University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The British troopers, meanwhile, pursued their journey.
With an humility that knew its place, Blonay followed
with the hindmost, and showed no annoyance,
though exposed to the continual and coarse jests of
those about him. He was becomingly indifferent, as he
seemed perfectly insensible. The termination of the
day's journey was at length at hand. The zigzag fences
rose upon both sides of the road. The negro settlement,
some thirty or forty log-dwellings, forming a square
to themselves, and each with its little enclosure, well
stocked with pigs, poultry, and the like, came in sight;
and beyond, the eager eye of Barsfield distinguished,
while his hand pointed out to his companion, the fine old
avenue, long, overgrown, and beautifully winding, which
led to the mansion-house of the Berkeley family.

“There,” said he, “is `Piney Grove'--such is the
name of the estate; a name which it properly takes from
the avenue which leads to it, the chief growth of which,
as you will see, is the field-pine. You will not see many
like it in the country.”

The troop halted at the entrance, which was soon
thrown open; and, narrowing the form of their advance,
they were in a moment after hurrying along the shady
passage which led to the hospitable dwelling. Barsfield
had said rightly to his companion—there were not many
avenues in the country like that which they now pursued.
A beautiful and popular feature, generally, in all the old

country estates of Carolina, the avenue in question was
yet of peculiar design. In the lower regions, where the
spreading and ponderous live-oak presents itself vigorously
and freely, and seems by its magnificence and
shade expressly intended for such a purpose, no other
sort of tree can well be employed. Here, however, in
the region which we now tread, wanting in that patriarchal
tree, the field-pine had been chosen as the substitute,
and nothing surely could have been more truly
beautiful than the one in question. A waving and double
line, carried on in sweeping and curious windings for
two thirds of a mile, described by these trim and tidy
trees, enclosed the party, and formed a barrier on either
hand, over which no obtrusive vine or misplaced scion
of some foreign stock was ever permitted to gad or
wander. Some idea may be formed of the pains and
care which had been taken in thus bending the free forests
in subservience to the will of man, when we know
that, though naturally a hardy tree of the most vigorous
growth, the pine is yet not readily transplanted with success,
and is so exceedingly sensitive in a strange place,
as in half the number of instances to perish from such a
transfer. A narrow but deep ditch formed an inner parallel
line with the high trees along the avenue; and the
earth, thus thrown up into a bank beneath the trees,
gave ample room and nutriment to a crowded hedge of
greenbrier and gathering vines, interspersed, during a long
season, with a thousand various and beautiful flowers.
Emerging from the avenue, the vista opened upon a lovely
park, which spread away upon either hand, and was
tastefully sprinkled here and there, singly and in groups,
with a fine collection of massive and commanding water-oaks,
from around the base of which, every thing in
the guise of shrubbery and undergrowth, the thick long
grass excepted, had been carefully pruned away. A few
young horses were permitted to ramble about and crop
the verdure on one side of the entrance, while on the
other a little knot of ruminating milch-cows, to which a
like privilege had been given, started up in alarm, and
fled at the approach of strangers so numerous and so
gorgeously arrayed. Throwing aside the heavy swinging
gate before them, the troopers passed through a trace
leading forward directly to the dwelling. On either side
of this passage a fence of light scantling, which had
once been whitewashed, proved a barrier against any
trespass of the cattle upon a province not their own.
The dwelling of Mr. Berkeley lay centrally before this
passage and at a little distance in the rear of the park.
It was an ancient mansion, of huge and clumsy brick—
square and heavy in its design, though evidently well
constructed. It was built about the time of the Yemassee
war, after the fashion of that period, and was meant
to answer the purposes of a fortress against the savage,
not less than a dwelling for the civilized man. On one
occasion the Edistohs had besieged it with a force of
nearly two hundred warriors, but the stout planter who
held it at the time, old Marmaduke Berkeley, with the
aid of his neighbours, and a few trusty Irish workmen,
who had been employed upon the estate, made a sturdy
defence, until the friendly Indians, who were the allies of
the whites, and, consequently, foes to the Edistohs, came
to their relief, and beat off the invaders. The external
aspect of the edifice bore sufficient testimony of its antiquity.
The bricks were dark and mouldy in appearance,
and the walls in several places had begun to crumble
and crack beneath their own cumbrousness. Clambering
parasites on the northern side had run at liberty
over its surface, still holding on, even in corresponding
ruin, when half withered and sapless themselves. Little
tufts of dank moss protruded here and there from dusty
apertures; and a close eye might even find an insidious
and lurking decay thriving fast in the yielding frame
which sustained this or that creaking shutter. The
mansion attested not merely its own, but the decline of
its proprietor. A man of energy, character, and due
reflection, would have found little difficulty in maintaining
a resolute and successful defence against the bold
assault of the tempest, or the insidious gnawings and
sappings of time. The present owner, unhappily, was
not this sort of man. He was prematurely old, as he
had been constitutionally timid and habitually nervous.
His life, so far, had passed in a feverish and trembling
indecision, which defeated all steady thought and prompt
action. He was one of those who, having the essentials
of manhood, has yet always been a child. He had tottered
through life with no confidence in his arms, and as
if his legs had been crutches, borrowed from a neighbouring
tree rather than limbs of a native growth, and destined
to the performance of his will. Gladly, at all times,
would he prefer to lean upon the shoulders of his neighbour,
rather than trust independently to his own thews
and sinews. In politics he could be none other than the
truckler to the existing authority, having preferences, however,
which he dared not speak, vacillating between extremes,
temporizing with every party, yet buffeted by all.

