University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

A brief and passing dialogue between Grayson and
the pastor, at the entrance, partially explained to the
latter the previous history. The disposition of Matthews
in regard to the pretensions of Grayson to his
daughter's hand—of which he had long been conscious—was
rather favourable than otherwise. In this
particular, the suit of Grayson derived importance from
the degree of ill-favour with which the old gentleman
had been accustomed to consider that of Harrison.
With strong prejudices, the pastor was quite satisfied
to obey an impression, and to mistake, as with persons
of strong prejudices is frequently the case, an impulse
for an argument. Not that he could urge any thing
against the suiter who was the favourite of his child—
of that he felt satisfied—but, coming fairly under the
description of the doggerel satirist, he did not dislike
Harrison a jot less for having little reason to dislike
him. And there is something in this.

It was, therefore, with no little regret, he beheld the
departure of Grayson under circumstances so unfavourable
to his suit. From his own, and the lips of
his daughter, alike, he had been taught to understand
that she had objections; but the emotion of Grayson,
and the openly-expressed indignation of Bess, at once
satisfied him of the occurrence of that which effectually
excluded the hope that time might effect some
change for the better. He was content, therefore,
simply to regret what his own good sense taught him

he could not amend, and what his great regard for his
child's peace persuaded him not to attempt.

Grayson, in the meantime, hurried away under
strong excitements. He had felt deeply the denial,
but far more deeply the rebukes of the maiden. She
had searched narrowly into his inner mind—had probed
close its weaknesses—had laid bare to his own eyes
those silent motives of his conduct, which he had not
himself dared to analyze or encounter. His pride was
hurt by her reproaches, and he was ashamed of the
discoveries which she had made. Though mortified
to the soul, however, there was a redeeming principle
at work within him. He had been the slave of his
mood; but he determined, from that moment, upon the
overthrow of the tyranny. To this she had counselled
him; to this his own pride of character had also counselled
him; and, though agonized with the defeated
hopes clamouring in his bosom, he adopted a noble
decision, and determined to be at least worthy of the
love which he yet plainly felt he could never win.
His course now was to adopt energetic measures in
preparing for any contest that might happen with the
Indians. Of this danger he was not altogether conscious.
He did not imagine it so near at hand, and
had only given in to precautionary measures with regard
to his mother, in compliance with his brother's
wish, and as no great inconvenience could result from
their temporary removal. But the inflexible obstinacy
of the pastor in refusing to take the shelter of the contiguous
Block House, led him more closely to reflect
upon the consequent exposure of Bess Matthews; and,
from thus reflecting, the danger became magnified to
his eyes. He threw himself, therefore, upon the steed
of Harrison, as soon as he reached the Block House;
and without troubling himself to explain to any one his
intentions, for he was too proud for that, he set off at
once, and at full speed, to arouse such of the neighbouring
foresters as had not yet made their appearance
at the place of gathering, or had been too remotely
situated for previous warning.

The old pastor, on parting with the disappointed
youth, re-entered the dwelling, and without being perceived
by his daughter. She stood in the middle of
the apartment, her finger upon her lips, and absorbed
in meditation as quiet as if she had never before been
disturbed for an instant; like some one of those fine
imbodiments of heavenward devotion we meet with
now and then in a Holy Family by one of the old masters.
He approached her, and when his presence became
evident, she knelt suddenly before him.

“Bless me, father—dear father—bless me, and let
me retire.”

“God bless you, Bess—and watch over and protect
you—but what disturbs you? You are troubled.”

“I know not, father—but I fear. I fear something
terrible, yet know not what. My thoughts are all in
confusion.”

“You need sleep, my child, and quiet. These excitements
and foolish reports have worried you; but a
night's sleep will make all well again. Go, now—go
to your mother, and may the good angels keep you.”

With the direction, she arose, threw her arms about
his neck, and with a kiss, affectionately bidding him
good night, she retired to her chamber, first passing
a few brief moments with her mother in the adjoining
room. Calling to the trusty negro who performed
such offices in his household, the pastor gave
orders for the securing of the house, and retired to his
chamber also. July—the name of the negro—proceeded
to fasten the windows, which was done by
means of a wooden bolt; and thrusting a thick bar of
knotted pine into hooks on either side of the door, he
coolly threw himself down to his own slumbers alongside
of it. We need scarcely add, knowing the susceptibility
of the black in this particular, that sleep was
not slow in its approaches to the strongest tower in the
citadel of his senses. The subtle deity soon mastered
all his sentinels, and a snore, not the most scrupulous
in the world, sent forth from the flattened but capacious

nostrils, soon announced his entire conquest
over the premises he had invaded.

