University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Hugh Grayson, with all his faults, and they were
many, was in reality a noble fellow. Full of a high
ambition—a craving for the unknown and the vast,
which spread itself vaguely and perhaps unattainably
before his imagination—his disappointments very naturally
vexed him something beyond prudence, and
now and then beyond the restraint of a right reason.
He usually came to a knowledge of his error, and his
repentance was not less ready than his wrong. So in
the present instance. The stern severity of those rebukes
which had fallen from the lips of Bess Matthews,
had the effect upon him which she had anticipated.
They brought out the serious determination of his

manhood, and with due effort he discarded those
feeble and querulous fancies which had been productive
of so much annoyance to her and others, and so
much unhappiness to himself. He strove to forget the
feelings of the jealous and disappointed lover, in the
lately recollected duties of the man and citizen.

With the good steed of Harrison, which, in the present
service, he did not scruple to employ, he set off on
the lower route, in order to beat up recruits for the
perilous strife which he now began to believe, the
more he thought of it, was in reality at hand. The
foresters were ready, for one condition of security in
border life was the willingness to volunteer in defence
of one another; and a five mile ride gave him as
many followers. But his farther progress was stopped
short by an unlooked-for circumstance. The tread of
a body of horse reached the ears of his party, and they
slunk into cover. Indistinctly, in the imperfect light,
they discovered a mounted force of twenty or thirty
men. Another survey made them out to be friends.

“Who goes there?” cried the leader, as Grayson
emerged from the bush.

“Friends—well met. There is still time,” was the
reply.

“I hope so—I have pushed for it,” said the commander,
“as soon as Sir Edmund gave the orders.”

“Ha! you were advised then of this, and come
from”—

“Beaufort,” cried the officer, “with a detachment of
twenty-eight for the upper Block House. Is all well
there?”

“Ay, when I left, but things are thought to look
squally, and I have just been beating up volunteers for
preparation.”

“'Tis well—fall in, gentlemen, and good speed—
but this cursed road is continually throwing me out.
Will you undertake to guide us, so that no time may
be lost?”

“Ay—follow—we are now seven miles from the

Block, and I am as familiar with the road, dark and
light, as with my own hands.”

“Away then, men—away”—and, led by the younger
Grayson, now fully aroused by the spirit of the scene,
they hurried away at full speed, through the narrow
trace leading to the Block House. They had ridden
something like two thirds of the distance, when a distant
shot, then a shout, reached their ears, and compelled
a pause for counsel, in order to avoid rushing
into ambuscade.

“A mile farther,” cried Grayson—“a mile farther,
and we must hide our horses in the woods, and take
the bush on foot. Horse won't do here; we shall make
too good a mark; and besides, riding ourselves, we
should not be able to hear the approach of an enemy.”

A few moments after and they descended, each
fastening his horse to a tree in the shelter of a little
bay; and, hurriedly organizing under Grayson's direction,
they proceeded, alive with expectation, in the
direction of the fray.

It is high time that we now return to our fugitive,
whose escape from his Indian prison has already been
recorded. Paddling his canoe with difficulty, Harrison
drew a long breath as it struck the opposite bank
in safety. He had escaped one danger, but how
many more, equally serious, had he not reason to anticipate
in his farther progress. He knew too well
the character of Indian warfare, and the mode of assault
proposed by them at present, not to feel that all
the woods around him were alive with his enemies.
That they ran along in the shadow of the trees, and
lay in waiting for the steps of the flyer, alongside of
the fallen tree. He knew his danger, but he had a
soul well calculated for its trials.

He leaped to the shore, and at the very first step
which he took, a bright column of flame rose above the
forests in the direction of the Grayson's cottage. It
lay, not directly in his path, but it reminded him of his
duties, and he came to all the full decision marking
his character as he pushed forward in that quarter,

