University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

The entrance of Harrison, alone, into the cottage of
the pastor, put a stop to the dialogue which had been
going on between himself and the seaman. The reception
which the host gave the new comer, was
simply and coldly courteous—that of his lady was
more grateful, but still constrained, and Bess, she
feared to look up at all, lest all eyes should see
how much better her reception would have been.
Harrison saw all this, but the behaviour of the pastor
seemed to have no effect upon him. He rattled on in
his usual manner, though with something of loftiness
still, which appeared to intimate its character of condescension.

“Mr. Matthews, it gives me pleasure to find you
well—better, I think, than when I had the pleasure to

see you last. You see, I tax your courtesies, though
you could find no relatives of mine in Charlestown
willing to extend you theirs. But the time will come,
sir, and your next visit may be more fruitful. Ah!
Mrs. Matthews, growing young again, surely. Do you
know I hold this climate to be the most delightful in the
world,—a perfect seat of health and youth, in which
the old Spaniard, John Ponce, of Leon, would certainly
have come nigher the blessed fountain he sought, than
he ever could have done in Florida. And you, Bess—
Miss Matthews I mean—still sweet, charming as ever.
Ah! Mrs. Matthews, you are thrice fortunate—always
blessed. Your years are all so many summers—for
Providence leaves to your household, in all seasons,
one flower that compensates for all the rest.”

And thus, half playful, half serious, Harrison severally
addressed all in the apartment, the sailor excepted.
That worthy looked on, and listened with no
little astonishment.

“D—d easy to be sure,” he half muttered to himself.
Harrison, without distinguishing the words,
heard the sounds, and readily comprehending their
tenour from the look which accompanied them, he
turned as playfully to the speaker as he had done to
all the rest.

“And you, my old Hercules—you here too?—I left
you in other company, when last we met, and am
really not sorry that you got off without the long
arrow of the Yemassee. Pray, how came you so
fortunate? Few men here would have killed the dog
of an Indian, without looking for the loss of his
scalp, and a broken head in requital. Give us your
secret, Hercules.”

“Look ye, young one, my name, as I told you
before, is not Hercules—”

“Not Hercules,—indeed!—then it must be Ajax—
Ajax or Agamemnon. Well, you have your choice,
for you look any of them so well, that one or other of
these I must call you. I could not well understand
you by any other.”

It seemed the policy of Harrison, or so he appeared
to think, to provoke the person he addressed into
something like precipitance, suspecting him, as he
did, of a secret and unfriendly object; and finding him
a choleric and rash person, he aimed so to arouse his
passion, as to disarm his caution and defeat his judgment;
but, though Chorley exhibited indignation
enough, yet having his own object, and wishing at
that time to appear as amiable as possible, in the presence
of those who knew him as a different character
in childhood, he moderated duly his anger to his situation
and desires. Still, his reply was fierce enough,
and much of it muttered in an under tone, heard only
by the pastor and him he addressed.

“Hark ye, sir, I don't know what you may be, and
don't much care; but blast my heart, if you don't mind
your eyes, I'll take your ears off, and slit your tongue,
or I'm no man. I won't suffer any man to speak to me
in this manner.”

“You won't—and you'll take my ears off and slit
my tongue. Why, Hercules, you're decidedly dangerous.
But I shall not tax your services so far.”

“Shall have them, though, by G—d, whether you
will or not. You are not two to one now, youngster,
and shan't swing to-day at my cost, as you did yesterday.”

“Pshaw—don't put on your clouds and thunder
now, old Jupiter—you look, for all the world, at this
moment like a pirate, and must certainly frighten the
ladies should they dare to look on you.”

Chorley started visibly, fierce yet agitated, while
the close, dark, penetrating eye of Harrison was fixed
sternly upon his own. Before he could recover in
time for a reply in the same by-play manner—for the
dialogue between the two had been carried on in under
tone—Harrison went on, resuming that playfulness
of speech and look from which he had in the last few
remarks not a little departed.

“Don't mean to offend, Hercules, far from it. But
really, when I spoke, your face did wear a most

Blifustier[1] expression, such an one as Black Beard
himself might have put on while sacking a merchantman,
and sending her crew on the plank.”

“My name, young man, as I told you before,” began
the sailor, with a look and tone of forbearance and
meekness that greatly awakened the sympathies of the
pastor, to whom the playful persecution of Harrison
had been any thing but grateful—“my name is—”

But his tormentor interrupted him—

“Is Jupiter Ammon, I know—give yourself no
manner of trouble, I beg you.”

“Master Harrison,” said the pastor, gravely, “this is
my guest, and so are you, and as such, permit me to say
that mutual respect is due to my house and presence,
if not to one another. The name of this gentleman
is Chorley, Master Richard Chorley, whose parents I
knew in England as well as himself.”

