University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

“Come, sir—away—put us on the track of the rebel.
Show where he is hidden—and, hark you, Scipio—not a
word—no noise to tell him we are coming, or—”

The threat was left unfinished, but it was nevertheless
sufficiently well understood. The reply of the negro
was characteristic.

“Gor A'mighty, Mass Barsfield, enty I guine? You
no 'casion push a nigger so. Ef you was to hang me
up agen, I couldn't go no more faster dan I does.”

He led the way freely enough; but it was not the intention
of Scipio to betray the trust of Mellichampe,
even if it had been in his power to lead them to the
place of his concealment. His object was simply to escape
a present difficulty. He had no thought beyond the
moment. With this object, with the natural cunning of
the negro, and the integrity of the faithful slave, he
framed in his mind a plan of search, which, while it
should be urged on his part with all the earnestness of
truth, should yet still more effectually mislead the pursuers.
Scipio was one of those trusty slaves to be found
in almost every native southern family, who, having
grown up with the children of their owners, have acquired
a certain correspondence of feeling with them.
A personal attachment had strengthened the bonds which
necessity imposed, and it was quite as much a principle
in Scipio's mind to fight and die for his owners, as to

work for them. Regarding his young mistress with a
most unvarying devotion, he had been made acquainted
at an early period with the nature of the tie which existed
between herself and Mellichampe, and many were
the billets and messages of love, which had been confided
by the two to Scipio, during the unsophisticated
courtship which had been carried on between them.
Proud of the confidence reposed in him, and fond of
the parties, the trust of Mellichampe was sacred in his
keeping; and, at the moment of his greatest danger,
when the rope was about his neck, and his life depended
upon one whom he well knew to be merciless and unforgiving,
he never once conceived the idea of effecting
his escape by a revelation of any secret which might
have compromised, in the slightest degree, either Mellichampe
or the maiden. He now purposely led the tory
from his object, trusting to his good fortune or his wit
to relieve him from all subsequent emergencies.

It does not need that we should show how, in the prosecution
of his scheme, the adroit negro contrived to
baffle the vindictive Barsfield. He led him from place
to place, to and fro, now here, now there, and through
every little turn and winding of the enclosure in front
of the dwelling, until the patience of the tory became
exhausted, and he clearly saw that his guide had deceived
him. For a moment his anger prompted him to
prosecute the punishment with which he had sought at
first to intimidate the negro. But a fear of the influence
of such a proceeding upon the maiden induced a
more gentle determination. It was not, probably, the
intention of Barsfield to carry into effect the threatened
doom—his design was rather to procure the required
intelligence by extorting a confession. He was
now persuaded, so well had Scipio played his part,
that the fellow was really ignorant. Finding that his
long passages invariably led to nothing, he dismissed him
with a hearty curse and kick, and hurried away to join

Clayton, who, meanwhile, had been busied in the examination
of the garden. The lieutenant had not been a
whit more successful than his captain; for Mellichampe,
the moment that he heard the pursuit tending in the
quarter where he had concealed himself, simply moved
away from his lair, and, leaping the little rail fence which
divided the garden from the forest, found himself almost
immediately in the shelter of a dense body of woods,
which would have called for five times the force of
Barsfield to ferret him out in at night. Familiar of old
with the region, which had been consecrated in the walks
and worship of love, he strolled off to a favourite tree,
not thirty yards from the fence, in an arm of which,
sheltering himself snugly, he listened with scornful indifference
to the clamours of that hot pursuit which the
tory still continued. He saw the torches blazing in the
groves where he had crouched but a little while before,
and almost fancied that he could distinguish at intervals
the features of those who bore them, and sometimes
even the lineaments of that one deadliest enemy, whom
of all the world he most desired on equal terms to encounter.

