University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

Humphries, poor old man, placed himself at an
eastern window, the moment his son had departed, to
watch for the first openings of the daylight. What a
task had he to perform! what a disclosure to make!
and how should he evade the doubt, though complying
with the suggestion of reason and his son alike, that
he should, by the development he was about to make,
compromise the safety of the latter. Should he be
taken, the evidence of the father would be adequate to
his conviction, and that evidence he was now about to
offer to the enemy. He was to denounce him as a
rebel, an outlaw, whom the leader of a single troop
might hang without a trial, the moment he was arrested.
The old man grew miserable with his reflections,
and there was but one source of consolation.
Fortunately, the supply of old Jamaica in the “Royal
George” was still good; and a tumbler of the precious
beverage, fitly seasoned with warm spices and sugar,
was not ineffectually employed to serve the desired
purpose.

And with this only companion, whose presence momently
grew less, the worthy landlord watched for
the daylight from his window; and soon the gray mist
rose up like a thin veil over the tops of the tall trees,
and the pale stars came retreating away from the
more powerful array which was at hand. The hum
of the night insects was over—the hoarse chant of
the frog family was silent, as their unerring senses

taught them the coming of that glorious and beautiful
presence which they did not love. Fold upon fold,
like so many variously shaded wreaths, the dim curtain
of the night was drawn gradually up into heaven, and
once more the vast panorama of forest, river, and green
valley came out upon the sight, rising, by little and
little, into life, in the slowly illumined distance.

The moment old Humphries saw the approach of
daylight, he finished his tumbler of punch, and, with a
sad heart, he set out for Proctor's quarters. Some
little delay preceded his introduction to the commandant
of the garrison, who received him graciously, and
civilly desired to know his business. This was soon
unfolded, and with many pauses, broken exclamations
of grief and loyalty, the landlord gave a brief account,
as furnished him by his son, of all the events which
had occurred to Singleton and his squad since his assumption
of its command. The affair of the tories and
his troop in the swamp—the capture of the baggage
and arms—the delay of which, a matter of surprise to
Huck, was now accounted for—and the subsequent
bivouac upon the Stonoe head, were quickly unfolded to
the wondering Briton. He immediately despatched a
messenger for Huck, while proceeding to the cross-examination
of his informant—a scrutiny which he
conducted with respect and a proper consideration.
All was coherent in his story, and Proctor was inly
troubled. A piece of daring, such as the formation of
Singleton's squad, so near the garrison, so immediately
in the neighborhood and limits of the most esteemed
loyalty, was well calculated to annoy him. The
name of Major Singleton too, grated harshly on his
ears. He could not but remember the sinister reference
of Katharine Walton to her cousin of the same
name; and he at once identified him with his rival in
that young lady's regard. Huck came while yet he
deliberated; and to him the narrative which Humphries
delivered, who stood by all the while, was also told.
The tory was not less astounded than Proctor; and
the two conferred freely on their news before Humphries,

whose loyalty was properly confirmed in their
opinion, by his unscrupulous denunciation of his own
son. To Huck, the commandant of the garrison was
compelled to apply, and the troop of the former was
required to disperse the force of Singleton. The
garrison guard was too small, under the doubtful condition
of loyalty in the neighborhood, to spare a detachment;
and it was arranged, therefore, that Huck
should depart from his original plan and route, which
was to start on the ensuing day for Camden, and immediately
to make a circuit through the country by
the Stonoe, and having done so, go forward by Parker's
Ferry, and gain, by a circuitous sweep, the course
which had been formerly projected, and which, indeed,
the orders received by him from Cornwallis compelled
him to pursue. It was hoped that he would overhaul
the little force of Singleton, in which event it
must have been annihilated. In the mean time, Proctor
prepared his despatches for Charlestown, calling
for a supply of troops—a call not likely to be responded
to from that quarter, as the garrison there had
been already drawn upon by the interior, to such an
extent as to leave barely a sufficient force within the
walls of the city for its own maintenance. This Proctor
knew, but no other hope presented itself, and glad
to use the troop of Huck, he contented himself with
the consciousness of having done all that could be
done by him, under existing circumstances. Civilly
dismissing Humphries, he would have rewarded
him, but the old man urged his simple and sincere
loyalty, and shrunk back at the idea of receiving
gold as the reward of his son's betrayal. He did his
part ably, and leaving the two conferring upon the particulars
of the tory's route, hurried away to the tavern
in no enviable state of feeling.

