University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

Day dawned, and the sun rose clearly and beautifully
over the scattered bands of the forest. The Indians
were fairly defeated, Ishiagaska slain, and Chorley,
the pirate, uninfluenced by any of those feelings of
nationality in the present case, which would have
prompted him to a desperate risk of his own person in
a struggle so utterly unlooked-for, as soon as he saw
the final and complete character of the defeat, silently
withdrew, with his few remaining followers, from farther
conflict. He had another care upon his hands
beside that of his own safety. There was one reward—
one spoil—with which he consoled himself for his disaster—and

that was Bess Matthews. Filled with a
fierce passion, as he thought of her, he took his way,
unseen by the victorious Carolinians, towards the little
cot on the river's edge, in which he had left his prisoners.
Circumstances had materially altered from
what they were at the time when they became so. He
was no longer able to control, with an imposing and
superior force, the progress, either of his Indian allies
or of his Carolinian enemies. He had not foreseen,
any more than the Yemassees, the state of preparation
in which the settlers about the Pocota-ligo had met
the invasion. He had looked to find invasion and conquest
one—and had never dreamed of opposition, much
less of a defence which would prove so completely
successful. The energies of a single man, his address,
farsightedness, and circumspection, had done all this.
To the perseverance and prudence of Harrison—his
devotedness to the cause he had undertaken, the borderers
owed their safety. But of this the pirate chief
knew nothing; and, anticipating no such provident
management, he had fearlessly leagued himself with
the savages, stimulated by passions as sanguinary as
theirs, and without that redeeming sense of national
character and feeling—that genuine love of country,
which not only accounted for, but exculpated the people
of whom he was the unworthy ally. But he had lost all
that he came for—all objects but one. His best followers
had fallen victims—his hope of spoil had in
great part been defeated, and though he had shed blood,
the quantity was as nothing to one with whom such
had been a familiar indulgence. Yet, with a voluptuous
appetite, he had won a prize which promised him
enjoyment, if it could not compensate his losses. The
beautiful Bess Matthews—the young, the budding, the
sweet. She was in his power—a trembling dove in
the grasp of the fowler. The thought was as so much
fire to his fancy, and he sought the cottage in which
he had secured her with a fierce and feverish thirst—
a brutal sense at work in his mind, stimulating him to
an utter disregard of humanity, and prompting the complete
violation of all ties of kindred, as he meditated
to tear her away from the bosom of her parents.

About a mile from the hovel in which the family of
the pastor was immured lay the guarda-costa. There
was an air of bustle on board of her, in the unreefing
of sails, and the waving and rustling of her ropes.
The tide of battle had alternated from spot to spot
along the banks of the river—now lost in the density
of the forest, and now finding a full reverberation from
the bosom of the water. The firing had alarmed all
parties, the seamen remaining on board, not less than
the old pastor and his timid wife and trembling daughter,
who, only conscious of the struggle, and not of its
results, were filled with a thousand tearful anticipations.
To Bess Matthews, however, the strife brought with
it a promise, since it proved that the Carolinians were
prepared, in part at least, with their invaders—and
many were the fluctuations of hope and fear in her
soul, as the gathering clamour now approached and
now receded in the distance. Love taught her that
Harrison was the leader making such bold head against
the enemy—love promised her, as the battle dissipated,
that he would come and rescue her from a position in
which she did not well know whether to regard herself
as a captive to the seaman, or as one owing him gratitude
for her own and the preservation of her family.
She remembered his lustful eye and insolent speech
and gesture, and she trembled as she thought of it.
True, her father knew him in his boyhood, but his
account of him was rather tolerant than favourable;
and the subsequent life and conduct of the licentious
rover—not to speak of the suspicions openly entertained
of his true character by her lover, all taught her
to fear the protection which he had given, and to dread,
while she seemed to anticipate, the price of it.