The chase was at length given over. Barsfield was
too good a scout himself not to know that the woods in
the rear of the garden must contain the fugitive. He
was quite too familiar, however, with the nature of a
Carolina thicket, to hope for any successful result of
pursuit and search in that quarter. And yet he still
looked with straining eyes upon its dense and gloomy
spots, as if longing to penetrate them. Had he been
strong enough in men—could he even have spared the
force which he had under his command for any such purpose,
he would not have hesitated for an instant; but, under
existing circumstances, the risk would have been rash
and foolish, to have exposed so small a body of men to
the possibility of contact with a lurking enemy. He little
knew that the particular foe was alone—and that,

even at the moment when these meditations were passing
through his mind, his hated rival sat looking composedly
down upon the unavailing toil of his long pursuit.
How many circumstances were there in his past
history to make him detest the fugitive! How many
interests and feelings, active at the moment in his bosom,
to make him doubly desire to rid himself of one so inimical—so
greatly in his way! He turned from the garden
in a bitter mood of disappointment. The fever of a
vexing fear and of a sleepless discontent was goading
him with every additional moment of thought, and kept
him from all appreciation of the beauty of the rich flowers
and those sweet walks which, in the intercourse of
Mellichampe and Janet, had made a fitly associated scene.
He felt nothing of the garden's beauties—its sweet solemnity
of shade—its refreshing fragrance—its slender
branches and twining shrubs, that quivered and murmured
in the night breeze; or of that exquisite art in the
disposition of its groves and flowers, which, concealing
herself in their clustering folds, peeps out only here and
there, as if in childlike and innocent sport with her sister
Nature.

Having made his camp arrangements for the night,
Barsfield left Clayton in command of the troop, still occupying
the park as at their coming, and proceeded
once more to the dwelling. Mr. Berkeley awaited his
approach at the entrance. The old gentleman was in no
little tribulation. The presence of Mellichampe at
such a time in his grounds, and under circumstances
which seemed to indicate the privity of one or more of
the household to his visits, was calculated, he well
knew, to make Barsfield suspicious of his loyalty. It
was his policy, and he was solicitous to prove to the tory
that the youth received no manner of encouragement
from him; that his presence was unlooked-for, and, if
not contrary to his commands, was at least without his
sanction. He also well knew the aim of Barsfield with

reference to his daughter, and it was not less his object,
on this account, to impress the tory with the idea of his
own ignorance on all subjects which concerned the rebel.
In tremulous accents, confusedly and timidly, he strove
to win the ear of his sullen and dissatisfied guest.

“I am truly happy—Ah! I mean I am very sorry,
Captain Barsfield—” and here he paused—the words
were too contradictory, and his first blunder frightened
him; but Barsfield, who also had his game to play,
came to his relief by interrupting him in his speech.

“Sorry for what, Mr. Berkeley? What should make
you sorry? You have nothing, that I can see, to be sorry
for. Your house is haunted by a rebel, and, though you
may not encourage him, and I suppose do not, I yet
know that hitherto you have been unable to drive him
thoroughly away. It is your misfortune, sir, but will not
be a misfortune much longer. You will soon be relieved
from this difficulty. My force in a short time will be
adequate to clear the country in this quarter of the troop
of outliers that haunt it; and this duty, sir, I have now
in charge. Leave it to me to manage the youngster—
I shall make my arrangements for his capture, and he
cannot long escape me. Once taken, he troubles neither
of us again. He swings for it, sir, or there is no law in
the land.”

This discourse confounded the old gentleman. He
was not unwilling to be thought free from any collusion
with Mellichampe, but the youth was a favourite. The
bitter speech of Barsfield, and the final threat, totally unmanned
his hearer, and he exclaimed, in a voice made
tremulous by his emotion—

“What! Ernest Mellichampe—hang Ernest Mellichampe,
captain? Why, what has the poor youth
done?”

“Done!” exclaimed the other; “done, Mr. Berkeley?
Why, sir, is he not one of that traitorous brood of Max
Mellichampe, who was so fierce an enemy of his king;

so merciless in fight, and so uncompromising in whatever
related to this struggle? I had the good fortune to
serve my sovereign, as you know, by killing him; and,
from what has been shown to me of this young man, I
shall do my country no less a service by sending him
after his father.”

“Oh, ay, captain—but that was in fight. Of course,
Ernest, if he lifts arms against our sovereign, must take
his chance like any other soldier in battle, but—”

“He has incurred another risk to-night, Mr. Berkeley
—he has penetrated into my line of sentinels as a spy.”