But though she retired to her chamber, Bess Matthews
in vain sought for sleep. Distressed by the
previous circumstances, and warmly excited as she
had been by the trying character of the scene through
which she had recently passed, she had vainly endeavoured
to find that degree of quiet, which she felt
necessary to her mental not less than to her physical
repose. After tossing fruitlessly on her couch for a
fatiguing hour, she arose, and slightly unclosing the
window, the only one in her chamber, she looked
forth upon the night. It was clear, with many stars—
a slight breeze bent the tree-tops, and their murmurs,
as they swayed to and fro, were pleasant to her melancholy
fancies. How could she sleep when she thought
of the voluntary risk taken by Harrison? Where
was he then—in what danger, surrounded by what
deadly enemies?—perhaps under their very knives,
and she not there to interpose—to implore for—to save
him. How could she fail to love so much disinterested
generosity—so much valour and adventure, taken, as
with a pardonable vanity, she fondly thought, so much
for her safety and for the benefit of hers. Thus musing,
thus watching, she lingered at the window, looking
forth, but half conscious as she gazed, upon the thick
woods, stretching away in black masses, of those old
Indian forests. Just then, the moon rose calmly and
softly in the east—a fresher breeze rising along with,
and gathering seemingly with her ascent. The river
wound partly before her gaze, and there was a long
bright shaft of light—a pure white gleam, which
even its ripples could not overcome or dissipate,
borrowed from the pale orb just then swelling above
it. Suddenly a canoe shot across the water in the
distance—then another, and another—quietly, and with
as little show of life, as if they were only the gloomy
shades of the past generation's warriors. Not a voice,
not a whisper—not even the flap of an oar, disturbed
the deep hush of the scene; and the little canoes that

showed dimly in the river from afar, as soon as they
had overshot the pale gleamy bar of the moon upon
its bosom, were no longer perceptible. Musing upon
these objects, with a vague feeling of danger, and an
oppressive sense at the same time of exhaustion,
which forbade any thing like a coherent estimate of
the thoughts which set in upon her mind like so many
warring currents, Bess left the window, and threw
herself, listlessly yet sad, upon the side of the couch,
vainly soliciting that sleep which seemed so reluctant
to come. How slow was its progress—how long
before she felt the haze growing over her eyelids.
A sort of stupor succeeded—she was conscious of the
uncertainty of her perception, and though still, at intervals,
the beams from the fast ascending moon
caught her eyes, they flitted before her like spiritual
forms that looked on and came but to depart. These at
length went from her entirely as a sudden gust closed
the shutter, and a difficult and not very sound slumber
came at last to her relief.

A little before this, and with the first moment of the
rise of the moon on the eastern summits, the watchful
Hector, obedient to his orders, prepared to execute the
charge which his master had given him at parting.
Releasing Dugdale from the log to which he had been
bound, he led the impatient and fierce animal down
to the river's brink, and through the tangled route only
known to the hunter. The single track, imperfectly
visible in the partial light, impeded somewhat his progress,
so that the moon was fairly visible by the time
he reached the river. This circumstance was productive
of some small inconvenience to the faithful
slave, since it proved him something of a laggard in
his duty, and at the same time, from the lateness of
the hour, occasioned no little anxiety in his mind for
his master's safety. With a few words, well understood
seemingly by the well-trained animal, he cheered
him on, and pushing him to the slight trench made by
the horse's hoof, clearly defined upon the path, and
which had before been shown him, he thrust his nose

gently down upon it, while taking from his head the
muzzle, without which he must have been a dangerous
neighbour to the Indians, for whose pursuit he had
been originally trained by the Spaniards, in a system,
the policy of which was still in part continued, or
rather, of late, revived, by his present owner.

“Now, gone—Dugdale, be off, da's a good dog, and
look for your mossa. Dis he track—hark—hark—
hark, dog—dis de track ob he critter. Nose 'em, old
boy—nose 'em well. Make yourself good nigger, for
you hab blessed mossa. Soon you go, now, better for
bote. Hark 'em, boy, hark 'em, and hole 'em fast.”

