University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

They had scarcely gone from sight, when Goggle
entered the dwelling. The old hag started from her
seeming stupor, and all her features underwent a
change. She fondled upon her son with all the feeble
drivelling of age; called him by various affectionate
diminutives, and busied herself, in spite of her infirmities,
waddling about from corner to corner of the hut,
to administer to his desires, which were by no means
few. He, on the other hand, manifested the most
brutal indifference to all her regards, shook her off
rudely as she hung upon his shoulders, and, with a boisterous
manner, and a speech coupled with an oath,
demanded his supper, at the same time throwing himself,
with an air of extreme indolence, along the bed.

“And, Neddy dear, what has kept you so late?
Where have you been, and whence come you last?”
were the repeated questions of the old woman.

“A'drat it! mother—will you never be done asking
questions? It's not so late, I'm sure.”

“Later than you said; much later, by two hours,
boy.”

“Well, if it is, what then? It's well you have me
at all, for I've had a narrow chance of it. Swow! but
the bullets rung over my ears too close for comfort.”

“You don't say so, Ned! What! that stark, bull-head,
Humphries, has he shot at you, Ned, my son?”

“Him or Singleton, d—n 'em! But I have a hitch
on him now that shall swing him. He plays 'possum
no longer with Huck, if you have a tongue in your
head, mother.”

“Who—I? What am I to do, Ned, boy? Is it to
put Bill Humphries in trouble? If it's that, I have the
heart to do it, if it's only for his talk to-night.”

“Yes, I heard it.”

“You! Why, where were you, Ned?”

“There.” He pointed to the end of the hovel,
where, snugly concealed on the outside, his eye, piercing
through a hole between the logs, had witnessed
all that had taken place in the apartment while the
partisans held it.

“And you heard and saw all?” said the old woman.
“You heard his foul speech, and you saw him lift his
hand to strike me because I spoke to him as he deserved!
But he dared not—no, he dared not! But
who was the other, Ned?”

“His name's Singleton, and he's a major of the continentals—that's
all I know about him. He took me
prisoner with some others of Travis's, and I joined his
troop, rather than fare worse. This gives me picking
on both sides; for since I've joined we've had smart
work in skirmishing; and down at Archdale Hall we
made a splash at Huck's baggage-wagons, and got good
spoil. See, here's a watch—true gold!—was this
morning in a red-coat's fob, 's now in mine.”

“It's good gold, and heavy, my son;—will give you
yellow-boys enough.”

“Ay, could we sell—but that's the devil. It comes
from a British pocket, and we can't venture to offer it
to any of their colour. As for the continentals, they
haven't got any but their ragged currency, and that nobody
wants. We must keep the watch for a good
chance, for that and other reasons. I took it from a
prisoner by sleight of hand, and it must not be known
that I have it, on either side. Proctor would punish,
and the young fellow Singleton, who has an eye like a
hawk, he would not stop to give me a swinging bough
if he thought I took it from one of his prisoners.”

“Give it to me, boy; I'll save you that risk.”

“You shall do more, mother; but first get the supper.
I'm hellish hungry, and tired out with the chase

I've had. A'drat it! my bones are chilled with the
mud and water.”

“There's a change in the chest, boy, beside you.
Put the wet clothes off.”

“It's too troublesome, and they'd only get wet too;
for I must start back to the camp directly.”

“What camp?”

“Singleton's—down at Slick Ford on the Stonoe
head. I must be there, and let him see me, or he'll
suspicion me, and move off. You will have to carry the
message to Proctor.”

“What, boy! will you go back and put your neck
in danger? Suppose he finds you missing?”

“Well, I'll tell him the truth, so far as the truth will
answer the purpose of a lie. I'll say I came to see
you, and, having done so, have come back to my duty.
They cannot find fault, for the troopers every now and
then start off without leave or license. I'm only a volunteer,
you see.”

“Take care, boy; you will try the long lane once
too often. They suspect you, now, I know from the
askings of that fellow Humphries; and him too, the
other—what's his name?—he, too, asked closely after
you.”

