University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.

A motley assemblage gathered at the Chief's Bluff,
upon the banks of the Pocota-ligo, at an early hour on
the day so full of incident. A fine day after so foul a
promise—the sun streamed brightly, and the skies without
a cloud looked down peacefully over the settlement.
But there was little sympathy among the minds of the
borderers with such a prospect. They had suffered
quite too much, and their sufferings were quite too
fresh in their minds, properly to feel it. Worn out
with fatigue, and not yet recovered from their trials
and terrors—now struggling onward with great effort,
and now borne in the arms of the more able-bodied
among the men, came forward the women and children
who had been sheltered in the Block House. That
structure was now in ashes—so indeed, generally
speaking, were all the dwellings between that point
and Pocota-ligo. Below the former point, however,
thanks to the manful courage and ready appearance of
Hugh Grayson with the troop he had brought up, the
horrors of the war had not extended. But in all other
quarters, the insurrection had been successful. Far
and wide, scattering themselves in bands over every
other part of the colony, the Yemassees and their
numerous allies were carrying the terrors of their arms
through the unprepared and unprotected settlement,
down to the very gates of Charlestown—the chief
town and principal rallying point of the Carolinians,
and there the inhabitants were literally walled in, unable

to escape unless by sea, and then, only from the
country. But this belongs elsewhere. The group
now assembled upon the banks of the Pocota-ligo, absorbed
as they were in their own grievances, had not
thought of the condition of their neighbours. The
straits and sufferings of the other settlements were
utterly unimagined by them generally. But one person
of all the group properly conjectured the extent
of the insurrection—that was Harrison. He had been
a part witness to the league—had counted the various
tribes represented in that gloomy dance of death—the
club and scalp-dance—the rites of demoniac conception
and origin;—and he felt that the very escape of
the people around him only arose from the concentration
of the greater force of the savages upon the more
populous settlements of the Carolinians. Full of satisfaction
that so many had been saved, his mind was yet
crowded with the thousand apprehensions that came
with his knowledge of the greater danger to which the
rest of the colony was exposed. He knew the strong
body commanded by Sanutee to be gone in the direction
of the Ashley river settlement. He knew that a
force of Spaniards was expected to join them from St.
Augustine, but whether by sea or land was yet to be
determined. He felt the uncertainty of his position,
and how doubtful was the condition of the province
under such an array of enemies; but with a mind still
cheerful, he gave his orders for the immediate remove,
by water, to the city; and having completed his preparations
as well as he might, and while the subordinates
were busied in procuring boats, he gave himself,
for a brief time, to the family of Bess Matthews.
Long and sweet was the murmuring conversation carried
on between the lovers. Like a stream relieved
from the pressure of the ice, her affections now poured
themselves freely into his. The consent of her father
had been given, even if his scruples had not been
withdrawn, and that was enough. Her hand rested in
the clasp of his, and the unrebuking eyes of the old
Puritan gave it a sufficient sanction. Matthews may
have sought, in what he then said, to satisfy himself of
the necessity for his consent, if he had failed to satisfy
his conscience.

“She is yours, Captain Harrison—she is yours!
But for you, but for you, God knows, and I dread to
think, what would have been her fate in the hands of
that bad man. Bad from his cradle, for I knew him
from that time, and knew that, mischief then, and
crime when he grew older, were his familiar play-mates,
and his most companionable thoughts.”

“You were slow in discovering it, sir,” was the reply
of Harrison—“certainly slow in acknowledging it
to me.”

“I had a hope, Master Harrison, that he had grown
a wiser and a better man, and was therefore unwilling
to mortify him with the recollection of the past, or of
making it public to his ill-being. But let us speak of
him no more. There are other topics far more grateful
in the recollection of our escape from this dreadful
night; and long and fervent should be our prayers to
the benevolent Providence who has had us so affectionately
in his care. But what now are we to do,
Captain Harrison—what is our hope of safety, and
where are we to go?”

“I have thought of all this, sir. There is but one
course for us, and that is to place the young and feeble
safely in Charlestown. There is no safety short of
that point.”

“How—not at Port Royal Island?”

“No! not even there—we shall be compelled to
hurry past it now as rapidly as possible in our way to
the place of refuge—the only place that can now certainly
be considered such.”

“What—shall we go by water?”

“There is no other way. By this time, scarce a
mile of wood between Pocota-ligo and Charlestown
itself but is filled by savages. I saw the force last
night, and that with which we contended was nothing
to the numbers pledged in this insurrection. They

did not look for resistance here, and hence the smallness
of their numbers in this quarter.”