The appearance of the troop brought the old gentleman
down his steps to receive them. Barsfield only advanced,
leaving Clayton to quarter the troop on the
edge and within the enclosure of the park. Mr. Berkeley's
manner was courteous and cordial enough, but
marked by trepidation. His welcome, however, was unconstrained,
and seemed habitual. Like the major part
of the class of which he was a member, the duties of
hospitality never suffered neglect at his hands. Like
them, he delighted in society, and was at all times ready
and pleased at the appearance of a guest. Nor did the
perilous nature of events at the period of which we write,
his own timidity, and the doubtful character of the new-comer,
tend, in any great degree, to chill the freedom,
and check the tendency of his habit in this respect.
Accustomed always to wealth and influence, to the familiar

association with strangers, and to a free intercourse
with a once thickly-settled and pleasant neighbourhood,
a frank, open-hearted demeanour became as
much his characteristic as his jealous apprehensions.
This was also his misfortune, since, without doubt, it increased
the natural dependance of his mind. The habit
of giving a due consideration to the claims of others,
though a good one, doubtless, has yet its limits, which
to pass, though for a moment only, is to stimulate injustice,
and to encourage the growth of a tyranny to our
own injury. In his connexion with those around him,
and at the period of which we write, when laws were
nominal, and were administered only at the caprice of
power, the virtue of Mr. Berkeley became a weakness;
and he was accordingly preyed upon by the profligate
and defied by the daring—compelled to be silent under
wrong, or, if he resented it, only provoking thereby its
frequent repetition. His mild blue eye spoke his feelings—his
nervousness amply announced his own consciousness
of imbecility, while his pale cheek and prematurely
white hair told of afflictions deeply felt, and
of vexing and frequent strifes, injuries, and discontent.

On the present occasion he received his guest with a
kindly air of welcome, which was most probably sincere.
He was quite too feeble not to be glad of the presence
of those who could afford him protection; and there was
no little truth in the boast of the tory captain to his
companion, when he said that the timidity of Berkeley
would be one of the probable influences which might facilitate
his progress in the courtship of his daughter.
The manner of Barsfield was influenced somewhat by
his knowledge of the weakness of Mr. Berkeley, not
less than by his own habitual audacity. He met the old
gentleman with an air of ancient intimacy, grasped the
proffered hand with a hearty and confident action, and,
in tones rather louder than ordinary, congratulated him
upon his health and good looks.

“I have not waited, you see, Mr. Berkeley, for an
invitation. I have ridden in and taken possession without
a word, as if I was perfectly assured that no visiter
could be more certainly welcome to a good loyalist like
yourself, than one who was in arms for his majesty.”

