University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

Leaving Singleton as we have seen, as soon as the
absence of Goggle from camp was certainly known,
Humphries hurried on his returning route to the village
of Dorchester. Cool and calculating, but courageous,
the risk which he ran was far from inconsiderable.
How could he be sure he was not already suspected;
how know that some escaping enemies had not seen
and given intelligence of his presence among the
rebels; and why should not the fugitive be already in
the garrison with Proctor preparing the schemes which
were to wind about and secure him? These questions
ever rose in his mind as he surveyed his situation
and turned over his own intentions; but though strong
enough as doubts, they were not enough to turn him
from a purpose which he deemed good and useful, if
not absolutely necessary. He dismissed them from
his thoughts, therefore, as fast as they came up. He
was a man quite too bold, too enterprising to be discouraged
and driven from his plans by mere suggestions
of risk; and whistling, as he went, a merry tune, he
dashed forward through the woods, and was soon out
of the bush and on the main road of the route—not

far from the spot where, in the pause of the storm, they
had stumbled upon the half-blood, Blonay.

The tree which the lightning had stricken just beside
the path, was still in flame. The rain could not
quench it, as the rich lightwood, traced through every
cavity of the bark by the greedy fire, furnished a fuel
not easily extinguishable. The flame licked along the
sides, at intervals, splotchlike, up and down, from top
to trunk; at one moment, lost from one place—the next,
furiously darting upon another. Its blaze showed him
the track through the hollow to old Mother Blonay's,
and, as he beheld it, a sudden desire prompted him
once more to look into the dwelling of the old woman.
He was strangely fascinated in this direction, particularly
as he remembered the equivocal nature of the
threat which she had screamed in his ear in regard to
his sister. “Goggle, Goggle, Goggle!” A shiver
ran through his frame as he thought upon it.

Alighting from his horse, he approached the hovel,
hitched the animal to a hanging bough, and, with
as light a footstep as possible, quietly approached
the entrance. Peeping through an aperture between
the loose logs he gazed upon the inmate. There, still
in her seat beside the fireplace, she kept up the same
croning movement, to and fro, maintaining her balance
perfectly, yet fast asleep all the while. Sometimes
her rocking would be broken with a start, but sleep
had too far possessed her; and though her dog barked
once or twice at the approach of the stranger, the
interruption in her seesaw was but for a moment, and
an incoherent murmur indistinctly uttered, only preceded
her relapse into silence and slumber as before.
Beside her lay her twin cats—twin in size though not
in colour—a monstrous pair whose sleep emulated that
of their mistress. On a bench before her, clearly
distinguishable in the firelight, Humphries noted her
travelling bundle with a staff run through it. This
indicated her itinerant habits, and his conclusion was,
that the old hag, who wandered usually from plantation
to plantation, from hovel to hovel, pretending to cure or

charm away disease, and taking large collections in
return from the charitable, the ignorant and superstitious
alike—had made her preparations for an early journey
in the morning. While he looked, his own superstitious
fancies grew active; and, a cold shiver which he
could not escape, but of which he was heartily ashamed,
came over him, and, with a hurried step, he darted away
from the contemplation of a picture he could not regard
in any other light than as one horrible and unholy.
Humphries was not the slave of a feeble and childish
superstition, but the natural influences which affect the
uneducated mind, commonly, had their due force on
his. The secret cause is always mysterious, and commonly
produces enervating and vague fears in the
bosoms of all that class of people who engage in no
thoughts beyond those called for by their everyday
sphere and business. So with him—he had doubts,
and in proportion with his ignorance were his apprehensions.
Ignorance is of all things the most apprehensive
in nature. He knew not whether she could
have or not the power that she professed, and his active
imagination gave her all the benefit of his doubt. Still
he did not fear. No one who knew his usually bold
character, his recklessness of speech and action, would
deem him liable to any fear from such influences as
were supposed to belong to the withered tenant of that
isolated hovel—and yet, when he thought upon the
cheerless life which she led and seemed to love—when
he asked himself what might be its pleasures or its
solace, he could not avoid feeling that in its anti-social
evidences lurked the best proof of its evil nature.
Wherefore should age, poverty, and feebleness, fly so
far, and look so harshly upon, the whole world around
it? Why refuse its contiguity?—why deny, why
shrink away from the prospect of its comforts and its
blessings? Why? unless the mood within was hostile—unless
its practices were unfriendly to the common
good, as they were foreign to the common habit, of
humanity? He knew, indeed, that poverty may at all
times sufficiently account for isolation—that an acute
sensibility may shrink from that contact with the
crowd which may, and does, so frequently betray or
wound it: and he also well knew that there is no sympathy
between good and bad fortune, except as the one
is apt to desire that survey of the other which will best
enable it to comprehend the superior benefits of its
own position. But that old woman had no such sensibilities,
and her poverty was not greater—not so great,
indeed, as that of many whom he knew beside, who
yet clung to, and sought to share some of the ties and
regards of society, though unblessed by the world's
goods, and entirely out of the hope of a redeeming
fortune. Did he not also know that she exulted in
the thought that she was feared by those around her,
and studiously inculcated the belief among the vulgar,
that she possessed attributes which were dangerous
and unholy? Her very pride was an abomination to
humanity, as her chief source of satisfaction seemed
to lie in the exercise of powers unwholesome and
annoying to man. No wonder the blood grew cold and
curdled in the veins of the blunt countryman as he
thought upon these matters. No wonder that he
moved away to his horse, with a rapidity he would not
his enemy should see, from a spot over which, as his
mind dwelt upon the subject, such an infernal atmosphere
seemed to brood and gather. The bark of the
dog as the hoofs of his charger beat upon the ground
while he hurried along his path, startled more completely
the old hag, who half rose from her seat, threw up
her head to listen, then, pushing the dismembered
brands of her fire together, composed herself once
more in her chair to sleep.