She had no long time for doubt, and but little for
deliberation. He came—bloody with conflict—covered
with dust, blackened with gunpowder—the fierce flame
of war in his eye, and in his hand the bared weapon,
streaked with fresh stains, only partially covered with

the sand through which it had been drawn. His manner
was impatient and stern, as, without addressing
either of his captives, he called aside and gave directions
to his seamen. The pastor craved his attention,
but he waved his hand impatiently, nor turned to him
for an instant, until he had despatched two of his men
to the edge of the stream, where, well concealed by
the shrubbery upon its banks, lay the small boat of the
vessel, which had been carefully placed there by his
orders. They gave him a shrill whistle as they reached
it, which he immediately returned—then approaching
the pastor, he scrupled not an instant in the development
of the foul design which he had all along meditated.

“Hark ye, Matthews—this is no place for us now—
I can't protect ye any longer. I havn't the men—they
are cut up—slashed—dead—eleven of the finest fellows—best
men of my vessel—by this time, without a
scalp among them. I have done my best to save you,
but it's all over, and there's but one way—you must go
with us on board.”

“How, Chorley—go with you—and wherefore? I
cannot—I will not.”

“What, will not? Do you think I'll let you stay to
lose your scalps, and this sweet darling here? No,
by my soul, I were no man to suffer it. You shall go.”

“What mean you, Chorley? Are the savages successful—have
they defeated our men?—And you—
wherefore do you fly—how have you fought—with us
—for our people?”

The old pastor, half bewildered, urged these questions
incoherently, but yet with such directness of aim
as almost to bewilder the person he addressed, who
could not well answer them. How, as he argued, if
the Yemassees have defeated the Carolinians—how
was it that Chorley, who had evidently been their ally,
could not exert his power and protect them? and, on
the other hand, if the Carolinians had been the victors,
wherefore should they fly from their own people?
Unable well to meet these propositions, the native

fierce impetuosity of the pirate came to his relief, and
throwing aside entirely the conciliatory manner of his
first address, he proceeded in a style more congenial
with his true character.

“Shall I stay all day disputing with you about this
nonsense? I tell you, you shall go, whether you will
or not. Look, I have the power—look at these men—
can you withstand them? In a word, they force you
to the ship, and all your talking—ay, and all your
struggling, will help you nothing. Come—away.”

“Never—never! Oh father, let us die first!” was
the involuntary exclamation of the maiden, convulsively
clinging to the old man's arm as the ruffian took a
step towards her.

“Captain Chorley, I cannot think you mean this
violence!” said the old man with dignity.

“May I be d—d,” said he fiercely, “but I do! What,
old man, shall I leave you here to be made mincemeat
of by the Indians? No, no! I love you and your pretty
daughter too well for that. Come, sweetheart, don't
be shy—what! do you fear me, then?”

“Touch me not—touch me not with your bloody
hands. Away! I will not go—strike me dead first—
strike me dead, but I will not go.”

“But you shall! what! think you I am a child to be
put off with words and pretty speeches? What, ho!
there, boys—do as I have told you.”

In a moment, the pastor and his child were torn
asunder.

“Father—help—help! I lose thee—mother—father
—Gabriel!”

“Villain, release me—give me back my child. Undo
your hold—you shall suffer for this. Ha! ha! ha!—
they come—they come! Hurry, hurry, my people.
Here—here—we are here—they tear away my child.
Where are you—oh, Harrison, but come now—come
now, and she is yours—only save her from the hands
of this fierce ruffian. They come—they come!”

They did come—the broad glare of sunlight on the
edge of the forest was darkened by approaching shadows.

A shot—another and another was heard—and
the fugitives, who were Indians flying from the pursuing
Carolinians, rushed forward headlong; but as they
saw the group of whites on the river's brink, thinking
them new enemies, they darted aside, and taking another
route, buried themselves in the forest out of sight
just as their pursuers came forth upon the scene. A
single glance of Bess Matthews, as the ruffian suddenly
seized upon and bore her to the boat, distinguished the
manly form of her lover darting out of the thicket and
directly upon the path approaching them. That glance
gave her new hope—new courage—new strength! She
shrieked to him in a voice delirious with terror and
hope, as the pirate, steadying himself in the water,
placed her in the boat in which sat two of his seamen.

“Come to me, Gabriel—save me, save me, or I
perish. It is I—thy own Bess—ever thine—save me,
save me.”

