University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Harrison, followed closely by his slave, silently
entered the forst, and was soon buried in subjects
of deep meditation, which, hidden as yet from us,
were in his estimation of paramount importance. His
elastic temper and perceptive sense failed at this

moment to suggest to him any of those thousand
objects of contemplation in which he usually took
delight. The surrounding prospect was unseen—
the hum of the woods, the cheering cry of bird and
grasshopper, equally unheeded; and for some time
after leaving the scene and actors of the preceding
chapter, he continued in a state of mental abstraction,
perfectly mysterious to his attendant. Hector, though
a slave, was a favourite, and his offices were rather
those of the humble companion than of the servant.
He regarded the present habit of his master with no
little wonderment. In truth, Harrison was not often
in the mood to pass over and disregard the varieties of
the surrounding scenery, in a world so new, as at the
present moment. On the contrary, he was one of
those men, of wonderful common sense, who could
readily, at all times, associate the mood of most extravagance
and life with that of the most every-day
concern. Cheerful, animated, playfully and soon excited,
he was one of those singular combinations we
do not often meet with, in which constitutional enthusiasm
and animal life, in a development of extravagance
sometimes little short of madness, are singularly
enough mingled up with a capacity equal to the most
trying requisitions of necessity, and the most sober
habits of reflection. Unusually abstracted as he now
appeared to the negro, the latter, though a favourite,
knew better than to break in upon his mood, and simply
kept close at hand, to meet any call that might be
made upon his attention. By this time they had
reached a small knoll of green overlooking the river,
which, swollen by a late freshet, though at its full and
falling, had overflowed its banks, and now ran along
with some rapidity below them. Beyond and down
the stream, a few miles off, lay the little vessel to
which we have already given a moment's attention.
Her presence seemed to be as mysterious in the eye
of Harrison, as in a previous passage it had appeared
to that of Sanutee. Dimly outlined in the distance,
a slender shadow darkening an otherwise clear and
mirror-like surface, she lay sleeping, as it were, upon
the water, not a sail in motion, and no gaudy ensign
streaming from her tops.

“Hector,” said his master, calling the slave, while
he threw himself lazily along the knoll, and motioned
the negro near him: “Hector.”

“Sa—Mossa.”

“You marked that sailor fellow, did you?”

“Yes, Mossa.”

“What is he; what do you think of him?”

“Me tink noting about 'em, sa.—Nebber see 'em
afore—no like he look.”

“Nor I, Hector—nor I. He comes for no good,
and we must see to him.”

“I tink so, Mossa.”

“Now—look down the river. When did that strange
vessel come up?”

“Nebber see 'em till dis morning, Mossa, but speck
he come up yesserday. Mass Nichol, de doctor,
wha' talk so big—da him fuss show 'em to me dis
morning.”

“What said Nichols?”

“He say 'twas English ship; den he say 'twas no
English, 'twas Dutch—but he soon change he mind,
and say 'twas little Dutch and little Spaniard: after
dat he make long speech to young Mass Grayson.”

“What said Grayson?”

“He laugh at de doctor, make de doctor cross, and
den he cuss me for a dam black rascal.”

“That made you cross too, eh?”

“Certain, Mossa; 'cause Mass Nichol hab no respectability
for nigger in 'em, and talk widout make
proper osservation.”

“Well, no matter. But did Grayson say any thing
of the vessel?”

“He look at 'em well, Mossa, but he no say noting;
but wid long stick he write letters in de sand. Dat
young Grayson, Mass Charles—he strange gentleman—berry
strange gentleman.”

“How often must I tell you, Hector, not to call me

by any name here but Gabriel Harrison? will you
never remember, you scoundrel?”

“Ax pardon, Mossa—'member next time.”

“Do so, old boy, or we quarrel:—and now, hark
you, Hector, since you know nothing of this vessel,
I'll make you wiser. Look down over to Moccasin
Point—under the long grass at the edge, and half-covered
by the canes, and tell me what you see
there?”

“Da boat, Mossa.—I swear da boat. Something
dark lie in de bottom.”

“That is a boat from the vessel, and what you see
lying dark in the bottom, are the two sailors that
rowed it up. That sailor-fellow came in it, and he is
the captain. Now, what does he come for, do you
think?”

“Speck, sa, he come for buy skins from de Injins.”

“No:—that craft is no trader. She carries guns,
but conceals them with box and paint. She is built to
run and fight, not to carry. I looked on her closely
this morning. Her paint is Spanish, not English.
Besides, if she were English, what would she be
doing here? Why run up this river, without stopping
at Charlestown or Port Royal—why keep from the landing
here, avoiding the whites; and why is her officer
pushing up into the Indian country beyond our purchase?”

