite difficulty,
and greatly to the detriment of his shoes and stockings.
Riding a small tackey (a little, inconsiderate animal,
that loves the swamp, and is usually born and bred in
it), he was compelled continually to be on the look-out
for, and defence against, the overhanging branches and
vines clustering about the trees, through which his
horse, in its own desire to clamber over the roots, continually
and most annoyingly bore him. In this toil he
was compelled to pay far less attention to his legs than
was due to their well-being; and it was not until they
were well drenched in the various bogs through which
he had gone, that he was enabled to see how dreadfully
he had neglected their even elevation to the saddle skirts
—a precaution absolutely necessary at all times in such
places, but more particularly when the rider is mounted
upon a short, squat animal, such as our worthy doctor
bestrode. He was under the guidance of an elderly,
drinking sort of person—one of the fat, beefy class,
whose worship of the belly-god has given an unhappy
distension to that ambitious though most erring member.
The man leered with his little eyes as he saw
the doctor plunging from pool to pool without lifting his
legs, but he was too fond of a joke to say any thing in
the way of warning. Indeed, any warning on the subject
of his dangling legs would most probably have
fallen upon unheeding ears; for Doctor Oakenburg
was too little of an equestrian not to feel the necessity,
while battling with his brute for their mutual guidance,
of keeping his pendulous members carefully balanced on
each side, to prevent any undue preponderance of one
over the other—a predicament of which he had much
seeming apprehension. In the mean time, the lively

big-bellied man who rode beside him chuckled incontinently,
though in secret. He pretended great care of
his companion, and advised him to sundry changes of
direction, all for the worse, which the worthy doctor in
his tribulation did not scruple to adopt.

“Ah! Squire Porgy,” said he, complaining, though
in his most mincing manner, as they reached a spot of
dry land, upon which they stopped for a moment's rest—
“ah! Squire Porgy, this is but unclean travelling, and
full too of various peril. At one moment I did hear of
a plunging, dashing sound in the pond beside me, which
it came to my thought was an alligator—one of those
monstrous reptiles that are hurtful to children, and even
to men.”

“Ay, doctor, and make no bones of whipping off a
thigh-bone, at or least a leg: and you have been in
danger more than once to-day.”

The doctor looked down most wofully at his besmeared
pedestals; and the shudder which went over
his whole frame was perceptible to his companion,
whose chuckle it increased proportionably.

“And yet, Squire Porgy,” said he, looking round
him with a most wo-begone apprehension—“yet did
our friend Humphries assure me that our new occupation
was one of perfect security. `Perfect security'
were the precise words he used when he counselled
me to this undertaking.”

“Perfect security!” said Porgy, and the man laughed
out aloud. “Why, doctor, look there at the snake
winding over the bank before you—look at that, and
then talk of perfect security.”

The doctor turned his eyes to the designated point,
and beheld the long and beautiful volumes of the beaded
snake, as, slowly crossing their path with his pack of
linked jewels full in their view, he wound his way from
one bush into another, and gradually folded himself up
out of sight. The doctor, however, was not to be
alarmed by this survey. He had a passion for snakes;
and admiration suspended all his fear, as he gazed upon
the beautiful but dangerous reptile.

“Now would I rejoice, Squire Porgy, were yon serpent
in my poor cabinet at Dorchester. He would
greatly beautify my collection.” And as the man of
simples spoke, he gazed on the retiring snake with envying
eye.

“Well, doctor, get down and chunk it. If it's worth
having, it's worth killing.”

“True, Master Porgy; but it would be greatly detrimental
to my shoes to alight in such a place as this,
for the thick mud would adhere—”

“Ay, and so would you, doctor—you'd stick—but
not the snake. But come, don't stand looking after
the bush, if you won't go into it. You can get snakes
enough in the swamp—ay, and without much seeking.
The place is full of them.”

“This of a certainty, Squire Porgy? know you this?”

“Ay, I know it of my own knowledge. You can see
them here almost any hour in the day, huddled up like
a coil of rope on the edge of the tussock, and looking
down at their own pretty figures in the water.”

“And you think the serpent has vanity of his person?”
inquired the doctor, gravely.

“Think—I don't think about it, doctor—I know it,”
replied the other, confidently. “And it stands to reason,
you see, that where there is beauty and brightness
there must be self-love and vanity. It's a poor fool
that don't know his own possession.”

“There is truly some reason, Squire Porgy, in what
you have said touching this matter; and the instinct is
a correct one which teaches the serpent, such as that
which we have just seen, to look into the stream as one
of the other sex into a mirror, to see that its jewels are
not displaced, and that its motion may not be awry, but
graceful. There is reason in it.”

“And truth. But we are nigh our quarters, and here
is a soldier waiting us.”

“A soldier, squire!—he is friendly, perhaps?”

The manner of the phrase was interrogatory, and
Porgy replied with his usual chuckle.

“Ay, ay, friendly enough, though dangerous if vexed.

See what a sword he carries—and those pistols! I
would not risk much, doctor, to say, there are no less
than sixteen buckshot in each of those barkers.”

“My! you don't say so, squire! Yet did William
Humphries say to me that the duty was to be done in
perfect security.”