The evening of the day upon the history of which
we have been engaged, had been rather remarkable in
the annals of the “Royal George.” There had been
much to disturb the waters, and, we may add, the spirits
in that important domain. There had been a partial
sundering of ancient ties—a violation of sometime
sacred pledges, an awkward collision of various interests.
On the ensuing Monday, Serjeant Hastings, of

whom we have already seen either too much or too
little, was to take his departure with the notorious
Captain Huck to join Tarleton on the Catawba. The
interval of time between the present and that fixed for
this, so important, remove, was exceedingly brief;
but a day, and that a holyday, intervened—and then
farewell to the rum punch, the fair coquette, and
the pleasant company of the “Royal George.” The
subject was a melancholy one to all parties. The
serjeant preferred the easy life, the good company, the
cheering liquor of the tavern, and there were other and
less honourable objects yet in his mind, unsatisfied,
and as far from realization as ever. Bella Humphries
had too little regard for him really to become his victim,
though he had spared no effort to that end. On the
contrary, the girl had latterly grown peevish in some
respects, and he could clearly perceive, though the
cause remained unknown, that his influence over her
was declining. His assumption of authority, his violence,
and perhaps, his too great familiarity, had wonderfully
lessened her regard; and, if the truth must be
known, John Davis was in reality more potent in her
esteem than she had been willing to acknowledge
either to that personage or to herself. While Davis
kept about the tavern, a cringing and peevish lover,
contributing to her conceit while acknowledging her
power, she was not unwilling, with all the thoughtlessness
of a weak girl, to trifle with his affections; but
now that he had absented himself, as it seemed for ever,
she began to comprehend her own loss and to lament
it. Such a consciousness led her to a more close
examination of Hastings' pretensions, and the result of
her analysis was quite unfavourable to that worthy.
His many defects of disposition and character, his
vulgarity, his impudence, all grew remarkably prominent
in her eyes, and he could now see that, when
he would say, in a manner meant to be alluring—
“Hark'ee, Bell, my beauty—get us a swig, pretty
particular, and not too strong o' the lemon, and not
too weak o' the Jamaica, and not too scant considering
the quantity,”—there was no sweet elasticity in
the utterance of “Yes, sergeant, certain—coming,”
coupled with a gracious smile and a quickness of
movement that left the time between the order and
its instant execution a space not perceptible even to
that most impatient person, himself. He could feel
the change now, and as the time allowed him was
brief, and opportunities few, he hurried himself in
devising plans for the better success of a design upon
her, long entertained, of a character the most vile and
nefarious.

But his bill remained unpaid; and this was the worst
feature in the sight of our landlord. That evening
(Saturday) the worthy publican had ventured to suggest
the fact to the disregarding memory of the sergeant,
who had, with the utmost promptness, evaded the demand.
Some words had passed between them—old
Humphries had been rather more spirited, and Hastings
rather more insolent than usual; and the latter, in
search of consolation, made his way into the inner
room where Bella officiated. To crown his discontent,
his approach was utterly unnoticed by that capricious
damsel. He dashed away in dudgeon from the house
at an early hour, certainly less regretted by the maid
than by the master of the inn.