“None, sir—none, Captain Barsfield—you do me
nothing more than justice. You are welcome—his majesty's
officers and troops are always welcome to my
poor dwelling,” was the reply of the old man, uttered
without restraint, and seemingly with cordiality; and yet,
a close observer might have seen that there was an air
of abstraction indicative of a wandering and dissatisfied
mood, in the disturbed and changing expression of his
features. A few moments elapsed, which they employed
in mutual inquiries, when Lieutenant Clayton, having
bestowed his men, their baggage, and wagons agreeably
to the directions given him, now joined them upon the
steps of the dwelling, and was introduced by Barsfield,
in character, to his host. Clayton reported to his captain
what he had done with the troop, their disposition,
and the general plan of their arrangement, in obedience
to orders; turning to Mr. Berkeley at the conclusion,
and politely apologizing for the unavoidable disturbance
which such an arrangement must necessarily occasion in
his grounds. The old man smiled faintly, and murmured
out words of approbation; but, though he strove to be
and to appear satisfied, he was evidently ill at ease.
The invasion of his beautiful park by a prancing and
wheeling troop of horse—its quiet broken by the oaths,
the clamour, and the confusion common to turbulent
soldiers, and the utter dispersion of his fine young horses,
which had leaped the barrier in their fright, and were
now flying in all directions over the plantation, brought
to his bosom no small pang, as they spoke strongly for
the extent of his submission. He controlled his dissatisfaction,
however, as well as he could, and now urged
his guests, with frequent entreaties, to enter his mansion

for refreshment. They followed him from the piazza
into a large hall, such as might have answered the purposes
of a room of state, calculated for the deliberations
of a thousand men. It was thus that our ancestors built,
as it were, with a standard drawn from the spacious wilds
and woods around them. They seemed also to have
built for posterity. Huge beams, unenclosed, ran along
above, supporting the upper chambers, which were huge
enough to sustain the weight of a palace. The walls
were covered with the dark and durable cypress, wrought
in panels, which gave a rich, artist-like air to the apartment.
Two huge fireplaces at opposite ends of the
hall attested its great size, in one of which, even in the
month of September, a few broken brands might be
seen still burning upon the hearth. A dozen faded
family pictures, in massive black frames, hung around
—quaint, rigid, puritanical faces, seemingly cut out of
board, after the fashion of Sir Peter Lely, with glaring
Flemish drapery, and that vulgar style of colouring
which makes of red and yellow primary principles,
from the contagion of which neither land, sea, nor sky
is suffered in any climate to be properly exempt. The
furniture was heavy and massive like the rest—suitable
to the apartment, and solid, like the dwellings and desires
of the people of the by-gone days.

Seats were drawn, the troopers at ease, and the good
old Madeira of the planter soon made its appearance, to
which they did ample justice. The generous liquor
soon produced freedom of discourse; and, after a few
courteous and usual overtures, consisting of mutual inquiries
after the health of the several parties present,
their relations, friends, and so forth, the conversation
grew more general, and, perhaps, more important, as it
touched upon the condition of the country.

“You have quiet now, Mr. Berkeley,” said Barsfield.
“The rousing defeats which the rebels have recently
sustained have pretty well done them up on every side.

The game is very nigh over, and we shall soon have little
else to do than gather up the winnings. The drubbing
which Cornwallis gave that conceited fellow, Gates, and
the surprise of Sumter, both events so complete and
conclusive, will go very far towards bringing the country
back to its loyalty.”

“God grant it, sir,” was the ardent response of Mr.
Berkeley, “for we shall then have peace. These have
been four miserable years to the country, since the beginning
of this war. Neighbour against neighbour,
friend against friend, and sometimes even brother arming
and going out to battle with his brother. It has been an
awful time, and Heaven grant, sir, it may be as you say.
Heaven restore us the quiet and the peace which have
been for so long strangers in the land.”