“And to your wise precautions, Master Harrison,
we owe all this. How unjust I have been to you, sir!”

“Speak not of it, Master Matthews—you have more
than atoned in the rich possession which I now hold.
Ah, Bess!—I see you look for the promised secret.
Well, it shall be told. But stay—I have a duty.—
Pardon me a while.”

He rose as he spoke, and made a signal to Hector,
who now came forward with the dog Dugdale, which
had been wounded with an arrow in the side, not seriously,
but painfully, as was evident from the writhings
and occasional moanings of the animal, while
Hector busied himself plastering the wound with the
resinous gum of the pine-tree.

“Hector,” said his master, as he approached—“give
me Dugdale. Henceforward I shall take care of him
myself.”

“Sa! mossa,” exclaimed the negro, with an expression
almost of terrified amazement in his countenance.

“Yes, Hector,—you are now free.—I give you your
freedom, old fellow. Here is money too, and in
Charlestown you shall have a house to live in for yourself.”

“No, mossa.—I can't, sir—I can't be free,” replied
the negro, shaking his head, and endeavouring to resume
possession of the strong cord which secured the
dog, and which Harrison had taken into his own hand.

“Why can't you, Hector? What do you mean?
Am I not your master? Can't I make you free, and
don't I tell you that I do make you free? From this
moment you are your own master.”

“Wha'-for, mossa? Wha' Hector done, you guine
turn um off dis time o' day?”

“Done! You have saved my life, old fellow—you
have fought for me like a friend, and I am now your
friend, and not any longer your master.”

“Ki, mossa! enty you always been frien' to Hector?
Enty you gib um physic when he sick, and come see

and talk wid um, and do ebbery ting he want you for
do? What more you guine do, now?”

“Yes, Hector, I have done for you all this—but I
have done it because you were my slave, and because
I was bound to do it.”

“Ah, you no want to be boun' any longer. Da's it!
I see. You want Hector for eat acorn wid de hog, and
take de swamp wid de Injin, enty?”

“Not so, old fellow—but I cannot call you my slave
when I would call you my friend. I shall get another
slave to carry Dugdale, and you shall be free.”

“I dam to hell, mossa, if I guine to be free!” roared
the adhesive black, in a tone of unrestrainable determination.
“I can't loss you company, and who de
debble Dugdale will let feed him like Hector? 'Tis
unpossible, mossa, and dere's no use to talk 'bout it.
De ting aint right; and enty I know wha' kind of ting
freedom is wid black man? Ha! you make Hector
free, he come wuss more nor poor buckrah—he tief
out of de shop—he get drunk and lie in de ditch—den,
if sick come, he roll, he toss in de wet grass of de
stable. You come in de morning, Hector dead—and,
who know—he no take physic, he no hab parson—
who know, I say, mossa, but de debble fine em 'fore
anybody else? No, mossa—you and Dugdale berry
good company for Hector. I tank God he so good—
I no want any better.”

The negro was positive, and his master, deeply affected
with this evidence of his attachment, turned
away in silence, offering no further obstruction to the
desperate hold which he again took of the wounded
Dugdale. Approaching the little group from which but
a few moments before he had parted, he stood up in
earnest conversation with the pastor, while the hand
of Bess, in confiding happiness and innocence, was suffered
to rest passively in his own. It was a moment
of delirious rapture to both parties. But there was
one who stood apart, yet surveying the scene, to whom
it brought a pang little short of agony. This was the
younger Grayson. Tears started to his eyes as he

beheld them, and he turned away from the group in
a suffering anguish, that, for the moment, brought back
those sterner feelings which he had hitherto so well
suppressed. The eye of Harrison caught the movement,
and readily divined its cause. Calling Granger
to him, he demanded from him a small packet which
he had intrusted to his care on leaving the Block House
for Pocota-ligo the evening before. The question disturbed
the trader not a little, who, at length, frankly
contessed he had mislaid it.

“Say not so, man! think!—that packet is of
value, and holds the last treaty of the colony with the
Queen of St. Helena, and the Cassique of Combahee—
not to speak of private despatches, set against which
thy worthless life would have no value! Look, man,
as thou lovest thy quiet!”

“It is here, sir—all in safety, as thou gavest it him,”
said the wife of the trader, coming forward. “In the
hurry of the fight he gave it me for safe-keeping, though
too much worried to think afterward of the trust.”

“Thou art a strong-minded woman—and 'tis well
for Granger such as thou hast him in charge. Take
my thanks for thy discharge of duties self-assumed,
and not assigned thee. Thou shalt be remembered.”