Such had been the transactions of the evening of
that night, when, at a late hour, Humphries approached
the dwelling of his father. The house lay in perfect
shadow as he drew nigh the outer buildings, in the
rear of one of which he carefully secured his horse.
The moon, obscured during the early part of the evening,
and dim throughout the night, had now sunk
westering so far, that it failed to touch entirely the
close and sheltered court in front of the house. As
he drew nigh, moving along in the deeper shadow of
the fence to the rear of the dwelling, for which he had
a key, he started. Was it a footstep that reached his
ear? He squatted to the ground and listened. He
was not deceived. The indistinct outline of a man

close under the piazza, was apparent. He seemed
busied in some labour which he pursued cautiously,
and in perfect silence. Humphries could see that he
stooped to the ground, and that in the next moment,
his arms were extended. A few seconds after and
the person of the man seemed to rise in air. The
watcher could no longer be mistaken. Already had
the nightstalker taken two steps upon the ladder which
he had placed against the house, when Humphries
bounded forward from his place of watch. His soul
was on fire, for he saw that the object of the stranger
was the chamber of his sister, the windows of which
looked out upon the piazza, and were all open, as was
usual in the summer nights. The look of the old
hag, her strange words uttered as a threat, grew strong
in his mind, and he now seemed to understand them.
Drawing his dirk from his bosom, the only weapon he
had ventured to bring with him from the stable, in the
fodder of which he had hidden his sabre and pistols, he
rushed furiously towards the burglar. But his movement
had been too precipitate for success; and with
the first sound of his feet, the marauder had dropped
from the ladder, and taken to his heels. The
start in his favour being considerable, gave him a vast
advantage over his pursuer, for, though swift of foot,
active, and spurred on by the fiercest feelings, Humphries
failed to come up with him. A moment after
the fugitive had leaped the fence, the drik of the former
was driven into that part of it over which his body
had passed. The villain had escaped.

Gloomy and disappointed, the brother returned to
the spot, and calmly inspected the premises. Painfully
and deeply apprehensive were his thoughts, as
he surveyed the ladder, and the open windows above.
But for his timely arrival there would have been little
or no difficulty in effecting an entrance. Did the
wretch seek to rob? That was the hope of Humphries.
Could it be possible that his sister had fallen?
was she a victim, privy to the design of the felon? or
did he only now, for the first time, seek her dishonour?

He knew that she was weak and childish, but he also
believed her innocent. Could she have looked for the
coming of a paramour? The unobstructed windows,
the unbroken silence, the confident proceeding of the
man himself—all would seem to strengthen the
damning idea which now possessed his mind; and
when his perpetually recurring thought brought to him
the picture of the old hag, her hellish glare upon him,
and her mysterious threat—a threat which now seemed
no longer mysterious—the dreadful apprehensions
almost grew into certainty. There was but one, and
that a partial mode, of ascertaining how far the girl
was guilty of participation in the design of the stranger;
and, with the thought, Humphries at once ascended the
ladder which he threw down after him. From the
piazza he made his way to the girl's chamber.

A light was burning in the fireplace, dimly, and with
no power to serve him where it stood. He seized it,
almost convulsively, in one hand, while the uplifted dagger
was bare in the other, and thus he approached the
couch where she lay. He held the light above, so
that its glare touched not her eyes, and he looked down
into her face. She lay sleeping, soundly, sweetly,
with a gentle respiration like a sigh swelling equably
her bosom. There was no tremor, no start. Her
round, fair face wore a soft, smiling expression,
showing that the consciousness within was not one of
guilt. One of her arms hung over the pillow, her
cheek resting upon it; the other pressed slightly her
bosom, as naturally as if there had been a throbbing and
deeply feeling heart under it. The brother looked,
and as he looked, he grew satisfied. He could not
doubt that sleep; it was the sleep of innocence. A
weight of nameless, of measureless terror, had been
taken from his soul in that survey; and nature claimed
relief in a flood of tears. The drops fell on the cheek
of the sleeper, and she started. With the movement,
he put aside the dagger, not, however, before her eyes
had beheld it.

“Oh, William! brother, dear brother! is it you?
and—the knife?”

She had caught his hand in her terror, and amaze
and bewilderment overspread her features.

“Sleep on, Bell, sleep on; you are a good girl, and
needn't fear.”