“Singleton. I heard him.”

“What Singleton is that, boy? Any kin to the
Singletons hereaway in St. Paul's?”

“No, I believe not. He's from the `High Hills,'
they say, though he has friends at `The Oaks.' It
was there he went to-night. But the supper, mother
—is it all ready?”

“Sit and eat, boy. There's hoecake and bacon, and
some cold collards.”

“Any rum?” he inquired, rising sluggishly from the
bed, and approaching the little table which, while the
preceding dialogue had been going on, his mother had
supplied with the condiments enumerated. She handed
him the jug, from which, undiluted, he drank freely,
following the stronger liquid with a moderate draught
from the gourd of water which she handed him at the

same moment. While he ate, he muttered occasionally
to his mother, who hung around him all the while in
close attendance, regarding the besmeared, sallow, and
disfigured wretch with as much affection as if he had
been the very choicest of all God's creatures. Such
is the heart, erring continually in its appropriation of
sympathies, which, though intrinsically they may be
valueless, are yet singularly in proof of that care of
nature, which permits no being to go utterly unblest by
its regard, and denies the homestead, however lowly,
none of its soothing and its sunshine.

Goggle had eaten, and now, like a gorged snake,
he threw himself once more at length upon the couch
that stood in the corner, grumbling, as he did so—

“A'drat it! I hate to go out again! But I must—I
must go back to camp, to blind Singleton; and as for
that fellow Humphries, hear you, mother—I was in the
ditch by Coburn's corner when he came upon me, and
just about to cross it. They called out, and crack,
crack went their pistols, and the balls both times
whizzed close above my head. It was then they gave
chase, and I lay close, and hugged the hollow. Singleton's
horse stood right across me, and I expected
his hoofs every moment upon my back.”

“You don't say so, Neddy!”

“Ay, but I do—but that's not it. The danger was
something, to be sure, but even then I could listen—I
could listen—I could hear all they said; and I had
reason to listen, too, for it was of me Humphries
spoke. The keen chap suspected me to be the man
they chased, though they could not make me out; and
so he spoke of me. Can you count up what he said,
mother?”

“No, Neddy; how should I?”

“What! and you tell fortunes, too, and bewitch, so
that all of them call you cattle-charmer, yet you can't
tell what Bill Humphries spoke about then!”

“No, sure not: some foul speech, I reckon, considering
he spoke it.”

“Ay, foul speech enough, if you knew. But the

long and short of it, mother, is this, and I put the question
to you plainly, and expect you to answer plainly—”

“What do you mean, my son?”

“Ay, that's it—I'm your son, I believe that; but tell
me, and tell me truly—who was my father? It was
of that that Humphries spoke. He spoke for all the
country round, and something, too, I've heard of before.
He said I was no better than my father; that he
was a horse-thief, and, what was worse, that I had a
cross in my blood. Speak, now, mother—speak out
truly, for you see I'm in no passion; for, whether it's
true or not, I will have it out of him that spoke it, before
long, some way or other. If it's true, so much
the worse for him, for I can't cut your throat, mother
—I can't drink your blood; but what I can do, I will,
and that is, have the blood of the man that knows and
speaks of your misdoings.”

That affectionate tenderness of manner which she
had heretofore shown throughout the interview, passed
away entirely with this inquiry of Goggle. She was
no longer the mother of her son. A haggard scorn was
in every feature—a hellish revival of angry passions,
of demoniac hate, and a phrensied appetite. As she
looked upon the inquirer, who, putting such a question,
yet lay, and seemingly without emotion, sluggishly at
length upon the couch, her ire seemed scarcely restrainable—her
figure seemed to dilate in every part—
and, striding across the floor with a rapid movement,
hostile seemingly to the generally enfeebled appearance
of her frame, she stood directly before, and looking
down upon him—

“And are you bent to hearken to such foul words
of your own mother, bringing them home to my ears,
when your bullet should have gone through the head
of the speaker?”

“All in good time, mother. The bullet should have
gone through his head but for an accident. But it's
well it did not. He would have died then in a moment.
When I kill him, now, he shall feel himself dying, I
warrant.”