The animal seemed to comprehend—looked intelligently
up into the face of his keeper, then stooping
down, carefully drew a long breath, as he scented the
designated spot, coursed a few steps quickly around it,
and then, as if perfectly assured, sent forth a long deep
bay, and set off on the direct route with all the fleetness
of a deer.

“Da, good dog dat, dat same Dugdale. But he hab
reason—Hector no gib 'em meat for noting. Spaniard
no teach 'em better, and de Lord hab mercy 'pon dem
Ingin, eff he once stick he teet in he troat. He
better bin in de fire, for he nebber leff off, long as he
kin kick. Hark—da good dog, dat same Dugdale.
Wonder way mossa pick up da name for 'em; speck
he Spanish—in English, he bin Dogdale.”

Thus soliloquizing after his own fashion, the negro
turned his eyes in the direction of the strange vessel,
lying about a mile and a half above the bank upon
which he stood, and now gracefully outlined by the
soft light of the moon. She floated there, in the
bosom of the stream, still and silent as a sheeted
spectre, and to all appearance with quite as little life.
Built after the finest models of her time, and with a
distinct regard to the irregular pursuits in which she
was engaged, her appearance carried to the mind an
idea of lightness and swiftness which was not at
variance with her character. The fairy-like tracery
of her slender masts, her spars, and cordage, harmonized

well with the quiet water upon which she rested
like some native bird, and with the soft and luxuriant
foliage covering the scenery around, just then coming
out from shadow into the gathering moonbeams.

While the black looked, his eye was caught by
a stir upon the bank directly opposite, and at length,
shooting out from the shelter of cane and rush which
thickly fringed a small lagune in that direction, he distinctly
saw eight or ten large double canoes making
for the side of the river upon which he stood. They
seemed filled with men, and their paddles were moved
with a velocity only surpassed by the silence which
accompanied their use. The mischief was now sufficiently
apparent, even to a mind so obtuse as that of the
negro; and without risking any thing by personal
delay, but now doubly aroused in anxiety for his master,
whose predictions he saw were about to be
verified, he took his way back to the Block House,
with a degree of hurry proportioned to what he felt
was the urgency of the necessity. It did not take
him long to reach the Block House, into which he soon
found entrance, and gave the alarm. Proceeding to
the quarter in which the wife of Granger kept her
abode, he demanded from her a knife—all the weapon
he wanted—while informing her, as he had already
done those having charge of the fortress, of the approaching
enemy.

“What do you want with the knife, Hector?”

“I want 'em, misses—da's all—I guine after mossa.”

“What! the captain?—why, where is he, Hector?”

“Speck he in berry much trouble. I must go see
arter 'em. Dugdale gone 'ready—Dugdale no better
sarbant dan Hector. Gib me de knife, misses—dat
same long one I hab for cut he meat.”

“But, Hector, you can be of very little good if the
Indians are out. You don't know where to look for
the captain, and you'll tread on them as you go through
the bush.”

“I can't help it, misses—I must go. I hab hand
and foot—I hab knife—I hab eye for see—I hab toot

for bite—I 'trong, misses, and I must go look for
mossa. God! misses, if any ting happen to mossa,
wha Hector for do? where he guine—who be he new
mossa? I must go, misses—gib me de knife.”

“Well, Hector, if you will go, here's what you want.
Here's the knife, and here's your master's gun. You
must take that too,” said the woman.

“No—I tank you for noting, misses. I no want
gun; I fraid ob 'em; he kin shoot all sides. I no like
'em. Gib me knife. I use to knife—I kin scalp dem
Injin wid knife after he own fashion. But I no use to
gun.”

“Well, but your master is used to it. You must
carry it for him. He has no arms, and this may save
his life. Hold it so, and there's no danger.”

She showed the timid Hector how to carry the
loaded weapon so as to avoid risk to himself, and persuaded
of its importance to his master, he ventured to
take it.

“Well, dat 'nough—I no want any more. I gone,
misses, I gone—but 'member—ef mossa come back
and Hector loss—'member, I say, I no runway—'member
dat. I scalp—I drown—I dead—ebbery ting happen
to me—but I no runway.”

With these last words, the faithful black started
upon his adventure of danger, resolute and strong, in
the warm affection which he bore his master, to contend
with every form of difficulty. He left the garrison
at the Block House duly aroused to the conflict,
which they were now satisfied was not far off.