The last sentence fell from the doctor's lips in a sort
of comment to himself, but his companion replied—

“Ay, security as perfect, doctor, as war will admit
of. You talk of perfect security: there is no such
thing—no perfect security anywhere—and but little
security of any kind until dinner's well over. I feel the
uncertainty of life till then. Then, indeed, we may
know as much security as life knows. We have, at
least, secured what secures life. We may laugh at
danger then; and if we must meet it, why, at least we
shall not be compelled to meet it in that worst condition
of all—an empty stomach. I am a true Englishman
in that, though they do call me a rebel. I feel my
origin only when eating; and am never so well disposed
towards the enemy as when I'm engaged, tooth and nail,
in that savoury occupation, and with roast-beef. Would
that we had some of it now!”

The glance of Oakenburg, who was wretchedly
spare and lank, looked something of disgust as he
heard this speech of the gourmand, and listened to the
smack of his lips with which he concluded it.

He had no taste for corpulence, and probably this was
one of the silent impulses which taught him to admire
the gaunt and attenuated form of the snake. Porgy
did not heed his expression of countenance, but looking
up over head where the sun stood just above them peering
down imperfectly through the close umbrage, he exclaimed
to the soldier, while pushing his horse through
the creek which separated them—

“Hark you, Wilkins, boy, is it not high time to
feed? horse and man—man and horse, boy, all hungry
and athirst.”

“We shall find a bite for you, squire, before long—

but here's a sick man the doctor must see to at once:
he's in a mighty bad way, I tell you.”

“A sick man, indeed!” and the doctor, thrusting
his hands into his pocket, drew forth a bottle, filled
with a dark thick liquid, which he shook violently until
it gathered into a foam upon the surface. Armed
with this, he approached the little bark shanty under
which reposed the form of the wounded Clough.

“You are hurt, worthy sir?” said the mediciner, inquiringly;
“you have not been in a condition of perfect
security—such as life requires. But lie quiet, I
pray you; be at ease, while I look into your injuries,”
said the doctor, condolingly, and proceeded to the
outstretched person of the wounded man with great deliberation.

“You need not look very far—here they are,” cried
Clough, faintly, but peevishly, in reply, as he pointed
to the wound in his side.

The doctor looked at the spot, shook his head,
clapped on a plaster of pine gum, administered a dose
of his nostrum, which the patient gulped at prodigiously,
and then telling him he would do well, repeated
his order to lie quiet and say nothing. Hurrying away
to his saddle-bags after this had been done, with the
utmost despatch he drew forth a pair of monstrous leggings,
which he bandaged carefully around his shrunken
pedestals. In a moment after he was upon his tackey,
armed with a stick, and hastening back upon the route
he had just passed over. Porgy, who was busy urging
the negro cook in the preparation of his dinner, cried out
to the dealer of simples, but received no answer. The
doctor had no thought but of the snake he had seen, for
whose conquest and capture he had now set forth, with
all the appetite of a boy after adventures, and all the
anxiety of an inveterate naturalist, to get at the properties
of the object he pursued. Meanwhile the new-comer,
Porgy, had considerably diverted the thought
of the trooper from attention to his charge; and laying
down his sabre between them, the sentinel threw
himself along the ground where Porgy had already

stretched himself, and a little lively chat and good company
banished from his mind, for a season, the consideration
of his prisoner. His neglect furnished an opportunity
long watched and waited for by another. The
shanty in which Clough lay stood on the edge of the
island, and was one of those simple structures which
the Indian makes in his huntings. A stick rested at
either end between the crotch of a tree, and small saplings,
leaning against it on one side, were covered with
broad flakes of the pine bark. A few bushes, piled up
partially in front, completed the structure, which formed
no bad sample of the mode of hutting it, winter and
summer, in the swamps and forests of the South, by the
partisan warriors. In the rear of the fabric stood a
huge cypress, from the hollow of which, at the moment
when the sentinel and Porgy seemed most diverted, a
man might have been seen approaching. He cautiously
wound along on all-fours, keeping as much out of sight as
possible, until he reached the back of the hut; then lifting
from the saplings a couple of the largest pieces of
bark which covered them, he introduced his body without
noise into the tenement of the wounded man. Clough
was in a stupor—a half-dozy consciousness was upon
him—and he muttered something to the intruder, though
without any fixed object. The man replied not, but
approaching closely, put his hand upon the bandagings
of the wound, drawing them gently aside. The first
distinct perception which the prisoner had of his situation
was the agonizing sense of a new wound, as of
some sharp weapon driven directly into the passage
made by the old one. He writhed under the instrument
as it slanted deeper and deeper into his vitals,
but he had not strength to resist, and but little to cry
out. He would have done so, but the sound had
scarcely risen to his lips, when the murderer thrust a
tuft of grass into his mouth and stifled all complaint.
The knife went deeper—the whole frame of the assailant
was upon it, and all motion ceased on the part of
the sufferer with the single groan and distorted writhing
which followed the last agony. In a moment
after, the stranger had departed by the way he came;
and it was not till he had reached the thick swamp
around, that the fearful laugh of the maniac Frampton,
for it was he, announced the success of his new effort
at revenge. The laugh reached Porgy and the dragoon
—they heard the groan also, but that was natural enough.
Nothing short of absolute necessity could have moved
either of them at that moment—the former being busied
with a rasher of bacon and a hoe-cake hot from the
fire, and the latter indulging in an extra swig of brandy
from a canteen which Porgy, with characteristic providence,
had brought well filled along with him.