“It is well, boy. Such a foul speaker should have
a death of terror—he deserves it.”

“Ay, but that's neither here nor there, mother,—
you have not answered my question. Speak out; was
I born lawfully?”

“Lawfully!—and what care you, Ned Blonay, about
the lawfulness or the unlawfulness of your birth—you
who hourly fight against the laws—who rob, who burn,
who murder, whenever a chance offers, and care not?
Is it not your pleasure to break the laws—to live on
the profits and the property of others? Whence came
the purse you brought here last week, but from the
red-coat who travelled with you as a friend, and you,
all the time, receiving pay from his people? Whence
came this watch you just now put into my hands,
but from your prisoner? and the hog of which you ate
for supper, your own rifle shot it in the swamp, although
you saw the double fork in the ear, and the brand on
its quarter, which told you it belonged to Squire Walton,
at `The Oaks?'—what do you care about the laws,
then, that you would have me answer your question?”

“Nothing; I don't care that for all the laws in the
country—not that! But still I wish to know the truth
of this matter. It's for my pleasure. I like to know
the truth; whether I mind it or not is another thing.”

“Your pleasure, boy—your pleasure! and what if I
tell you that Humphries spoke true—that you are—”

“A bastard! speak it out—I want to hear it; and it
will give me pleasure—I love that which provokes me.
I can smile when one does me an injury—smile all the
time I bear it quietly, for I think of the time when I'm
to take pay for it. You don't understand this, perhaps,
and I can't give you any reason to make it more plain.
But so I do—and when Humphries had done speaking,
I would have given something handsome to have had
him talk it over again. When I have him in my power,
he shall do so.”

“The Indian blood!” was the involuntary exclamation
of the old woman.

“Ha! what's that, mother?”

“Ask me not.”

“Ay, but I will—I must; and hear me once for all
—you tell me the truth, on the instant, or you never see
my face again. I'll go to the Indies with Sir Charles
Montague, that's making up a regiment in Charlestown
for that country.”

“Beware, boy—ask me not—any thing else. You
will hate me if I tell you. You will leave me for ever.”

“No—don't be afraid. Come, speak out, and say
—was my father's name Blonay?”

“Blonay was my lawful husband, boy, when you
were born,” said the woman, evasively.

“Ay, that may be well enough,” he exclaimed, “yet
I be no son of his. Speak the truth, mother, and no
two bites of a cherry. Out with it all—you can't vex
me by telling it. Look here—see this wound on my
arm—when it begins to heal, I rub it until it unscars
and grows red and angry again. I like the pain of it.
It's strange, I know, but it's my pleasure; and so I look
to be pleased with the story you shall tell me. Was
Blonay my father?”

“He was not.”

“Good!—who was?”

“Ask no more.”

“Ay, but I will—I must have it all—so speak on.”

“I will not speak it aloud—I will not. I have
sworn it.”

“You must unswear it. I cannot be trifled with.
You must tell me the secret of my birth, and all. I
care not how dark, how foul, how unlawful—you must
suppress nothing. This night must give me the knowledge
which I have wanted before—this night you speak
it freely, or lose me for ever.”

The woman paced the apartment convulsively, undergoing,
at every moment, some new transition, from
anger and impatience to entreaty and humbleness.
Now she denounced the curiosity of her son, and now
she implored his forgiveness. But she cursed or implored
in vain. He lay coolly and sluggishly, utterly
unmoved, at length, upon the bed; heedless of all her

words, and now and then simply assuring her that
nothing would suffice but the true narrative of all that he
wished to know. Finding evasion hopeless, the old
woman seemed to recover her own coolness and
strength with the resolve which she had taken, and
after a little pause for preparation, she began.

“Ned Blonay, it is now twenty-nine years since you
were born—”

“Not quite, mother, not quite,—twenty-eight and
some seven months. Let's see, November, you remember,
was my birthday, and then I was but twenty-eight;
but go on, it's not important—”

“Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, it matters not which
—you were born lawfully the son of John Blonay, and
as such he knew and believed you. Your true father
was an Indian of the Catawba nation, who passed
through the Cypress the year before on his way to the
city.”

