University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The two watchers had not long to wait in their several
places of concealment. The sound which had disturbed
their conference, and sent them into shelter, drew
nigher momentarily, and a small body of mounted men,
emerging at length from a bend in the irregular road
over which they came, appeared in sight. They were
clothed in the rich, gorgeous uniform of the British army,
and were well mounted. Their number, however, did
not exceed thirty, and their general form of advance and
movement announced them to be less thoughtful, at that
moment, of the dangers of ambuscade and battle, than
of the pleasant cheer and well-filled larder of the neighbouring
gentry. Two officers rode together, in advance
of them some little distance, and the free style of their
conversation, the loud, careless tones of their voices,
and the lounging, indifferent manner in which they sat
upon their horses, showed them to be, if not neglectful
of proper precautions, at least perfectly unapprehensive
of any enemy. A couple of large military wagons,
drawn each by four able-bodied horses, appeared in the
centre of the cavalcade, the contents of which, no doubt,
were of sufficient importance to call for such a guard.
Yet there was little or nothing of a proper military discipline
preserved in the ranks of the troop. Following
the example of the officers who commanded them, and
who seemed, from their unrestrained mirth, to be engaged
in the disoussion of some topic particularly agreeable to

both, the soldiers gave a loose to the playfullest moods—
wild jest and free remark passed from mouth to mouth,
and they spoke, and looked, and laughed, as if their
trade was not suffering, and its probable termination a
bloody death. Their merriment, however, as it was subdued,
in comparison with that of the officers, did not
provoke their notice or rebuke. The whole party, in all
respects, seemed one fitted out for the purposes of pleasure
rather than of war. Elated by the recent victories
of Cornwallis over Gates, and Tarleton over Sumter,
together with the supposed flight of Marion into North
Carolina, and the dispersion of his partisans, the British
officers had foregone much of that severe, but proper
discipline, through which alone they had already been
able to achieve so much. The commander of the little
troop before us moved on with as much indifference as
if enemies had ceased to exist, and as if his whole business
now was the triumph and the pageant which should
follow successes so complete.

“Gimini!” exclaimed Thumbscrew, as he beheld, at
a distance, their irregular approach. “Gimini! if the
major was only here now, jist with twenty lads only—
twenty would do—maybe he wouldn't roll them red-jackets
in the mud!”

The close approach of the troop silenced the farther
speculations of the woodman, and he crouched among
the shrubbery, silent as death, but watchful of every
movement. The person of the captain who commanded
them was rather remarkable for its strength than symmetry.
He was a man of brawn and muscle—of broad
shoulders and considerable height. His figure was unwieldy,
however, and, though a good, he was not a graceful
horseman. His features were fine, but inexpressive,
and his skin brown with frequent exposure. There was
something savage rather than brave in the expression
of his mouth, and his nose, in addition to its exceeding
feebleness, had an ugly bend upwards at its termination,

which spoke of a vexing and querulous disposition. His
companion was something slenderer in his person, and
considerably more youthful. There was nothing worthy
of remark in his appearance, unless it be that he was
greatly given to laughter—an unprofitable habit, which
seemed to be irresistible and confirmed in him, and which
was not often found to await the proper time and provocation.
He appeared of a thoughtless temper—one who
was content with the surfaces of things, and did not disturb
the waters with a discontented spirit, seeking for
more pleasure than the surface gave him. At the moment
of their approach the good-humour of the two was
equally shared between them. The subject upon which
they had been conversing appeared to have been productive
of no small degree of merriment to both, and of
much undisguised satisfaction to the elder. He chuckled
with uncontrollable complacency, and, long after the
laugh of his companion had ceased, a lurking smile hung
upon his lips, that amply denoted the still lingering
thought of pleasure in his mind. Though ignorant of
the occasion of their mirth before, we may now, as they
approach, hear something of the dialogue, which was renewed
after a brief pause between them; and which,
though it may not unfold to us the secret of their satisfaction,
may at least inform us, in some degree, of much
that is not less necessary for us to know. The pause
was broken by the younger of the two, whose deferential
and conciliatory manner, while it spoke the inferior, was,
at the same time, dashed with a phrase of fireside familiarity,
which marked the intimacy of the boon companion.