“Ha! Chorley—you knew him in England—Master
Chorley, your servant,—Hercules no longer. You will
be pleased to forgive my merriment, which is scarce
worth your cloud and thunder storm. Chorley, did you
say—Chorley, a good name—the name of a trader
upon the Spanish Islands. Said I right?” inquired
the speaker, who appeared to muse somewhat abstractedly
over his recent accession of intelligence while
addressing the seaman. The latter sulkily assented.

“Your craft lies in the river, and you come for
trade. You have goods, Master Chorley—fine stuffs
for a lady's wear, and jewels—have you not jewels
such as would not do discredit to a neck, white, soft
—a glimpse, such as we sometimes have through these
blessed skies, of a pure, glorious heaven smiling and
wooing beyond them. Have you no such befitting
gauds—no highly wrought gem and ornament—in the
shape of cross and chain, which a sharp master of
trade may have picked up, lying at watch sungly
among the little Islands of the Gulf?”

“And if I have?” sullenly responded the seaman.

“I will buy, Hercules—Master Chorley I should
say—I would buy such a jewel—a rich chain, or the
cross which the Spaniard worships. Wouldst thou
wear such a chain of my gift, sweet Bess—it would
fit, because so far below, thy neck in its richness.
Would take my purchase, Miss Mathews?” He
looked tenderly to her eyes as he spoke, and the
seaman, watching their mutual glance, with a curiosity
which became malignant, soon discovered their
secret, if so it may be called. Before his daughter
could speak, the old pastor sternly answered for
her in the negative. His feelings had grown more and
more uncompromising and resentful at every word of
the previous dialogue. In his eyes the cool composure
of Harrison was the superb of audacity, particularly
as, in the previous interview, he thought he had
said and done enough to discourage the pretensions of
any suiter—and one so utterly unknown to him as the
present. Not that there was not much in all that he
knew of the person in question, to confound and distract
his judgment. In their intercourse, and in all
known intercourse, he had always proved brave, sensible,
and generous. He had taken the lead among
the volunteers, a short time previous, in defeating a
superior Spanish force and driving them in disgrace
from a meditated attack on Port Royal Island and
Edisto. For this service he had received from the
men he had then commanded, an application for the permanent
continuance of his authority—an application
neither declined nor accepted. They knew him, however,
only as Gabriel Harrison, a man singularly compounded
of daring bravery, cool reflection, and good-humoured
vivacity, and knowing this they cared for
little more information. The farther mystery, knowing
so much, was criminal in the eyes of the pastor,
who had better reasons than the volunteers for desiring
a greater share of confidence; and though really,
when he could calmly reflect on the subject, uninfluenced
by his prejudices of Puritanism, pleased with
the individual, a sense of what he considered his duty
compelled him to frown upon pretensions so perfectly

vague yet so confidently urged as those of his visiter.
The course of the dialogue just narrated contributed
still more to disapprove Harrison in the old man's
estimation.

“My daughter wears no such idle vanities, Master
Harrison,” said he, “and least of all should she be
expected to receive them from hands of which we
know nothing.”

“Oh, ho!” exclaimed Chorley, now in his turn enjoying
himself at the expense of his adversary—“Oh,
ho—sits the wind in that quarter of your sail, young
master?”

“Well, Hercules, what do you laugh at? I will buy
your chain, though the lady may or may not take it.”

“You buy no chain of me, I think,” replied the
other—“unless you buy this, which I would have
placed myself, as a free gift, upon the neck of the
young lady, before you came.”

“You place it upon Bessy's neck,—indeed. Why
Bully-boy, what put that extravagant notion into your
head?” exclaimed Harrison scornfully aloud.

“And why not, master; why not, I pray you?” inquired
the seaman, at the same time not seeking to
suppress his pique.

“Why not—indeed—but will you sell your chain?”

“Ay, that will I, but at a price something beyond
your mark. What will you give now?”

“Put like a trader—Granger himself could not have
said it with more grace. I will give—” at that moment
a distinct blast of the horn, reverberating through
the hall, announced to Harrison the success and
approach of his party. Fixing his eye upon the
person he addressed, and turning full upon him, he
replied—

“I have the price at hand—a fitting price, and one
that you seem already to have counted on. What say
you then to my black fellow, Hector—he is a fine
servant, and as you have already stowed him away
safely in your hold, I suppose you will not hesitate to
ask for him three hundred pieces in the Cuba market—something
more than the value of your chain.”

The seaman looked not less astounded than did the
pastor and his family, at this unlooked-for charge.

“Where, Master Harrison, did you say?” inquired
Matthews.

“In the hold of this worthy fur and amber trader's
vessel—safe, locked up, and ready for the Spaniard.”

“It's a d—d lie,” exclaimed the ferocious seaman,
recovering from his momentary stupor.