His son, whom we have seen entering the dwelling
of old Pryor, was glad to meet with several sturdy whigs
in close conference. They had been stimulated by
the whispers of an approaching army of continentals,
and the vague intelligence had been exaggerated in

due proportion to the thick obscurity which at that
time hung about the subject. The host, himself—
who was a sturdy patriot, and more than usually bold,
as, of late days, he was more than usually unfortunate—
presided upon this occasion. The party was small,
consisting of some half dozen persons, all impatient
of the hourly wrongs, which, in their reckless indifference
to the feelings of the conquered, the invaders
continually committed. The reduction of the British
forces in the lower county, in the large draughts made
upon it for the upper posts, had emboldened disaffection;
and the people, like snakes long huddled up in
holes during the severe weather, now came out with
the first glimpses of the sunshine. The arrival of
Humphries with the intelligence which he brought,
gave them new spirits. The successes of Marion at
Britton's neck, and Singleton in the swamp, of which
they had not heard before, though small, were yet held
an earnest of what might be anticipated, and what was
hoped for. The additional news that the approaching
continentals were to be commanded by Gates, whose
renown was in the ascendant—so far in the ascendant,
indeed, that the star of Washington almost sank before
it—went far to give hope a positive body and a form.
Doubt succeeded to bold prediction, and the conspirators
were now prepared—those reluctant before—to begin
properly the organization of their section, as had been
the advice of Marion. Still they were not altogether
ready for the field. Property was to be secured, families
carried beyond reach of that retribution which the
enemy usually inflicted upon the feeble in return for the
audacity and defiance of the strong; arms were to be
procured, and, until the time of Sir Henry Clinton's indulgence—the
twenty days—had expired, they determined
to forbear all open demonstration. To these,
Humphries had already designated their leader, in the
person of Col. Walton, whom they all knew and esteemed.
His coming out they were satisfied would
alone bring an active and goodly troop into the field.
Popular as he was, both in St. Paul's and St. George's,
it was confidently believed that he would bring both
the parishes out handsomely, and his skill as a leader
had been already tried and was highly estimated. The
spirits of the little knot of conspirators grew with every
enumeration of their prospects and resources, and
they looked up, as daylight approached, full of hope
and mutual assurances. Two of the party agreed to
come out to Humphries, in the contiguous wood, by
the first ringing of the bell for sabbath service—for the
day was Sunday—and there, at a given spot, the lieutenant
was to await them.

Before the daylight he took his departure, and leading
his horse into the close swamp thicket on the river,
where his first conference with Singleton had taken
place, he fastened him carefully, took his seat at the
foot of a tree which overhung the river, and there
mused, half dozing, for the brief hour that came
between the time and the dawning. But soon the
light came winding brightly and more brightly around
him; the mists curled up from the river, and the breeze
rising up from the ocean, with the dawn, refreshed
and animated him. He sat watching the mysterious
separation of those twin agents of life, night and day,
as the one rolled away in fog along the river, and the
other burst forth, in gleams from the sky and bloom
upon the earth. But these sights were not such as
greatly to amuse our lieutenant, and the time passed
heavily enough, until about eight o'clock, when, from
the river's edge, he distinguished, crossing the bridge
at Dorchester, the time-worn, bent figure, of the old
Dame Blonay. She was on her way to the garrison for
the revelation of that intelligence, which his father
had by this time already unfolded. The lieutenant now
understood a part of the design, and readily conceived
that such was the purport of her visit to the village.
Yet why had not her son undertaken the task himself?
Why depute to an infirm old woman the performance
of an object so important? The question puzzled
him; and it was only a dim conjecture of the truth,
which led him to believe that Goggle had made his way