“And now, Barsfield, you may laugh at fortune for
ever after. You have certainly given her your defiance,
and have triumphed over her aversion. You have beaten
your enemy, won your commission, found favour in the
sight of your commander, and can now sit down to the
performance of a nominal duty, with a fine plantation,
and a stout force of negroes, all at your command and

calling you master. By St. George and the old dragon
himself, I should be willing that these rebels should denounce
me too as a tory, and by any other nickname, for
rewards like these.”

“They may call me so if they think proper,” said the
other, to whom the last portion of his comrade's remark
seemed to be scarcely welcome; “but, by God! they
will be wise not to let me hear them. I have had that
name given me once already by that insolent boy, and I
did not strike him down for it—he may thank his good
fortune and the interposition of that fellow Witherspoon
that I did not—but it will be dangerous for any living
man to repeat the affront.”

“And why should you mind it, Barsfield?” responded
his companion. “It can do you no mischief—the term
is perfectly innocuous. It breaks no skin—it takes away
no fortune.”

“No! but it sticks to a man like a tick, and worries
him all his life,” said the other.

“Only with your thin-skinned gentry. For such an
estate as yours, Barsfield, they might be licensed to
call me by any nickname which they please.”

“I am not so indulgent, Lieutenant Clayton,” replied
the other; “and, let me tell you, that you don't know the
power of a nickname among enemies. A nickname is
an argument, and one of that sort, too, that, after once
hearing it, the vulgar are sure never to listen to any
other. It has been of no small influence already in
this same war—and it will be of greater effect towards
the conclusion, if it should ever so happen that the war
should terminate unfavourably to the arms of his majesty.”

“But you don't think any such result possible?” was
the immediate reply of Clayton.

“No—not now. This last licking of Sumter, and
the wholesale defeat of Gates, have pretty well done up
the rebels in this quarter. Georgia has been long shut

up, and North Carolina will only wake up to find her
legs fastened. As for Virginia, if Cornwallis goes on
at the present rate, he'll straddle her quite in two weeks
more. No! I think that rebellion is pretty nigh wound
up; and, if we can catch the `swamp fox,' or find out
where he hides, I'll contrive that we shall have no more
difficulty from him.”

“Let that once take place,” replied his companion,
“and you may then retire comfortably, in the enjoyment
of the otium cum dignitate, the reward of hard fighting and
good generalship, to the shady retreats of `Kaddipah.'
By-the-way, Barsfield, you must change that name to
something modern—something English. I hate these
abominable Indian names—they are so uncouth, and so
utterly harsh and foreign in an English ear. We must
look up a good name for your settlement.”

“You mistake. I would not change the name for the
world. I have always known the place by that name,
long before I ever thought to call it mine; and the name
sounds sweet in my ears. Besides, I like these Indian
names, of which you so much complain. They sound
well, and are always musical.”

“They are always harsh to me, and then they have
no meaning—none that we know any thing about.”

“And those that we employ have as little. They are
generally borrowed from individuals who were their proprietors,
and this is the case with our Indian names,
which have the advantage in softness and emphasis.
No! `Kaddipah Thicket' shall not lose its old name in
gaining a new owner. It wouldn't look to me half so
beautiful if I were to give it any other. I have rambled
over its woods when a boy, and hunted through them
when a man, man and boy, for thirty years—known all
its people, and the name seems to be a history, and
brings to me a whole world of recollections, which I
should be apt to lose were I to change it.”

“Some of them, Barsfield, it appears to me that you

should prefer to lose. The insult of old Mellichampe,
for example.”

“I revenged it!” was the reply, quickly and gloomily
uttered. “I revenged it in his blood, and the debt is
paid.”