“You shall have it, sir, I promise you, after this;
though I should think, by this time, you have been perfectly
freed from the incursions of that skulking fellow,
Marion. The report is that he has disbanded his men,
and has fled into North Carolina. If so, I shall have
little use for mine; and these arms, which I have brought
for distribution among your loyal neighbours, will scarcely
be necessary to them. Have you any intelligence on
this subject, Mr. Berkeley?”

“No, sir—no, none! I am not in the way, Captain
Barsfield, of hearing intelligence of this nature. I know
nothing of the movements of either party.”

This reply was uttered with some little trepidation;
and, as the old gentleman spoke, he looked apprehensively
around the apartment, as if he dreaded to see the
redoubtable “swamp fox” and all his crew, “Roaring
Dick,” “Thumbscrew,” and the rest, fast gathering at his
elbow. Barsfield smiled at the movement, and crossing
one leg over another, and slapping his thigh with an air
of unmitigated self-complaisance as he spoke, he thus
replied, rather to the look and manner than the language
of his host:—

“Well, sir, I hope soon to rid you of any apprehensions
on the subject of that marauding rebel. I am
about to become your near neighbour, Mr. Berkeley.”

The old gentleman bowed in token of his satisfaction
at the intelligence. Barsfield continued—

“You have heard, doubtlessly, that I am now the proprietor
of the noble estate of `Kaddipah,' formerly the
seat of Max Mellichampe, and confiscated to his majesty's
uses on account of that arch-traitor's defection.
Having had the good fortune to slay the rebel with my
own hand, his majesty has been pleased to bestow upon
me the estate which he so justly forfeited.”

There was some emotion of an equivocal sort visible
in the countenance of Berkeley, as he listened to this
communication. A shade of melancholy overspread his
face, as if some painful memory had suddenly grown active;
and a slight suffusion of his eyelashes was not entirely
undistinguished by his guests. Struggling with his
feelings, however, whatever may have been their source,
the old man recovered himself sufficiently to reply,
though in a thick voice, which left his language but half
intelligible,

“Yes—yes, sir—I did hear—I'm glad, sir—I shall be
happy—”

And here he paused in the imperfect speech which
Barsfield did not leave him time to finish.

“There will be nothing then, sir, that any of us will
have to fear from these outliers in the swamps; when
that takes place, `Kaddipah,' sir, so long as the war continues,
will be a place of defence, sufficiently well
guarded as a post to resist any present force of Marion;
and, as I shall have charge of it, I think it safe to say,
from what they know of me, they will not often venture
even within scouting distance. Talking of scouts, now,
Clayton, where's the fellow we picked up to-day, having
a pass from Proctor? He looks as if he would make
an admirable one. If his eyes only see as far as they

seem willing to go, he is certainly a very valuable acquisition.”

A distinct hem from another quarter of the hall attracted
all eyes in that direction, and there, squat upon
the hearth of one of the fireplaces, sat the form of Blonay.
He had piled the dismembered brands together,
and sat enjoying the fire, unperceived, and certainly unenvied.
At what time he had so secretly effected his
entrance, was utterly unknown to any of the party.
Barsfield started as he beheld him, and, seeming to forget
his host, hastily addressed him:—

“Why, how now, fellow?—you seem to make yourself
at home. Why are you here?—why did you not
remain with the troop?”

“Why, cause I ain't one of them, you see, cappin,
and they all pokes fun at me.”

The simplicity of his reply disarmed Barsfield of his
anger, and his presence gave him a new subject upon
which to enjoy himself. The Half-Breed was now made
to undergo another examination, conducted by both the
officers, who mingled freely with their inquiries sundry
poor jests at his infirmity, all of which fell upon the
seemingly steril sense of the subject as if he had been
so much marble. While thus engaged an inner door
was thrown open, and the guests started involuntarily to
their feet.

“My daughter, gentlemen, Miss Berkeley—my niece,
Miss Duncan,” were the words of the old man, uttered
with an air of greater elevation than was his wont. The
two ladies were provided with seats, and in the momentary
silence which followed their first appearance, we
may be permitted to take a passing glance at their persons.
Our opinions may well be reserved for another
chapter.