“Bah, Hercules—see you fool written in my face,
that you suppose oaths go further with me than words?
You are young, my Hercules, very young, to think
so,”—then, as the accused person proceeded to swear
and swagger, Harrison turned to the ladies who had
been silent and astonished auditors—“Mrs. Matthews,
and you Bess,—take your chambers, please you, for a
while. This business may be unpleasant, and not
suited to your presence.”

“But Captain Harrison—my son,” said the old lady,
affectionately.

“Gabriel,—dear Gabriel,” murmured the young one.

“No violence, gentlemen,—for heaven's sake, gentlemen,”
said the host.

Harrison kissed his hands playfully to the mother
and daughter, as, leading them to an inner door, he
begged them to have no apprehension.

“There is no cause of fear—be not alarmed. Hercules
and myself would only determine the value of
Hector, without unnecessary witnesses. Go now, and
fear not.”

Having dismissed the ladies, Harrison turned immediately
to Chorley, and putting his hand with the
utmost deliberation upon his shoulder, thus addressed
him—

“Hark ye, Hercules, you can't have Hector for
nothing. The fellow's in prime order—not old, and
still active—besides he's the most trust-worthy slave I
own, and loves me like a brother. It goes against me
to part with him, but if you are determined to have
him, you must give me an equivalent.”

The seaman, with many oaths, denied having him.

“Spare your breath, man,” said the other, impetuously—“I
know you have him. Your swearing
makes none of your lies true, and you waste them on
me. Give up Hector, then—”

“And what if I say no?” fiercely replied the seaman.

“Then I keep Hercules!” was the response of Harrison.

“We shall see that,” exclaimed the kidnapper—and
drawing his cutlass, he approached the door of the
cottage, in the way of which Harrison stood calmly.
As he approached, the latter drew forth a pistol from
his bosom, coolly cocked and presented it with one
hand, while with the other raising his horn to his lips
he replied to the previous signal. In another moment
the door was thrown open, and Granger, with two of the
foresters, appeared, well armed, and destroying any
thought of an equal struggle, which might originally
have entered the mind of Chorley. The three new
comers ranged themselves around the apartment, so
as to encircle the seaman.

“Captain Harrison,” interposed the pastor—“this
violence in my house—”

“I deeply regret, Mr. Matthews,” was the reply,
“but it is here necessary.”

“It is taking the laws into your own hands, sir.”

“I know it, sir, and will answer to the laws for
taking Hector from the unlawful hands of this kidnapper.
Stand aside, sir, if you please, while we
secure our prisoner. Well, Hercules, are you ready
for terms now?”

Nothing daunted, Chorley held forth defiance, and
with a fierce oath, lifting his cutlass, he resolutely endeavoured
to advance. But the extension of his arm
for the employment of his weapon, with his enemies
so near, was of itself a disadvantage. The sword had
scarcely obtained a partial elevation, when the iron
muscles of Dick Grimstead fixed the uplifted arm as
firmly as if the vice of the worthy blacksmith had
taken the grasp instead of his fingers. In another

moment he was tumbled upon his back, and spite of
every effort at release, the huge frame of Grimstead
maintained him in that humiliating position.

“You see, Hercules—obstinacy won't serve you
here. I must have Hector, or I shall see the colour
of every drop of blood in your body. I swear it, of
God's surety. Listen, then—here are materials for
writing. You are a commander—you shall forward
despatches to your men for the delivery of my snowball.
Hector I must have.”

“I will write nothing—my men are in the boat,—
they will soon be upon you, and by all the devils, I will
mark you for this.”

“Give up your hope, Bully-boy,—and be less obdurate.
I have taken care to secure your men and boat,
as comfortably as yourself. You shall see that I
speak truth.” Winding his horn as he spoke, the rest
of the foresters appeared under the conduct of Nichols,
who, strange to say, was now the most active conspirator
seemingly of the party; and with them the two
seamen well secured by cords. Ushering his prisoners
forward, the worthy Constantine etc., seeing Harrison
about to speak, hastily interrupted him—

“The great object of action, captain—the great
object of human action—Mr. Matthews, I am your
servant—the great object, Captain Harrison, of human
action, as I have said before, is, or should be, the pursuit
of human happiness. The great aim of human
study is properly to determine upon the true nature of
human action. Human reason being the only mode,
in the exercise of which, we can possibly arrive at
the various courses which human action is to take, it
follows, in direct sequence, that the Supreme Arbiter
in matters of moral, or I should rather say human propriety,
is the universal reason—”

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” gravely interrupted
Harrison.

“Your approval is grateful, Captain Harrison—very
grateful, sir—but I beg that you will not interrupt me.”