“But the son?—did you not, only now, complain of
him also?—did he not call you—”

“Tory! I'll finish the sentence for you, as I would
rather, if the word is to be repeated in my ears, have the
utterance to myself. You are an Englishman, and the
name does not and cannot be made to apply to you here,
and you cannot understand, therefore, the force of its application
from one American to another. He called me
a tory! denounced, defied, and struck at me, and I would
have slain him—ay, even in the halls which are henceforward
to call me master—but that I was held back by
others, whose prudence, perhaps, saved the lives of both
of us; for the strife would have been pell-mell, and that
fellow Witherspoon, who was the overseer of old Mellichampe,
had a drawn knife ready over my shoulder, at
the moment that mine was lifted at the breast of the
insolent youngster. But this is a long story, and you
already know it. I have been revenged on the father,
and have my debt against the son—that shall be cancelled
also, in due course of time.”

“And where is the youngster now, Barsfield? Have
you any knowledge of his movements?”

“None—his mother has fled to the Santee, where
she is sheltered by Watson. But of the son I know
nothing. He is not with her, that's certain; for Evans,
whom I sent off in that direction as a sort of scout and
watch over her, reports that he has not yet made his appearance.”

“He must be out with Marion, then?” was the suggestion
of the other.

“We shall soon see that, for our loyalists are all ready
and earnest for a drive after the `fox;' and it will be a

close swamp that will keep him away from hunters such
as ours. These arms will provide two hundred of them,
and we have full that number ready to volunteer. In a
week more I hope to give a good account of his den,
and all in it.”

While this dialogue was going on, the speakers continued
to approach the spot where Thumbscrew lay in
hiding. It was not long, as they drew nigh, before he
distinguished the person of Barsfield, and a fierce emotion
kindled in his eye as he looked out from his shelter
upon the advancing figure of the successful tory. His
whole frame seemed agitated with the quickening rush of
the warm blood through his veins—his teeth were
gnashed for a moment fiercely, and, freeing a way
through the bushes for his rifle-muzzle, in the first gush
of his excited feelings, he lifted the deadly weapon to
his eye, brought back the cock with the utmost precaution,
avoiding any unnecessary click, and prepared to
plant the fatal bullet in the head of the unconscious victim.
But the tory rode by unharmed. A gentler, or, at
least, a more prudent feeling, got the better of the woodman's
momentary mood of passion; and, letting the
weapon fall quietly into the hollow of his arm, he muttered
in a low tone to himself—

“Not yet, not yet—let him pass—let him git on as
he can. It ain't time yet—he must have a little more
swing for it before I bring him up, for 'tain't God's pleasure
that I should drop him now. I don't feel like it, and
so I know it can't be right. It's a cold-blooded thing,
and looks too much like murder; and, God help me, it
ain't come to that yet, for Jack Witherspoon to take it
out of his enemy's hide without giving him fair play for
it. Let him go—let him go. Ride on, Barsfield; the
bullet's to be run yet that bothers you.”

And, thus muttering to himself, the woodman beheld
his victim pass by him in safety, his troop and wagons
following. He was about to turn away and seek his

comrade in the wood, when he saw his travelling acquaintance,
Blonay, emerge from the opposite quarter,
and place himself before the British officers. This
movement at once satisfied the doubts of Thumbscrew
as to the politics of the low-countryman.

“As I thought,” said he to himself, “the fellow's a
skunk, and a monstrous sly one. He knows how to
badger, and can beat the bush like a true scout. It's a
God's pity that a fellow that has good qualities like that,
shouldn't have soul enough to be an honest man. But
no matter—pay-day will come for all; and truth will
have to wait in the swamp till cunning can go help her
out.”

Thus moralizing, the woodman went back from his
hiding-place, and soon joined his now impatient companion.

Blonay, in the meanwhile, had made the acquaintance
of the British party. Confirmed by their uniform, he
boldly advanced, and presented himself before the captain.