back to camp with the view to some farther treachery.
As the hag grew more distinct to his eye, in the increasing
light, her sharp features—the subtle cast of
her eye—the infirm crazy motion—bent shoulders,
and witch-like staff which she carried, brought many
unpleasant images to the mind of the observer; and
the singular, and, to him, the superstitious fear which
he had felt while gazing upon her, through the crevices
of her hut the night before, came back to him with increased
influence. He thought of the thousand strange
stories of the neighborhood, about the witchcraft practised
by her and others. Indian doctors were then, all
over the country, renowned for their cures, all of
which were effected by trick and mummery, mixed up
with a due proportion of forest medicines—wild roots
and plants, the properties of which, known through
long ages to the aborigines, were foreign to the knowledge,
and therefore marvellous in the estimation of the
whites. To their arts the Gullah and the Ebo negroes,
of which the colony had its thousands furnished by the
then unscrupulous morality of its neighbours, added
their spells and magic, in no stinted quantities, and of
the foulest and filthiest attributes. The conjuration
of these two classes became united in the practice of
the cunning white, of an order little above them, and
Mother Blonay formed the representative of a sect in
the lower country of South Carolina, by no means
small in number or trifling in influence, and which, to
this day, not utterly extinguished, remains here and
there in the more ignorant sections, still having power
over the subject minds of the weak and superstitious.

As we have said, Humphries was not one, if the
question were to be asked him, to say that he believed
in the powers thus claimed for the old woman before
us. But the bias of years, of early education and
associates, was insurmountable; and he felt the influence
which his deliberate reflection would be, nevertheless,
at all times disposed to deny. He felt it now
as she came towards him, and when, passing along, he
saw her move towards the dwelling of his father, he

remembered her mysterious speech associated with
the name of his sister, and his blood grew cold in his
veins, though, an instant after, it again boiled with a
fury naturally enough arising from the equivocal regard
in which that speech had seemed to place her. As
she passed along the copse to the edge of which his
feet had almost followed her, he placed himself in a
position to observe the direction which she would
pursue in entering the village, and was satisfied of her
object when he saw her bending her way to the fortress.
We need scarce add that she told her story to Proctor,
and was listened to coldly. She had brought him
no intelligence, and, indeed, he knew rather more than
herself. But one point of difference existed between
the account given by old Humphries and the woman.
The one stated that Singleton's band had withdrawn
from the Stonoe, and had pushed for Black river—the
other affirmed it to be there still. The difference was
at once made known to Huck, a portion of whose
troopers were even then getting into saddle. The residue
were soon to follow, and the whole were expected
to rendezvous that night at Parker's ferry. Mother
Blonay was mortified that she brought no news to the
garrison; but, as her story confirmed that of Humphries,
Proctor gave her a reward, small, however, in
comparison with what had been expected. She left the
garrison in bad humour, and was soon joined on her
way by Sergeant Hastings, whose orders required him
to march with the detachment which was to follow
Huck that afternoon. His chagrin, on this account,
was not less than hers. A bitter oath accompanied the
information which he gave her of the orders he had
just received. The two then spoke of another matter.

“Far off as ever, mother, and without your help
there's nothing to be done now. Last night I was in
a fair way enough, but up comes that chap her brother
—it could be nobody else—and I had to cut for it. I
went over the fence then, a thought quicker than I
should be able to do it now.”

“It was not Bill Humphries you saw, for he was at

my cabin long time after hours last night; and then he'd
not venture in this quarter now. No—no. 'Twas the
old man, I reckon.”

“Maybe, though he seemed to run too fast for the
old fellow. But no matter who 'twas. The thing
failed, and you must chalk out another track.”

“I will: don't fear, for I've said it; and come fire,
come storm, it must be done. Goggle—Goggle—
Goggle! He must pay for that, and he shall; she
shall—they shall all pay for that, and old scores besides.
It's a long-standing account, sergeant, and you can
help me to make it up and pay it off; and that's the
reason I help you to this. I shall go about it now,
and—” After a pause, in which she seemed to meditate
a while—“Yes; meet me in the swamp thicket
above the bridge, just after you pass the Oak Grove.”

