University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The movement of Barsfield was almost as soon perceived
by Mellichampe as it had been by Janet Berkeley.
He saw, at a glance, the abrupt spring which the
tory made from his chair, and, conjecturing the cause of
his emotion, he prepared himself for flight. Though
rash in the extreme, he was not so much of the madman
as to dare the contest with such a force as Barsfield
could bring against him; yet loath was he, indeed, to fly
before so hated an enemy.

“Oh, could we but cross weapons alone in that deep
forest, with no eye upon us but those heavenly watchers,
and the grim spirits that hover around and exult in the
good stroke which is struck for vengeance! Could we
there meet, Barsfield—but this hour—I would ask nothing
more from Heaven!”

This was the prayer of Mellichampe—these were his
words, muttered through his clinched teeth, as, turning
from the window, he placed his hands on the light railing
of the balcony, and, heedless of the height—something
over fifteen feet—leaped, with a fearless yet bitter
heart, into the yard below.

He had come, agreeably to his appointment with the
maiden, and, as we have seen, in spite of all the solicitations
of his friend and comrade. He had uttered his
accustomed signals—they had been, of necessity, disregarded.
Vexed and feverish, his blood grew more phrensied
at every moment which he was compelled to wait;
and, at no time blessed with patience, he had adopted the
still more desperate resolution of penetrating to the very
dwelling which contained the maiden whom he loved.
What to him was the danger from an enemy at such a
moment, and with feelings such as his? What were
those feelings—what the fears which possessed him?
patient and reckless, his feelings and his thoughts did
equal injustice to her and to himself.

“She forgets—she forswears me, like all the rest. He
seeks her, perhaps, and she—ha! what hope had the
desperate and the desolate ever yet from woman, when
pomp and prosperity approached as his rival?”

He little knew the maiden whom he so misjudged;
but it was thus that he communed with his own bitter
spirit, when he made the rash determination to penetrate
to the dwelling, from the deep umbrageous garden in its
rear, where, hitherto, the lovers had been accustomed to
meet, in as sweet a bower as love could have chosen for
a purpose so hallowed.

But, though rash almost to madness in coming to the
dwelling, Mellichampe was not so heedless of his course
as to forget the earnest warnings which Witherspoon had
given him. In approaching the house he had taken the
precaution to survey all the premises beforehand. The
grounds were all well known to him, and he made a circuit
around them, by which means he discovered the
manner in which the encampment of the troop was
made, and how, and where, the sentinels were posted.
These he surveyed without exposure, and, though immediately
contiguous on more than one occasion to the
lounging guard, he escaped without challenge or suspicion.

From the park he stole back into the garden.
Emerging from its shelter, he advanced to the rear of
the building, and, passing under the piazza which encompassed
it, he stole silently up the steps, sought the
window, looked in upon the company, and was compelled,
as we have seen, to fly.

He was now in the court below; and, as the bustle
went on above, he paused to listen and to meditate his
course. Meanwhile the alarm was sounded from the
bugle of the troop. The commotion of their movement
distinctly reached his ears, and he leaped off fleetly but
composedly among the trees, which concealed his flight
towards the garden, just as the rush of Barsfield and
Clayton down the steps of the piazza warned him of
the necessity of farther precipitation. At that moment,
darting forward, he encountered the person of one who
was advancing. He had drawn his knife in the first
moment of his flight, and, looking now only for enemies,
it had nearly found its sheath in the breast of the stranger,
when the tones of his voice arrested the fugitive.

“Ha, Mass Arnest, dat you? Lord 'a macy, you
'most knock de breat out my body.”

“Silence, Scip—not a word, villain. I am pursued
by the tories. Would you betray me?” were the
hurried and emphatic, but suppressed words of Mellichampe.

“'Tray you, Mass Arnest—how-come you tink so?
Enty da Sip—you truss Sip always, Mass Arnest—truss
'em now,” was the prompt reply of the negro, uttered in
tones similarly low.

“I will, Scip—I will trust you. Barsfield is upon me,
and I must gain the garden.”

“No go dere. Tory sodger jist run 'long by de garden
fence.”

“Where then, old fellow?”

The negro paused for a moment, and the clattering of
the sabres was now heard distinctly.

“Drop, Mass Arnest, drop for dear life close behind
dis tree. Hug 'em close, I yerry dem coming.”