“Who the devil are you?” was the uncourteous salutation.

A grin and a bow, with a few mumbled words, was
the sort of reply manifested by the Half-Breed, who followed
up this overture by the presentation of the passport
furnished by Proctor. Barsfield read the scroll, and
threw it back to him.

“And so you are going our way, I see by your paper.
It is well—you will prefer, then, falling in with us,
and taking our protection?”

Blonay bowed assent, and muttered his acknowledgments.

“And, perhaps,” continued the tory captain, “as you
are a true friend to his majesty's cause, you will not object
to a drive into the swamps along with us after these
men of Marion, who are thought to be lurking about
here?”

The Half-Breed gave his ready assurance of a perfect
willingness to do so.

“Well said, my friend; and now tell us, Mr. Blonay,
what have been your adventures upon the road? What
have you seen deserving of attention since you came
into this neighbourhood?”

The person addressed did not fail to relate all the
particulars of his meeting, but a little before, with the
woodman, as the reader has already witnessed it. Barsfield
listened with some show of attention, and only interrupted
the narrator to ask for a description of the
stranger's person. This was given, and had the effect
of producing an expression of earnest thought in the
countenance of the listener.

“Very large, you say—broad about the shoulders?
And you say he went into this wood?”

“Off there, cappin, close on to them bays, and in
them bushes.”

Barsfield looked over into the thick-set and seemingly
impervious forest, and saw at a glance how doubtful
and difficult would be the pursuit, in such a place, even
were the object important, of a single man. After a
momentary pause of action and speech, he gave orders
suddenly to move on in the path they were pursuing.
Taking the direction of his finger, Blonay fell behind,
and was soon mingled in with the party that followed.

“You shall see my fair neighbour,” said the tory captain
to his companion, when the party resumed its progress,
as if in continuation of the previous discourse;
“she is as beautiful and young, Clayton, as she is pure
and intellectual. She is the prize, dearer and richer than
all of my previous attainment, for which I would freely
sacrifice them all. You shall see her, and swear to what
I have said.”

“You will make her your own soon, then, I imagine,”
said the other, “esteeming her so highly.”

“If I can—be sure of it,” responded Barsfield. “I
will try devilish hard for it, I assure you; and it will be
devilish hard indeed, if, with a fine plantation, and no little
power—with a person which, though not superb, is at
least passable”—and the speaker looked down upon his
own bulky frame with some complacency—“it will be
devilish hard, I say, if I do not try successfully. Her
old father, too, will back me to the utmost, for he is devilish
scary, and, being a good loyalist, is very anxious to
have a son-in-law who can protect his cattle from the
men of Marion. They have half frightened him already
into consent, and have thus done me much more service
than they ever intended.”

“But your maiden herself, the party chiefly concerned?”
said Clayton, inquiringly.

“She fights shy, and does not seem over-earnest to
listen to my courtier speeches; but she is neither stern
nor unapproachable, and, when she replies to me, it is
always gently and sweetly.”

“Then she is safe, be sure of it,” was the sanguine
response of the other.

“Not so,” said the more sagacious Barsfield; “not
so. I am not so well satisfied that because she is gentle
she will be yielding. She cannot be otherwise than
gentle—she cannot speak otherwise than sweetly, even
though her words be those of denial. I would rather a
cursed sight that she should wince a little, and tremble
when I talk to her; for then I should know that she was
moved with an interest one way or the other. Your cool,
composed sort of woman is not to be surprised into any
foolish weakness. They must listen long, and like to
listen, before you can do any thing with them. But you
shall see her soon, for here her father's fields commence.
A fine clearing, you see, and the old buck is tolerably
well off—works some eighty hands, and has a stock
would fit out a dozen Scotch graziers.”

Thus discussing the hopes and expectations which

make the aim and being of the dissolute adventurer,
they pricked their way onward with all speed to the
dwelling of those who were to be the anticipated victims.