“Go on—the particulars.”

“Ask not that—not that, boy; I pray ye—”

“All—all.”

“I will not—I cannot—it was my badness. I will
not speak it aloud for worlds.”

“Speak it you must, but you may whisper it in my
ears. Stoop—”

She did so, passively as it were, and in a low tone,
broken only by her own pauses and his occasional
exclamations, she poured into his ear a dark, foul
narrative of criminal intercourse, provoked on her part
by a diseased appetite, resulting, as it would seem in
punishment, in the birth of a monster like himself.
Yet he listened to it, if not passively, at least without
any show of emotion or indignation; and as she finished,
and hurrying away from him threw herself into
her old seat, and covered her face with her hands, he
simply thrust his fingers into the long straight black
hair depending over his eyes, which seemed to carry
confirmatory evidence enough for the support of
the story to which he had listened. He made no
other movement, but seemed, for a while, busy in reflection.

She every now and then looked towards him
doubtfully, and with an aspect which had in it something
of apprehension. At length, rising, though with
an air of effort, from his couch, he took a paper
from his pocket which he studied a little while by the
blaze in the chimney, then approaching her, he spoke
in language utterly unaffected by what he had heard—

“Hark ye, mother: I shall now go back to the camp.
It's something of a risk, but nothing risk, nothing gain;
and if I run a risk, it's for something. I go back to blind
Singleton, for I shall tell him all the truth about my
coming here. He won't do any thing more than scold
a little, for the thing's common; but if he should—”

“What, my son?—speak!”

“No,” he muttered to himself, “no danger of that—
he dare not. But you come, mother,—come to Slick
Ford by sunrise, and see what you can. You'll be able
to prove I was with you after the storm, and that'll clear
me; then you can go to Dorchester, make all haste, and
with this paper, see Proctor, and put it in his own
hands yourself. There's some news in it he will be
glad to pay for. It tells him something about the camp;
and that about Col. Walton, shall make him fly from
`The Oaks,' as an old owl from the burning cypress.
You can also tell him what you see at Singleton's, and so
use your eyes when you come there. Mind, too, if you
see Huck or any of his men, keep dark. He would
chouse you out of all the pay, and get the guineas for
himself; and you might whistle for your share.”

He gave her a dirty paper as he spoke, in which he
had carefully noted down every particular relating to his
new service, the force, the deeds, and the camp of
Singleton—all that he thought would be of value to the
enemy. She heard him, but did not approve of his
return to the camp. The conference with Singleton
and Humphries, together with the undisguised hostility
of the latter, had filled her mind with troublesome apprehensions;
and she warned her son accordingly; but
he took little heed of her counsel.

“I'm bent upon it, mother, for it's a good business.

You come—that's all, and say when and where you've
seen me to-night. Come soon—by sunrise, and I'll
get off clear, and stand a better chance of being
trusted by the commander.”

“And Bill Humphries?”

“Ah! he must have his swing. Let him. The dog
swallows his legs at last, and so will he. I only wait
the time, and shall then shut up his mouth in a way shall
be a lesson to him for ever—in a way he shan't forget,
and shan't remember. He shall feel me before long.”

“And he shall feel me too, the reprobate; he shall
know that I have a power, though he laughs at it.”

“A'drat it, but its dark, mother; a thick cloud's yet
over the moon, and but a sloppy path for a shy foot,
but it must be done. There's some old hound yelping
yonder in the woods; he don't like being out any
more than myself.”

“You will go, Ned!” and the old woman's hand was
on his shoulder. He shoved it off with something of
hurry, while he answered—

“Yes, yes; and be sure you come, and when you
have helped me out of the scrape, go, off-hand, to
Proctor. See him—don't let them put you off. He
will pay well and not chouse you, for he's a true gentleman.
Good-night—good-night.”

She watched him from the doorway until he was
completely lost from sight in the adjacent forest.