He was not long in reaching it, and the prospect realized
many of his fears. The Indians had left their traces,
and the dwelling was wrapped in flame, illuminating
with a deep glare the surrounding foliage. He looked
for other signs of their progress, but in vain. There
was no blood, no mark of struggle, and his conclusion
was, therefore, that the family had been able to effect
its escape from the dwelling before the arrival of the
enemy. This conviction was instantaneous, and he
gave no idle time in surveying a scene, only full of a
terrible warning. The thought of the whole frontier,
and more than all, to his heart, the thought of Bess
Matthews, and of the obstinate old father, drove him
onward—the blazing ruins lighting his way some distance
through the woods. The rush of the wind, as
he went forward, brought to his ears, at each moment
and in various quarters, the whoops of the savage, reduced
to faintness by distance or cross currents of the
breeze, that came here and there, through dense clusters
of foliage. Now on one side and now on the other,
they ascended to his hearing, compelling him capriciously
to veer from point to point in the hope of avoiding
them. He had not gone far when a second and sudden
volume of fire rushed up on one hand above the
trees, and he could hear the crackling of the timber.
Almost at the same instant, in an opposite direction,
another burst of flame attested the mode of warfare
adopted by the cunning savages, who, breaking into
small parties of five or six in number, thus dispersed
themselves over the country, making their attacks simultaneous.
This was the mode of assault best adapted
to their enterprise; and, but for the precautions taken
in warning the more remote of the borderers to the
protection of the Block House, their irruption, throughout
its whole progress, had been marked in blood.
But few of the settlers could possibly have escaped
their knives. Defrauded however of their prey, the
Indians were thus compelled to wreak their fury upon
the unoccupied dwellings.