“I have it,” said the youth, coolly, to the bewildered
negro, as the sounds denoted the approach of the pursuers
to that quarter of the area in which this brief conference
had been carried on—

“I have it, Scip. I will lie close to this fallen tree,
and do you take to your heels in the direction of the
woods. To the right, Scip—and let them see you as
you run.”

“How den, Mass Arnest—wha' de good ob dat?”

“Fly, fellow, they come—to the right, to the right.”

With the words Mellichampe threw himself prostrate,
close beside a huge tree that had been recently felled in
the enclosure, while the faithful negro darted off without
hesitation in the direction which had been pointed out to
him. In another moment a body of the troopers was
scattered around the tree, bounding over it in all directions.
Barsfield led the pursuit, and animated it by his
continual commands. The scene grew diversified by
the rushing tumults and the wild cries of the pursuers,
and it was not many minutes before the chase was encouraged
by a glimpse which they caught of the flying
negro. At once all feet were turned in the one direction.
Soldier after soldier passed in emulous haste over the
log where Mellichampe lay, and, when the clamour had
sunk away in the distance, he rose quietly, and coolly
listening for a few seconds to the distant uproar, he stole
cautiously back into the garden, in the crowded shrubbery
and thick umbrage of which he might have readily
anticipated a tolerable concealment while the night lasted
from all the troop which Barsfield could muster. Here
he could distinguish the various sounds and stages of the
pursuit; now spreading far away to the fields and on
the borders of the park—and now, as the adroit Scipio
doubled upon his pursuers, coming nigher to the original
starting-place. But whether it was that Seip's heart

failed him, or his legs first, may not be said. It is
enough to know that he began to falter. His enemies
gained ground rapidly upon him. He passed into a briercopse,
and lay close for a while, though torn by their
thorns at every forward movement, in the hope to gain a
temporary rest from the pursuit; but the chase tracked
him out, and its thick recesses gave him no shelter.
The sabres were thrust into the copse in several places,
and, dreading their ungentle contact, the hunted negro
once more took to his heels. He dashed forward and
made for a little pine thicket that seemed to promise him
a fair hope for concealment; but, when most sanguine,
an obtrusive vine caught his uplifted foot as he sprang
desperately forward, and, with a heavy squelch that
nearly took the breath out of his body, he lay prostrate
at the mercy of his enemy. Barsfield himself was upon
him. With a fierce oath and a cry of triumph he
shook his sabre over his head, and threatened instant
death to the supposed Mellichampe. The poor negro,
though not unwilling to risk his life for the youth, now
thought it high time to speak; and, in real or affected
terror, he cried aloud in language not to be mistaken,

“Don't you chop a nigger with your sword now, I
tell you. Gor A'mighty, Mass Cappin, you no guine
kill a poor nigger da's no doing noting at all?”

Barsfield recoiled in astonishment, only to advance
upon the crouching black with redoubled fury; and he
might have used the uplifted weapon simply from chagrin
and disappointment, but that a stronger motive restrained
him. With the strength and rage of a giant, he
hurled the negro back to the ground from whence he
had now half risen, and fiercely demanded of him why
he had fled from the pursuit.

“Ki! Mass Cappin, you ax a nigger wha' for he
run, when you fuss run at 'em wid you big sword, and
want to chop 'em wid it. Da's 'nough to make a nigger
run, I 'speck. No nigger nebber guine 'tand for dat.”

“Scoundrel! do not trifle with me,” was the fierce
reply. “You have seen young Mellichampe.”

“Who dat—Mass Arnest? No see 'em to-night,
Mass Cappin.”

“Scoundrel! you are lying now. I know it. You
have hidden him away. Lead us to the spot, or put us
upon his track so that we find him, or, by the eternal!
I swing you up to these branches.”

The negro solemnly declared his ignorance, but this
did not satisfy the tory.

“Disperse your men over the grounds—the park—the
garden—on all sides. The rebel must be hereabouts
still. He cannot have gone far. Leave me but a couple
of stout fellows to manage this slave.”

Clayton was about to go, when the words of Barsfield,
uttered in a low, freezing tone of determination,
reached his ear.

“And, hear you, Clayton—no quarter to the spy—hew
him down without a word.”

The lieutenant departed, leaving the two men whom
his superior had required. One of these, in obedience
to the command of Barsfield, produced a stout cord,
which was conveniently at hand, from his pocket.