“When?”

“This morning—soon as the bells strike up for
church, and before the people begin to come in freely.
Don't be backward, now, but come certain, and don't
wait for the last chimes.”

The worthy pair separated, and the glimpses of a
previous connection which their dialogue gives us,
serves a little to explain some portions of our own
narrative.

While this matter had been in progress, two sturdy
troopers joined Humphries in the swamp. Their
horses were carefully hidden, and they determined to
await the time when the roads should be free from the
crowd on their way to church, before they ventured
abroad. They amused themselves as well as they
might, keeping close in cover themselves, by watching
the people as they crossed the bridges, hurried along
the highway leading to the village, or lounged on the
open ground in front of the church; for all of these
points might easily be commanded from different places
along the thicket. There came the farmer on his
tacky, in his coarse striped breeches, blue homespun
coatee, and broad-brimmed hat; there, the whirling carriage,
borne along by four showy bays, of the wealthy

planter; there, the trudging country-girl in her huge
sunbonnet and short-waisted cotton frock; and there,
in little groups of two or three, the negroes, male and
female, with their own small stock of eggs, chickens,
blackberries, and sassafras, ploughing their way through
the heavy sands to occupy their places in the village
market.

While Humphries looked, he saw, to his great vexation,
the figure of Dame Blonay approaching, accompanied
by his sister. All his suspicions were reawakened
by the sight. The girl was dressed as for church.
Her dress was simple, suited to her condition, and well
adapted to her shape, which was a good one. Her
bonnet was rather fine and flaunting, and there was
something of gaudiness in the pink and yellow distributed
over her person in the guise of knots and
ribands. But still the eye was not offended, for the
habit did not show unfavourably along with the pretty
face, and light, laughing, good-natured eye that animated
it. What a contrast to the old hag beside her.
The one, capricious enough, was yet artless and simple
—the other was even then devising plans for her ruin.

“Come, my daughter, come farther—I would not
others should hear what I say to you; and I know
it will please you to know. The wood is cool and
shady, and we can talk there at our ease.”

“But, mother, wasn't it a strange dream now—a very
strange dream, to think that I should be a great lady,
and ride in my coach like the ladies at `Middleton
Place,' and `The Oaks,' and `Singleton's,' and all the
rich people about here?—and it all seemed so true,
mother—so very true, I didn't know where I was when
I woke up this morning.”

There was a devilish leer in the old hag's eye, as
she looked into that of the vain-hearted but innocent
girl beside her, and answered her in a speech well
calculated to increase the idle folly already so active
in her mind. Humphries heard nothing of the dialogue—he
was quite too far off; but he felt so deeply
anxious on the subject of the old woman's connection

with his sister, that he had actually given some directions
to the two troopers along with him, and was
about to emerge from his cover, and separate them at
all hazards, when the bells from the village steeple
struck up, and warned him of the extreme risk which
he must run from such an exposure of his person.
The same signal had the effect of bringing the two more
closely to the copse, to which the old woman, now, by
various suggestions, contrived to persuade her companion.
While they approached the thicket, Humphries
changed his course and position, so as to find a contiguous
spot, for the concealment of his person, the
moment they should stop, which would enable him to
gather up their dialogue; and it was not long before
they paused, at the old woman's bidding, in a well-shaded
place, completely unseen from the road, and
quite out of hearing from the village. Here the conversation
between them was resumed—Mother Blonay
leading off in reply to something said by Bella, the
purport of which may be guessed from the response
made to it.

“A bad dream, do you say, my daughter? I say it
is a good dream, and you're a lucky girl, if you don't
stand in the way of your own fine fortune. There's
good coming to you: that dream's always a sign of
good; it never fails. So mind you don't spoil all by
some foolish notion.”