Dreading to make new and more painful discoveries,

but with a spirit nerved for any event, Harrison kept
on his course with unrelaxing effort, till he came to
the dwelling of an old German, an honest but poor
settler, named Van Holten. The old man lay on his
threshold insensible. His face was prone to the
ground, and he was partially stripped of his clothing.
Harrison turned him over, and discovered a deep wound
upon his breast, made seemingly with a knife—a
hatchet stroke appeared upon his forehead, and the
scalp was gone—a red and dreadfully lacerated scull
presented itself to his sight, and marked another of
those features of war so terribly peculiar to the American
border struggles. The man was quite dead; but
the brand thrown into his cabin had failed, and the
dwelling was unhurt by the fire. On he went, roused
into new exertion by this sight, yet doubly apprehensive
of his discoveries in future. The cries of the
savages grew more distinct as he proceeded, and his
caution was necessarily redoubled. They now stood
between him and the white settlements, and the probability
of coming upon his enemies was increased at
every step in his progress. Apart from this, he knew
but little of their precise position—now they were on
one, and now on the other side of him—their whoops
sounding with the multiplied echoes of the wood in
every direction, and inspiring a hesitating dread, at
every moment, that he should find himself suddenly
among them. The anxiety thus stimulated was more
decidedly painful than would have been the hand-to-hand
encounter. It was so to the fearless heart of
Harrison. Still, however, he kept his way, until,
at length, emerging from the brush and foliage, a
small lake lay before him, which he knew to be
not more than three miles from the dwelling of
Bess Matthews. He immediately prepared to take
the path he had usually taken, to the left, which
carried him upon the banks of the river. At that
moment his eye caught the motion of a small body
of the savages in that very quarter. One third of
the whole circuit of the lake lay between them and
himself, and he now changed his course to the right,
in the hope to avoid them. But they had been no
less watchful than himself. They had seen, and prepared
to intercept him. They divided for this purpose,
and while with shouts and fierce halloos one
party retraced their steps and came directly after him,
another, in perfect silence, advanced on their course
to the opposite quarter of the lake, in the hope to waylay
him in front. Of this arrangement Harrison was perfectly
unaware, and upon this he did not calculate.
Having the start considerably of those who came
behind, he did not feel so deeply the risk of his situation;
but, fearless and swift of foot, he cheerily went
forward, hoping to fall in with some of the whites, or
at least to shelter himself in a close cover of the woods
before they could possibly come up with him. Through
brake and bush, heath and water, he went forward,
now running, now walking, as the cries behind him of
his pursuers influenced his feelings. At length the
circuit of the lake was made, and he dashed again into
the deeper forest, more secure, as he was less obvious
to the sight than when in the glare of the now high ascending
moon. The woods thickened into copse around
him, and he began to feel something more of hope.
He could hear more distinctly the cries of war, and he
now fancied that many of the shouts that met his ears
were those of the English. In this thought he plunged
forward, and as one fierce halloo went up which he
clearly felt to be from his friends, he could not avoid
the impulse which prompted him to shout forth in
response. At that moment, bounding over a fallen tree,
he felt his course arrested. His feet were caught by
one who lay alongside of it, and he came heavily to
the ground. The Indian who had lain in ambush was
soon above him, and he had but time to ward with one
arm a blow aimed at his head, when another savage
advanced upon him. These two formed the detachment
which had been sent forward in front, for this very
purpose, by the party in his rear. The prospect was
desperate, and feeling it so, the efforts of Harrison
were Herculean. His only weapon was the knife of
Matiwan, but he was a man of great muscular power
and exceedingly active. His faculties availed him
now. With a sudden evolution, he shook one of his
assailants from his breast, and opposed himself to the
other while recovering his feet. They drove against
him with their united force, and one hatchet grazed his
cheek. The savage who threw it was borne forward
by the blow, and received the knife of Harrison in his
side, but not sufficiently deep to disable him. They
came to it again with renewed and increased ferocity,
one assailing him from behind, while the other employed
him in front. He would have gained a tree, but they
watched and kept him too busily employed to allow of
his design. A blow from a club for a moment paralyzed
his arm, and he dropped his knife. Stooping to recover
it they pressed him to the ground, and so distributed
themselves upon him, that further effort was
unavailing. He saw the uplifted hand, and felt that his
senses swam with delirious thought—his eyes were
hazy, and he muttered a confused language. At that
moment—did he dream or not!—it was the deep bay of
his own favourite hound that reached his ears. The assailants
heard it too—he felt assured of that, as, half
starting from their hold upon him, they looked anxiously
around. Another moment, and he had no farther doubt;
the cry of thirst and anger—the mixed moan and roar
of the well-known and evidently much-aroused animal,
was closely at hand. One of the Indians sprang
immediately to his feet—the other was about to strike,
when, with a last effort, he grasped the uplifted arm
and shouted “Dugdale!” aloud. Nor did he shout in
vain. The favourite, with a howl of delight, bounded
at the well-known voice, and in another instant Harrison
felt the long hair and thick body pass directly
over his face, then a single deep cry rung above him,
and then he felt the struggle. He now strove, again,
to take part in the fray, though one arm hung movelessly
beside him. He partially succeeded in freeing himself
from the mass that had weighed him down; and looking
up, saw the entire mouth and chin of the Indian
in the jaws of the ferocious hound. The savage knew
his deadliest enemy, and his struggle was, not to destroy
the dog, but, under the sudden panic, to free himself
from his hold. With this object his hatchet and knife
had been dropped. His hands were vainly endeavouring
to loosen the huge, steely jaws of his rough
assailant from his own. The other Indian had fled with
the first bay of the animal—probably the more willing
to do so, as the momentary fainting of Harrison had
led them to suppose him beyond further opposition.
But he recovered, and with recovering consciousness