He kissed her as he spoke, and, with the fondness
of a sister, and the thoughtlessness of a girl, she began
to prattle to him; but he bade her be quiet, and, taking
the light with him, descended to the lower apartment,
adjoining the bar-room, where his father usually slept.
To his surprise he was not there, but a gleam through
the door led the son to the place where the old man
usually served his customers. The picture that met
his eye was an amusing one. There, at length upon
the floor, the landlord lay. A candle placed beside
him, with a wick doubled over and blazing into the
tallow, lacked the friendly aid of the snuffers. The
old man was too deeply engaged in his vocation to
notice this. His head, resting upon one hand, was
lifted upon his elbow, and before him were sundry large
boards, covered with tallies in red chalk and in white,
against his sundry customers. The landlord was
busily engaged in drawing from these chronicles, the
particular items in the account of Sergeant Hastings,
which he transcribed upon a sheet of paper which lay
before him. A tumbler of Jamaica, of especial body,
stood conveniently close, from which he occasionally
drew strong refreshment for his memory. He was
too earnest in his labour, to notice the entrance of
his son at first; but the other had too little time to
spare, to scruple much at disturbing his father at his
unusual labour.

“Ah, bless me, Bill—that you? Why, what's the
to-do now? What brings you so late?”

“Business, business, father, and plenty of it. But
get up, rouse and rustle about, and get away from these
scores, or you won't understand a word I tell you.”

The landlord rose immediately, put his board aside,
picked up the sheet containing the amount in gross

charged against Sergeant Hastings, which he sighed
twice as he surveyed, and, in a few moments, was
prepared to listen to what his son could say. He
heard the narrative with horror and astonishment.

“God bless us and preserve us, Bill! but this is
awful hard; and what are we to do—where shall we
run—how—”

“Run nowhere, but listen to what I tell you. You
can't help it now, but you may make something out of
it. If Proctor must hear the truth, he may as well
hear it from you.”

“From me!—bless me, Bill, my boy—from me?”

“Yes, from you. Set off by daypeep to the fort,
and see Proctor yourself. Tell him of your loyalty,
and how you love the king; and you can cry a little
all the time, if it comes easy to you. I don't want
you to strain much about it. Tell him that you have an
unworthy son, that's not of your way of thinking. Say
he's been misguided by the rebels, and how they've
inveigled him, till he's turned rebel himself; and how
he's now out with Marion's men, in Major Singleton's
squad. When you've done this, you can cry
again, and do any thing to throw dust in his eyes.
Say it's all owing to your loyalty that you expose your
own flesh and blood, and mind you don't take any
money for telling.”

“Bless me, dear boy, but this is awful to think on.”

“It must be thought on, though, and the sooner the
better. Coming from you, it will help you; coming
from that skunk, Goggle, and you silent, and they pack
you off to the Charlestown provost, or maybe draw
you over the swinging bough. Tell Proctor our force
is thirty; that we lay at Slick ford last night, and that
we push for Black river by daypeep, to join with the
Swamp Fox. This, you see, will be a truer story
than Goggle can tell, for if he sends Proctor after us
to Slick ford, he'll have a journey to take back.”

“Bless me, what's to become of us all, Bill, I don't
see. I am all over in a fever now, ever since you
tell'd me your story.”

“Shake it off, and be comfortable, as you can be.
Thinking about it never cured the shaking ague yet,
and never will. You must try.”

“And I will try—I will, boy; but bless me, Bill,
wouldn't it be better for us all to take the swamp—eh?”

“No—stay where you are; there's no need for you
to go out, and you can do good where you are. Besides,
there's Bell, you know”

“True, true.”

“Lead out trumps, that's the way, and mind how
you play 'em; that's all you've got to do now, and if
so be you try, you can do it. Don't burn daylight,
but be with Proctor as soon as sunrise lets you.
Don't stop to talk about Edisto catfish, or what's for
dinner, and whether it's like to rain or shine, but push
through the crowd, and don't mind your skirts. All
depends on you, now.”

“Bless us, bless us! what times, what times! Oh,
Bill, my boy, what's coming to us! Here was Huck,
to-day, and says Continental Congress is to make
peace with Great Britain, and to give up Carolina and
Georgia.”

“Oh that's all a fool notion, for it's no such thing.
That's all a trick of the tories, and you needn't mind
it. But what of Huck?”

“He goes a-Monday to join Tarleton.”

“Good!—and now I must leave you. I've got a
mighty deal to see to afore daylight, and I won't see
you for a smart spell, I reckon, as I shall have to hug
the swamp close after this. Don't be slow now,
father, 'cause every thing hangs on your shoulders,
and you must tell your story straight.”

In their dialogue the son had taken care to omit
nothing which a shrewd, thinking mind might suggest,
as essential to the successful prosecution of the plan
advised. This done, he took his way to the dwelling
of old Pryor, and tapping with his knife-handle thrice
upon one of the small, but ostentatious, pine pillars of
the portico, the door was unclosed, and he was at once

admitted, as one who had been waited for. There we
shall leave him, conferring closely with a select few,
busy, like himself, in preparations for a general uprising
of the people.