She fell back fainting with exhaustion and excitement,
and lay nerveless and almost senseless in the
arms of her abductor. He sustained her with perfect
ease with one arm upon his bosom, while, standing
erect, for the boat scarce permitted him with his burden
to do otherwise, he placed his foot upon the
slender rudder and guided its progress, his men looking
round occasionally and suggesting the course of
the vessel. In this way, he kept his eye upon shore,
and beheld the progress of events in that quarter.

The cries of his betrothed had taught Harrison the
condition of affairs. He saw her precarious situation
at a glance, and rushing down to the beach, followed
by his men, the seamen fled along the banks higher
up the river, and were soon out of sight, leaving the
old pastor and his lady free. The scene before him
was too imposing in the eye of Harrison to permit of
his giving the fugitives a thought. But the pastor, now
free from restraint, with a speechless agony rushed
forward to him, and clasping his arm, pointed with
his finger to the form of his daughter, hanging like a
broken flower, supine, and almost senseless, upon the

shoulder of her Herculean captor. The action of
Harrison was immediate, and in a moment, the musketoon
was lifted to his shoulder, his eye ranging upon
the sight, and singling out the exposed breast of the
pirate, which lay uncovered, but just alongside of the
drooping head of the maiden. As the seaman saw the
movement, he changed her position—she saw it too,
and lifting her hand, placed it, with an emphasis not to
be mistaken, upon her heart. The old man rushed
forward, and seizing Harrison, cried to him convulsively,
while the tears trickled down his cheeks—

“Stay thy hand—stay thy hand—shoot not; rather
let me lose her, but let her live—thou wilt slay her,
thou wilt slay my child—my own, my only child,” and
he tottered like an infant in his deep agony.

“Away, old man—away!” and with the words, with
a terrible strength, Harrison hurled him headlong upon
the sands. Without a pause the fearful instrument
was again uplifted—the aim was taken,—his finger
rested on the trigger, but his heart sickened—his head
swam—his eyes grew blind and dizzy ere he drew it;
and with a shiver of convulsion, he let the weapon
descend heavily to the ground. The weakness was
only momentary. A faint scream came to his ears
over the water, and brought back with it all his
strength. The maiden had watched closely all his
motions, and the last had given her energy somewhat
to direct them. That scream aroused him. He resumed
his position and aim; and fixing the sight upon
that part of the bosom of his enemy least concealed,
nerved himself to all the hazard, and resolutely drew
the trigger. The effect was instantaneous. The
next instant the maiden was seen released from the
pirate's grasp and sinking down in the bottom of the
boat, while he stood erect. The venerable pastor
fainted, while, on her knees, his aged wife bent over
him in silent prayer. That moment was more than
death to Harrison; but what was his emotion of delight
when, at the next, he beheld the pirate, like some
gigantic tree that has kept itself erect by its own exceeding

weight, fall, like a tower, headlong over the
side of the boat, stiff and rigid, and without a struggle,
sink deeply and silently down beneath the overclosing
waters. But a new danger awaited the maiden; for in
his fall, destroying the equipoise of the skiff, its entire
contents were at the next instant precipitated into the
stream; and while the two seamen, unhurt, struck off
towards the vessel, the maiden lay in sight, sustained
above the surface only by the buoyancy of her dress,
and without exhibiting any other motion. A dozen
sinewy arms from the shore at once struck the water,
but which of all, nerved as he was by the highest
stimulant of man's nature, could leave the fearless
Harrison behind him. On he dashes, on—on—now
he nears her,—another moment and she is saved; but
while every eye was fixed as with a spell upon the prospect
with an anxiety inexpressible, the sullen gushing
waters went over her, and a universal cry of horror
arose from the shore.—But she rose again in an
instant, and with a show of consciousness, stretching
out her hand, the name of “Gabriel,” in a tone of imploring
love, reached the ears of her lover. That
tone, that word, was enough, and the next moment
found her insensible in his arms. She was a child in
his grasp, for the strength of his fearless and passionate
spirit, not less than of his native vigour, was active
to save her.

“Help—help,” was his cry to the rest, and to the
shore;—he sustained her till it came. It was not
long ere she lay in the arms of her parents, whose
mutual tears and congratulations came sweetly, along
with their free consent, to make her preserver happy
with the hand hitherto denied him.