“Why, how shall I do, mother? what shall I say?
Dear me! I wouldn't do any thing to spoil it for the
world!”

And the two seated themselves upon the green turf
in the thicket, the right hand of the girl upon the knee
of the hag, while her eyes looked up apprehensively
and inquiringly into the face of the latter. She gave
her some counsel, accordingly, in answer to the question,
of a vague, indefinite character, very mysteriously
delivered, and the only part of which, understood by
Bella, was a general recommendation to her, quietly
to receive, and not to resist her good fortune.

“But, mother, I thought you said you would show

him to me—him, my true-and-true husband, that is to
be. Now I wonder who it can be. It can't be John
Davis, for he's gone away from the village, and they
say he's out in the swamp, mother—can you tell?”

“No, Bella; and it's no use: he's nothing at all
to you.”

“You think so, mother? Well, I'm sorry; for I do
believe John had a true-and-true love for me in his
heart, and he often said so. I wonder where he is.”

“John Davis, indeed, my child! how can you speak
of such a fellow? Why, what has he to show for
you? A poor shoat that hasn't house, nor home, nor
any thing to make a wife comfortable, or even feed
her when he gets her. No, no, girl, the husband
that's for you is a different sort of person—a very
different sort of person, indeed.”

“Oh, do, mother! can't you tell me something about
him, now?—only a little; I do so want to know. Is
he tall, now, or short? I hope he's tall—eh?—middle
size, and wears—oh, speak, mother! and don't shake
your head so—tell me at once!” And the girl pressed
forward upon the old woman, and her eye earnestly
watched the features of her countenance, heedless of
the ogre grin which rested upon her lips, and the generally
fiendish expression of her skinny face. The
old woman did not immediately answer, for her
thoughts seemed to wander, and her eye looked about
her, as if in search of some expected object.

“What do you look for, mother?—you don't mind
what I say, do you?”

“I was looking and thinking, my daughter, how to
answer you best. How would you like, now, instead
of hearing about your husband that is to be, to see him?”

“What! can you make him come, mother, like a
picture, with a big frame round him? and shall I see
him close—see him close? But I mustn't touch him,
I suppose; for then he'd vanish, they say.”

“Yes,—how would you like to see him, now, Bella?”

“Oh, dear me, I should be frightened! You'd better

tell me who he is, and don't bring him: though, indeed,
mother, I can't think there would be danger.”

“None—none at all,” said the old woman in reply,
who seemed disposed to prolong the dialogue.

“Well, if he only looked like John Davis, now!”

“John Davis, indeed, Bella!—what do you say,
now, of the sergeant, Sergeant Hastings? suppose it
happened to be him, now?”

“Don't talk to me of Sergeant Hastings, mother;
for I was a fool to mind him. He don't care that for
me, I know: and he talks cross to me; and if I don't
run myself out of breath to serve him, he says ugly
things. Besides, he's been talking strange to me, and
I don't like it. More than once I've been going to
tell brother William something that he once said to
me: and I know, if I had, there would have been a
brush between them; for William won't stand any
thing that's impudent. Don't talk of him to me.”

“But I must, my daughter, for it cannot be helped.
If I see that he's born to be your husband, and you his
wife, it must be so, and I must say it.”

“No, no—it's not so, mother, I know. It shan't
be so,” said the girl, firmly enough. “I won't believe
it, neither, and you're only plaguing me.”

“It's a truth, Bella, and neither you nor I can help
it, or keep it off. I tell you, child that you were born
for Sergeant Hastings.”

“But I won't be born for him, neither. I can't, and
I won't, for you don't know what he said to me, and
it's not good for me to tell it again, for it was naughty;
and I'm sorry I ever talked cross to poor John Davis,
and I did so all because of him.”