“He hab 'ting for sell de Injins, I speck, Mossa.”

“Scarcely—they have nothing to buy with; it is
only a few days since Granger came up from Port
Royal, where he had carried all the skins of their last
great hunt, and it will be two weeks at least before
they go on another. No—no. They get from us what
we are willing to sell them; and this vessel brings
them those things which they cannot get from us—
fire-arms and ammunition, Hector.”

“You tink so, Mossa.”

“You shall find out for both of us, Hector. Are
your eyes open?”

“Yes Mossa, I can sing—

“Evidence enough—now, hear me. This sailor
fellow comes from St. Augustine, and brings arms
to the Yemassees. I know it, else why should he
linger behind with Sanutee and Ishiagaska, after his
quarrelling with the old chief, unless he knew of
something which must secure his protection? I saw
his look of recognition to Ishiagaska, although the
savage, more cunning than himself, kept his eye cold—
and—yes, it must be so. You shall go,” said his
master, half musingly, half direct. “You shall go.
When did Granger cross to Pocota-ligo?”

“Dis morning, Mossa.”

“Did the commissioners go with him?”

“No, Mossa—only tree gentlemans gone wid
him.”

“Who were they?”

“Sir Edmund Bellinger, sa—lib close 'pon Asheepoh—Mass
Stephen Latham, and nodder—I no hab he
name.”

“Very well—they will answer well enough for
commissioners. Where have you left Dugdale?”

“I leff um wid de blacksmith, Mossa—him dat lib
down pass de Chief Bluff.”

“Good; and now, Hector, you must take track after
this sailor.”

“Off hand, Mossa?”

“Yes, at once. Take the woods here, and make
the sweep of the cypress, so as to get round them.
Keep clear of the river, for that sailor will make no
bones of carrying you off to St. Augustine, or to the
West Indies. Watch if he goes with the Indians.
See all that you can of their movements, and let them
not see you. Should they find you out, be as stupid
as a pine stump.”

“And whay I for find you, Mossa, when I come
back? At de parson's, I speck.”—The slave smiled

knowingly as he uttered the last member of the sentence,
and looked significantly into the face of his
master, with a sidelong glance, his mouth at the same
time showing his full white tuscular array from ear to
ear.

“Perhaps so,” said his master, quietly and without
seeming to observe the peculiar expression of his servant's
face—“perhaps so, if you come back soon. I
shall be there for a while, but to-night you will probably
find me at the Block House. Away now, and see
that you sleep not with your eye open till they trap
you.”

“Ha, Mossa. Dat eye must be bright like de moon
for trap Hector.”

“I hope so—keep watchful, for if that sailor fellow
puts hands upon you, he will cut your throat as
freely as he did the dog's, and probably a thought
sooner.”

Promising strict watchfulness, the negro took his
way back into the woods, closely following the directions
of his master. Harrison, in the meanwhile,
having despatched this duty so far, rose buoyantly from
the turf, and throwing aside the air of sluggishness
which for the last half hour had invested him, darted
forward in a fast walk in the direction of the white
settlements; still, however, keeping as nearly as he
might to the banks of the river, and still with an eye
which closely scanned at intervals the appearance of
the little vessel which, as we have seen, had occasioned
so much doubt and inquiry. It was not often that a
vessel of her make and size had been seen up that
little, insulated river; and as, from the knowledge of
Harrison, there could be little or no motive of trade
for such craft in that quarter—the small business intercourse
of the whites with the Indians being soon
transacted, and through mediums far less imposing—
the suspicions of the Englishman were not a little
excited, particularly as he had known for some time
the increasing discontent of the savages. The fact,
too, that the vessel was a stranger, and that her crew

and captain had kept studiously aloof from the whites,
and had sent their boat to land at a point actually
within the Indian boundary, was of itself enough to
instigate such surmises. The ready intelligence of
Harrison at once associated the facts and inferences
with a political object: and being also aware by
previous information that Spanish guarda-costas, as the
cutters employed at St. Augustine for the protection
of the coast were styled, had been seen to put into
almost every river and creek in the English territory
from St. Mary's to Hatteras, and within a short period
of time, the connected circumstances were well calculated
to excite the scrutiny of all well-intentioned citizens.