Harrison bowed, and the doctor proceeded:—

“Referring to just principles, and the true standard,
which,—Master Matthews this may be of moment to
you, and I beg your particular attention—I hold to be
human reason,—for the government, the wellbeing of
human society, I have determined—being thereto induced
simply by a consideration of the good of the
people—to lead them forth, for the captivity of these
evil-minded men, who, without the fear of God in their
eyes, and instigated by the devil, have feloniously kidnapped
and entrapped and are about to carry away one
of the lawful subjects of our king, whom Fate preserve.—I
say subject, for though it does not appear
that black has ever been employed, as a colour distinguishing
the subjects of our master, the King of
Great Britain, yet, as subject to his will, and the control
of his subjects, and more than all, as speaking in
the proper form of the English language, a little interpolated
here and there, it may be well to recognise
as legitimately forming a feature of the said language,
which by all writers is held to be of a compound substance,
not unlike, morally speaking, the sort of rock,
which the geologists designate as pudding-stone—
pounded—and to speak professionally, indigestibly compounded—I
say, then, and I call you, our pastor, and
you, Captain Harrison, and, I say, Richard Grimstead,
albeit you are not of a craft or profession which I may
venture to style liberal, you too may be a witness,—
and you will all of you here assembled take upon you
to witness for me, that in leading forth these brave
men to the assault upon and captivity of these nefarious
kidnappers, rescue or no rescue, at this moment
my prisoners, that, from the first and immutable principles
which I have laid down, I could have been
governed only by a patriotic desire for the good of the
people. For, as it is plain that the man who kidnaps
a subject has clearly none of those moral restraints
which should keep him from kidnapping subjects,
and as it is equally clear that subjects should

not be liable to abduction or kidnapping, so does it
follow, as a direct sequence, that the duty of the good
citizen is to prevent such nefarious practices. I fear
not now the investigation of the people, for having
been governed in what I have done simply by a regard
for their good and safety, I yield me to their judgment,
satisfied of justice, yet not shrinking, in their
cause, from the martyrdom which they sometimes
inflict.”

The speaker paused, breathless, and looked round
very complacently upon the assembly—the persons
of which, his speech had variously affected. Some
laughed, knowing the man; but one or two looked profound,
and of these, at a future day, he had secured the
suffrages. Harrison suffered nothing of risibility to
appear upon his features, composing the muscles of
which, he turned to the patriot,—

“Gravely and conclusively argued, doctor, and with
propriety, for the responsibility was a weighty one of
this bold measure, which your regard for popular freedom
has persuaded you to adopt. I did not myself
think that so much could be said in favour of the
proceeding; the benefits of which we shall now proceed
to reap. And now, Hercules,” he continued, addressing
the still prostrate seaman, “you see the case
is hopeless, and there is but one way of effecting your
liberty. Write—here are the materials; command
that Hector be restored without stroke or strife, for of
God's surety, every touch of the whip upon the back
of my slave, shall call for a corresponding dozen upon
your own. Your seamen shall bear the despatch, and
they shall return with the negro. I shall place a watch,
and if more than these leave the vessel, it will be
a signal which shall sound your death-warrant, for
that moment, of God's surety, shall you hang. Let
him rise, Grimstead, but keep his sword, and tomahawk
him if he stir.”

Chorley saw that the case was hopeless on other
terms, and wrote as he was required. Sullenly affixing

the signature, he handed it fiercely to Harrison,
who coolly read over its contents.

“So your name is really not Hercules, after all,”
he spoke with his usual careless manner—“but Chorley?”

“Is it enough?” sullenly asked the seaman.

“Ay, Bully-boy, if your men obey it. I shall only
take the liberty of putting a small addition to the
paper, apprizing them of the prospect in reserve for
yourself, if they steer awkwardly. A little hint to
them,” speaking as he wrote, “of new arms for their
captain—swinging bough, rope pendant,—and so forth.”

In an hour and the men returned, bringing the bone
of contention, the now half frantic Hector, along with
them. Chorley was instantly released, and swearing
vengeance for the indignity which he had suffered,
immediately took his way to the vessel, followed by
his men. Unarmed, he could do nothing with the
stronger force of Harrison, but his fierce spirit only
determined upon a reckoning doubly terrible from the
present restraint upon it.

“Keep cool, Hercules; this attempt to kidnap our
slaves will tell hardly against you when going round
Port Royal Island. The battery there may make
your passage uncomfortable.”

“You shall suffer for this, young one, or my name's
not—”

“Hercules! well, well—see that you keep a close
reckoning, for I am not so sure that Richard Chorley
is not as great a sea-shark as Steed Bonnett himself.”

The seaman started fiercely, as the speaker thus
compared him with one of the most notorious pirates
of the time and region, but a sense of caution restrained
him from any more decided expression of his
anger. With a word of parting to the pastor, and a
sullen repetition of a general threat to the rest, he
was soon in his boat and upon the way to his vessel.