“Wha' you guine do now, Mass Cappin?” cried the
negro, beginning to be somewhat alarmed at the cold-blooded
sort of preparation which the soldier was making.

“You shall see, you black rascal, soon enough,” was
the reply.

“Noose it now, Drummond,” was the order of the
tory.

It was obeyed, and in another moment the cord encircled
the neck of the terrified Scipio.

“Confess now, sir—confess all you have done—all
that you know. Have you not seen the rebel to-night?”

“Which one, Mass Cappin?”

“No fooling, fellow. You know well enough who I
mean—the rebel Mellichampe.”

“Wha'—Mass Arnest?”

“Ay.”

“No, sa, Mass Cappin. It's trute wha' I tell you
now. I berry glad for see Mass Arnest, but I ain't seen
'em dis tree day and seven week. He's gone, day say,
high up de Santee, wid de rest.”

“And you haven't seen him to-night?”

“Da's a trute—I no see'm to-night.”

“A d—d lie, Scipio, which must be punished. Tuck
him up, Drummond.”

“Hab a pity on poor nigger, Mass Cappin! It's
a nigger is no wort salt to he hom'ny. Hab a pity on
poor nigger. Ah, Mass Barsfield, you no guine hang
Scip? I make prayers for you, Mass Barsfield, you no
hang Scip dis time.”

The negro implored earnestly as the design appeared
more determinately urged by the tory. He was seriously
terrified with the prospect before him, and his voice grew
thick with horror and increasing alarm.

“Confess, then, or, by God! you swing on that tree.
Tell all that you know, for nothing else can save you.”

“I hab noting to tell, Mass Cappin. I berry good
nigger, da's honest, sa, more dan all de rest of mossa's
niggers, only I will tief bacon, Mass Cappin. I can't
help tief bacon when I git a chance, mossa. Da's all
da's agen Scip, Mass Cappin.”

There was so much of simplicity in Scipio's mode of
defence, that Barsfield half inclined to believe that he
was really ignorant of the place of Mellichampe's concealment;
but, as he well knew that Scipio was a favourite
family servant, and remarkable for his fidelity, he did not
doubt but he would keep a secret concerning one so long
intimate with it as Mellichampe to the very last moment.
This suggestion hastened his decision. With the utmost
composure he bade the soldier execute his office, and
looked on calmly, and heard without heeding the many
adjurations, and prayers, and protestations of the negro,

desperately urged, as they hurried him to the tree, over a
projecting limb of which one end of the rope was already
thrown.

“Will you tell now, Scipio?” demanded Barsfield of
the slave, in a tone of voice absolutely frightful to him
from its gentleness. “Tell me where Mellichampe ran
—tell where you have concealed him, and I let you go;
but, if you do not, you hang in a few moments on this
very tree.”

“I no see'm, Mass Cappin—he no run, he stan' in
de same place. Hab a pity, Mass Cappin, 'pon Scipio,
da's a good nigger for old mossa, and da's doing noting
for harm anybody.”

“Once more, Scipio—where is the rebel?—where is
Mellichampe?”

“Da trute, Mass Cappin, I don't know.”

“Pull him up, men.”

The cruel order was coolly given, and in tones that
left no room in the minds of the soldiers to doubt that
they were to execute the hurried sentence. Struggling,
gasping, and labouring to speak, Scipio was lifted into
air. He kicked desperately, sought to scream, and at
length, as the agony of his increasing suffocation grew
more and more oppressive, and in feeble and scarcely
intelligible accents, he professed his willingness now to
do all that was required of him.

“I tell—I tell ebbry ting, Mass Cappin—cut de rope,
da's all. I tell—cut 'em fass—lose 'em quick. Oh—
he da mash my head—I choke.”

The cord was relaxed with the utterance of this promise.
The victim was suffered to sink down upon the
ground, where, for a few moments, he crouched, half
sitting, half lying, almost exhausted with struggling, and
seemingly in a stupor from the pain and fright he had
undergone. But Barsfield did not much regard his sufferings.
He took the negro at his word, and, impatient
for his own revenge, hurried the movements of the poor

creature. The rope was still twined about his neck,
and thus, kept in continual fear of the doom which had
been only suspended, he was required to lead the way,
and put the pursuers upon the lost trail of the fugitive.