resuming the firm grasp of his knife which had fallen
beside him, seconded the efforts of Dugdale by driving
it into the breast of their remaining enemy, who fell
dead, with his chin still between the teeth of the hound.
Staggering as much with the excitement of such a conflict,
as with the blow he had received, Harrison with
difficulty regained his feet. Dugdale held on to his prey,
and before he would forego his hold, completely cut the
throat which he had taken in his teeth. A single embrace
of his master attested the deep gratitude which
he felt for the good service of his favourite. But there
was no time for delay. The division which pursued
him was at hand. He heard their shout from a neighbouring
copse, and he bent his steps forward. They
were soon apprized of the movement. Joined by the
fugitive, and having heard his detail, what was their
surprise to find their own warrior a victim, bloody and
perfectly dead upon the grass, where they had looked
to have taken a scalp! Their rage knew no bounds,
and they were now doubly earnest in pursuit. Feeble
from the late struggle, Harrison had not his previous
vigour—besides, he had run far through the woods, and
though as hardy as any of the Indians, he was not so well
calculated to endure a race of this nature. But though
they gained on him, he knew that he had a faithful ally
at hand on whom he felt he might safely depend.
The hound too, trained as was the custom, was formidable
to the fears of the Indians. Like the elephant
of old, he inspired a degree of terror, among the American
aborigines, which took from them courage and
conduct, in great degree; and had there been less inequality
of force, the dog of Harrison alone would have
been sufficient to have decided his present pursuers to
choose a more guarded course, if not to a complete
discontinuance of pursuit. But they heard the shouts
of their own warriors all around them, and trusting that
flying from one, he must necessarily fall into the hands
of some other party, they were stimulated still farther
in the chase. They had not miscalculated. The wild
whoop of war—the “Sangarrah-me, Yemassee,” rose
directly in the path before him, and, wearied with flight,
the fugitive prepared himself for the worst. He leaned
against a tree in exhaustion, while the dog took his place
beside him, obedient to his master's command, though
impatient to bound forward. Harrison kept him for a
more concentrated struggle, and wreathing his hands
in the thick collar about his neck, he held him back for
individual assailants. In the meantime his pursuers
approached, though with caution. His dog was concealed
by the brush, on the skirts of which he had
studiously placed him. They heard at intervals his
long, deep bay, and it had an effect upon them not
unlike that of their own war-whoop upon the whites.
They paused, as if in council. Just then their party
in front set up another shout, and the confusion of a
skirmish was evident to the senses as well of Harrison
as of his pursuers. This, to him, was a favourable
sign. It indicated the presence of friends. He heard
at length one shot, then another, and another, and at
the same time the huzzas of the Carolinians. They
inspired him with new courage, and with an impulse
which is sometimes, and, in desperate cases, may be
almost always considered wisdom, he plunged forward
through the brush which separated him from the unseen
combatants, loudly cheering in the English manner,
and prompting the hound to set up a succession of cries,
sufficiently imposing to inspire panic in the savages.
His movement was the signal to move also on the part
of those who pursued him. But a few steps changed
entirely the scene. He had rushed upon the rear of a
band of the Yemassees, who, lying behind brush and
logs, were skirmishing at advantage with the corps of
foresters which we have seen led on by the younger
Grayson. A single glance sufficed to put Harrison in
possession of the true facts of the case, and though
hazarding every chance of life, he bounded directly
among and through the ambushed Indians. Never was
desperation more fortunate in its consequences. Not
knowing the cause of such a movement, the Yemassees
conceived themselves beset front and rear. They rose
screaming from their hiding-places, and yielding on
each side of the fugitive. With an unhesitating hand
he struck with his knife one of the chiefs who stood
in his path. The hound, leaping among them like a
hungry panther, farther stimulated the panic, and for a
moment all were paralyzed. The fierce and forward
advance of that portion of their own allies which had
been pursuing Harrison, still further contributed to
impress them with the idea of an enemy in the rear;
and before they could recover so as to arrest his progress
and discover the true state of things, he had passed
them, followed by the obedient dog. In another instant,
almost fainting with fatigue, to the astonishment but
satisfaction of all, he threw himself with a laugh of
mingled triumph and exhaustion into the ranks of his
sturdy band of foresters. Without a pause he commanded
their attention. Fully conscious of the confusion
among the ambushers, he ordered an advance, and
charged resolutely through the brush. The contest
was now hand to hand, and the foresters took their tree
when necessary, as well as their enemies. The presence
of their captain gave them new courage, and the
desperate manner in which he had charged through
the party with which they fought, led them to despise
their foes. This feeling imparted to the Carolinians a
degree of fearlessness, which, new to them in such
warfare, was not less new to the Indians. Half frightened
before, they needed but such an attack to determine
them upon retreat. They faltered, and at length
fled—a few fought on alone, but wounded and without
encouragement, they too gave way, sullenly and slowly,
and at length were brought up with their less resolute
companions in the cover of a neighbouring and denser
wood.

Harrison did not think it advisable to pursue them.
Calling off his men, therefore, he led them on the
route towards the Block House, which he relied upon
as the chief rallying point of the settlers in that quarter.
His anxieties, however, at that moment, had in them
something selfish, and he proceeded hurriedly to the
house of old Matthews. It was empty—its inmates
were gone, and the marks of savage devastation were
all around them. The building had been plundered,
and a hasty attempt made to burn it by torches, but
without success, the floors being only slightly scorched.
He rushed through the apartments in despair, calling
the family by name. What had been their fate—and
where was she? The silence of every thing around
spoke to him too loudly, and with the faintest possible
hope that they had been sufficiently apprized of the
approach of the Indians to have taken the shelter of the
Block House, he proceeded to lead his men to that
designated point.