The change in her regards from Hastings to her
old lover, was a source of no small astonishment to
the old hag, who knew not how to account for it. It
gave less satisfaction to her than to Humphries, who,
in the neighbouring bush, heard every syllable which
had been uttered. The secret of this change is easily
given. As simple as a child, the mere deference to
her claims of beauty, had left her easily susceptible of

imposition; and without any feeling actually enlisted
in favour of Hastings, she had been on the verge
of that precipice—the gulf which passion or folly so
often prepares for its unheeding votaries. His professions
and flatteries had gradually filled her mind, and
when his continued attentions had driven all those
away, from whom she had, or might also have received
them, it followed that she became a dependant entirely
upon him, who, in creating this state of subservience,
had placed her, to a certain degree at least, at his
mercy. She felt this dependence now, and it somewhat
mortified her; her vanity grew hurt, when the
tone of deference formerly used by her lover, had been
changed to one of command and authority; and she
sometimes sighed when she thought of the unremitting
attentions of her old lover from Goose Creek, the indefatigable
Davis. The gaudy dress, and imposing
pretensions, had grown common in her eye, while, at
the same time, the inferiority of the new lover to the
old, in delicacy of feeling, and genuine regard, had
become sufficiently obvious. She had, of late, instituted
the comparison between them more than once,
and the consequence was inevitable. There was no
little decision in her manner, therefore, as she refused
to submit to the fate which Mother Blonay desired to
impose upon her.

“But, Bella, my daughter—”

“No, no, mother—don't tell me of Sergeant Hastings
any more—I wont hear of him any longer.”

“And why not, Bella, my dear,” exclaimed the redoubtable
sergeant himself, coming from behind the
trees and speaking to her with a mixed expression of
pride and dissatisfaction in his countenance—“why
not, I pray, my dear?”

The poor girl was dumb at this intrusion. She
scarcely dared to look up, as, with the utmost composure,
Hastings took a seat beside her. The old hag
who had arranged the scheme, at the same moment
rose to depart. Quick as thought, Bella seized her
hand and would have risen also, but with a gentle

force the sergeant prevented her, and retained his hold
upon her wrist while compelling her to resume the
seat beside him.

“I must go, sergeant—father is waiting for me I'm
sure—and the bells are 'most done ringing. Don't
leave me, mother.”

But the old woman was gone, and the girl sat trembling
beside the strong man who held her, speaking,
when she did, in a tremor, and begging to depart. But
why dwell on what ensued. The brutal suitor had but
one object, and did not long delay to exhibit its atrocious
features. Entreaties were succeeded by rudenesses;
and the terrified girl, shrieking and screaming to
the old hag who had decoyed and left her, was dragged
recklessly back by the strong arms of her companion.

“Cry away—Goggle now—Goggle now—Goggle
now—scream on, you poor fool—scream, but there's
no help for you.” And as the old beldam thus answered
to the prayers of the girl, she was stricken
aside and hurled like a stone into the bush, even
while the fiendish soliloqny was upon her lips, by the
raging brother, who now darted forward. In another
instant, and he had dashed the ravisher to the
earth—torn his sister, now almost exhausted, from his
grasp—and with his heel upon the breast of Hastings,
and his knife bared in his hand, that moment would
have been the last of life to the ruffian, but for the
intervention of the two troopers, who, hearing the
shriek, had also rushed forward from the recesses in
the wood where the providence of Humphries had
placed them. They prevented the blow, but with
their aid the sergeant was gagged, bound, and dragged
down into the copse where the horses awaited them.

“Oh, brother—dear brother William!” cried the
terrified girl—“believe me, brother William, but it's
not my fault—I didn't mean to do wrong! I am innocent—that
I am!”

She hung upon him as if she feared his suspicions.
He pressed her to his arms while weeping like a very
child over her.

“I know it—I know it, Bella! and God knows how
glad I am to know it! Had I not heard all between
you, I'd ha' put this knife into you, just the same as if
you were not my own flesh and blood. But go now—
run to church, and pray to have some sense as well as
innocence; for innocence without sense is like a
creeping baby that has not yet got the use of its arms
and legs. Go now—run all the way—and mind that
you say nothing to the old man about it.”

Throwing her arms about his neck and kissing him,
she hurried upon her way with the speed of a bird just
escaping, and narrowly, from the net of the fowler.