The settlement of the English in Carolina, though
advancing with wonderful rapidity, was yet in its
infancy; and the great jealousy which their progress
had occasioned in the minds of their Indian neighbours,
was not a little stimulated in its tenour and development
by the artifices of the neighbouring Spaniards,
as well of St. Augustine as of the Island of Cuba.
The utmost degree of caution against enemies so
powerful and so acted upon was absolutely necessary,
and we shall comprehend to its full the extent of this
consciousness, after repeated sufferings had taught
them providence, when we learn from the historians
that it was not long from this period when the settlers
upon the coast were compelled to gather oysters for
their subsistence with one hand, while carrying fire-arms
in the other for their protection. At this time,
however, unhappily for the colony, such a degree of
watchfulness was entirely unknown. Thoughtless as
ever, the great mass is always slow to note and prepare
against those forewarning evidences of that
change which is at all times going on around them.
The counsellings of nature and of experience are
seldom heeded by the inconsiderate many until their
promises are realized, and then beyond the control
which would have converted them into agents with the
almost certain prospect of advantageous results. It is
fortunate, perhaps, for mankind, that there are some few

minds always in advance, and for ever preparing the
way for society, perishing freely themselves that the
species may have victory. Perhaps, indeed, patriotism
itself would lack something of its stimulating character,
if martyrdom did not follow its labours and its love
for man.

Harrison, active in perceiving, decisive in providing
against events, with a sort of intuition, had traced out
a crowd of circumstances, of most imposing character
and number, in the coming hours, of which few if any
in the colony beside himself had any idea. He annexed
no small importance to the seeming trifle; and
his mind was deeply interested in all the changes
going on in the province. Perhaps it was his particular
charge to note these things—his station, pursuit
—his duty, which, by imposing upon him some of the
leading responsibilities of the infant society in which
he lived, had made him more ready in such an exercise
than was common among those around him.
On this point we can now say nothing, being as yet
quite as ignorant as those who go along with us. As
we proceed we shall probably all grow wiser.

As Harrison thus rambled downwards along the
river's banks, a friendly voice hallooed to him from its
bosom, where a pettiauger, urged by a couple of sinewy
rowers, was heaving to the shore.

“Halloo, captain,” cried one of the men—“I'm so
glad to see you.”

“Ah, Grayson,” he exclaimed to the one, “how
do you fare?”—to the other, “Master Grayson, I give
you courtesy.”

The two men were brothers, and the difference made
in Harrison's address between the two, simply indicated
the different degrees of intimacy between them
and himself.

“We've been hunting, captain, and have had glorious
sport,” said the elder of the brothers, known as Walter
Grayson—“two fine bucks and a doe—shall we have
you to sup with us to-night?”

“Hold me willing, Grayson, but not ready. I have

labours for to-night will keep me from you. But I
shall tax your hospitality before the venison's out.
Make my respects to the old lady, your mother; and
if you can let me see you at the Block House to-morrow,
early morning, do so, and hold me indebted.”

“I will be there, captain, God willing, and shall do
as you ask. I'm sorry you can't come to-night.”

“So am not I,” said the younger Grayson, as,
making his acknowledgments and farewell, Harrison
pushed out of sight and re-entered the forest. The
boat touched the shore, and the brothers leaped out,
pursuing their talk, and taking out their game as they
did so.

“So am not I,” repeated the younger brother, gloomily:
—“I would see as little of that man as possible.”

“And why, Hugh? In what does he offend you?”
was the inquiry of his companion.

“I know not—but he does offend me, and I hate him,
thoroughly hate him.”

“And wherefore, Hugh? what has he done—what
said? You have seen but little of him to judge. Go
with me to-morrow to the Block House—see him—talk
with him. You will find him a noble gentleman.”

And the two brothers continued the subject while
moving homeward with the spoil.

“I would not see him, though I doubt not what you
say. I would rather that my impressions of him should
remain as they are.”

“Hugh Grayson—your perversity comes from a cause
you would blush that I should know—you dislike him,
brother, because Bess Matthews does not.”

The younger brother threw from his shoulder the
carcass of the deer which he carried, and with a
broken speech, but a fierce and fixed gesture, confronted
the speaker.

“Walter Grayson—you are my brother—you are
my brother;—but do not speak on this subject again.
I am perverse—I am unreasonable—be it so—I cannot
be other than I am; and, as you love me, bear
with it while you may. But urge me no more in this

matter. I cannot like that man for many reasons, and
not the least of these is, that I cannot so readily
as yourself acknowledge his superiority, while, perhaps,
not less than yourself, I cannot help but know it.
My pride is to feel my independence—it is for you to
desire control, were it only for the connexion and the
sympathy which it brings to you. You are one of the
million who make tyrants. Go—worship him yourself,
but do not call upon me to do likewise.”

“Take up the meat, brother, and be not wroth; above
all things try and remember, in order that your mood
may be kept in subjection—try and remember our old
mother.”

A few more words of sullen dialogue between them,
and the two brothers passed into a narrow pathway
leading to a cottage, where, at no great distance, they
resided.