Possessing himself of the packet, he approached
Hugh Grayson, who stood sullenly apart, and drawing
from its folds a broad sheet of parchment, he thus
addressed him:—

“Master Grayson, the colony owes thee thanks for
thy good service, and would have more from thee. I
know not one in whom, at such a time, its proprietary
lords can better confide, in this contest, than in thee.
Thou hast courage, enterprise, and conduct—art not
too rash, nor yet too sluggard—but, to my poor mind,
thou combinest happily all the materials which should
make a good captain. Thou hast a little mistaken me
in some things, and, perhaps, thou hast something erred
in estimating thyself. But thou art young, and responsibility
makes the man—nothing like responsibility!
So thinking, and with a frank speech, I beg of thee to

accept this commission. It confers on thee all military
command in this county of Granville, to pursue the
enemies of the colony with fire and sword—to control
its people for the purposes of war in dangerous times
like the present—and to do, so long as this insurrection
shall continue, whatever may seem wise to thy mind,
for the proprietors and for the people, as if they had
spoken through thy own mouth. Is the trust agreeable
to thee?”

“Who art thou?” was the surprised response of the
youth, looking a degree of astonishment, corresponding
with that upon the faces of all around, to whom the
speaker had hitherto only been known as Gabriel Harrison.

“True—let me answer that question. The reply
belongs to more than one. Bess, dearest, thou shalt
now be satisfied; but in learning my secret, thou losest
thy lover. Know, then, thou hast Gabriel Harrison no
longer! I am Charles Craven, Governor and Lord
Palatine of Carolina!”

She sunk with a tearful pleasure into his arms as
he spoke, and the joyful shout of all around attested
the gratification with which the people recognised in
an old acquaintance the most popular governor of the
Carolinas, under the lords-proprietors, which the Carolinians
ever had.

“I take your commission, my lord,” replied Grayson,
with a degree of firm manliness superseding his
gloomy expression and clearing it away—“I take it,
sir, and will proceed at once to the execution of its
duties. Your present suggestions, sir, will be of
value.”

“You shall have them, Master Grayson, in few
words,” was the reply of the palatine. “It will be
your plan to move down with your present force along
the river, taking with you, as you proceed, all the settlers,
so as to secure their safety. Your point of rest
and defence will be the fort at Port Royal, which now
lacks most of its garrison from the draught made on it
by my orders to Bellinger, and which gave you command

of the brave men you brought up last night. I
shall be at Port Royal before you, and will do what I
may there, in the meanwhile, towards its preparation,
whether for friend or foe. With your present force,
and what I shall send you on my arrival at Charlestown,
you will be adequate to its defence.”

“Ahem, ahem!—My lord,” cried Nichols, awkwardly
approaching—“My lord, permit me, with all due humility,
to suggest that the duties so assigned Master
Grayson are heavy upon such young hands. Ahem!
my lord—it is not now that I have to say that I have
never yet shrunk from the service of the people. I
would—”

“Ay, ay, Nichols—I know what you would say, and
duly estimate your public spirit; but, as you are the
only surgeon—indeed, the only medical man in the
parish—to risk your life unnecessarily, in a command
so full of risk as that assigned Master Grayson, would
be very injudicious. We may spare a soldier—or even
an officer—but the loss of a doctor is not so easily
supplied—and”—here his voice sunk into a whisper,
as he finished the sentence in the ears of the patriot—
“the probability is, that your commander, from the
perilous service upon which he goes, will be the very
first to claim your skill.”

“Well, my lord, if I must, I must—but you can understand,
though it does not become me to say, how
readily I should meet death in behalf of the people.”

“That I know—that I know, Nichols. Your patriotism
is duly estimated. Enough, now—and farewell,
gentlemen—God speed, and be your surety.
Granger, let us have boats for the city.”

“Young missis,” whispered Hector, taking Bess
Matthews aside—“let me beg you call Hector your
sarbant—tell mossa you must hab me—dat you can't
do widout me, and den, you see, misses, he wun't bodder
me any more wid he long talk 'bout freedom. Den,
you see, he can't turn me off, no how.” She promised
him as he desired, and he went off to the boats singing:—

“Well, good-by, Mossa Doctor, good-by! Dem Ingins
'member you long time—dem dat you kill!”

“What do you mean, you black rascal!” cried Constantine
Maximilian to the retreating negro, who saw
the regretful expression with which the medical man
surveyed the preparation for a departure from the scene
of danger, in the securities of which he was not permitted
to partake. Three cheers marked the first
plunge of the boats from the banks, bearing off the
gallant palatine with his peerless forest-flower.