The tory silenced the well-intentioned speaker. They
entered the hall, where Blonay still sat, alone, and in as
perfect a condition of quiet as if there had not been the
slightest uproar. Glancing his eye quickly around the
apartment, and seeing that none other was present, Barsfield
approached the Half-Breed with a look of stern
severity, and, laying his hand upon his shoulder, he thus
addressed him—

“Hark'ee, fellow; you pretend to be a good loyalist
—you have got Proctor's certificate to that effect—why
did you not seek to take the rebel, when you were so
much nigher the entrance than any of the rest? Did
you not see him?”

“Well, cappin, I reckon I did see him when he
looked into the glass, but I didn't know that he was a
rebel. I didn't see no harm in his looking in the glass.”

“But when I moved—when I pursued—did you not
see that he was my enemy?”

“That's true, cappin; but that was jist the reason,
now, I didn't go for'ad. I seed from your eyes that he
was your enemy, and I know'd from what you did you
wanted to git a lick at him yourself, and so I wouldn't
put in. Every man paddle his own canoe, says I; and,
if I has an enemy, I shouldn't like to stand by and let
another man dig at his throat to spile my sport, neither
would you, I reckon. It's no satisfaction for one man

to jump between and take away another man's pleasure,
as I may say, out of his mouth.”

The code of Blonay was new to Barsfield, though,
from its expression, he at once well understood the prevailing
character of the speaker. It was for Barsfield to
desire that his enemy should perish, no matter by whose
hands—the passion of Blonay prompted his own execution
of every deed of personal vengeance, as a duty incumbent
on himself. A few words farther passed between
them, in which the tory hoped he had secured the
services of the Half-Breed, of whose value he had conceived
a somewhat higher idea from the strange reason
which he had given for his quiescence in the pursuit
of Mellichampe. This over, the tory captain signified
his determination to retire, and, with a cordial good-night
to his host, he left the room, and was instantly conducted
to his chamber.

Meanwhile, in the apartment of the two cousins, a far
different scene had been going on. There, immersed in
her own fears and apprehensions, Janet Berkeley listened
in momently increasing terror to every sound that marked
the continued pursuit of her lover. As the clamour
drew nigh or receded, her warm imagination depicted
the strait of Mellichampe; and it was only when, after
the departure of Barsfield for the night, when her father
could seek her chamber, that she heard the pleasing intelligence
of the tory's disappointment. It was then that
the playful Rose, as she saw that the apprehensions of
her cousin were now dissipated, gently reproached Janet
for the want of confidence which she had shown in not
unfolding to her the secret which the excitement of the
preceding event had too fully developed.

“To carry on a game of hide and seek so slyly, Janet
—to have a lover, yet no confidant—no friend, and I,
too, so near at hand. I, who have told you all, and kept
nothing back, and would have locked up your secret so
closely that no rival, no mamma, no papa, should ever
have been the wiser. And such a fine subject for talk,

Janet, in these long, sweet summer nights—now, when
all is quiet, and there is nothing of a cloud, dear, to be
seen. Look, dearest—see what a beautiful night.”

“I have no heart for it, Rose—none. I am very unhappy,”
was the sad response of the afflicted maiden.

“Serve you right—you deserve to be sad, Janet, if
only for being so sly and silent. Why, I ask you again
—why didn't you let me into the secret? I could have
helped you.”

“Alas! Rose, this secret has been too oppressive to
me not to make me desire frequently to unfold it; but, as I
have no hope with my love, I thought better to be silent.”

“And why, dearest,” exclaimed the other, “why should
you have no hope? Why should your love never be
realized? Think you that Mellichampe is the man to
play you false?”

“No—oh, no! He would not—he could not. He
is too devoted—too earnest in all that he does and feels,
ever to forget or deny. But it has been a sad engagement
throughout—begun in sorrow, amid strife and privation,
and carried on in defiance of all danger, and with
an utter regardlessness of all counsel. God knows, I so
misgive these visits, that I should rather he would be
false to me than that he should come so frequently into
danger of his life.”

“Now, out upon thee, cousin—how you talk! This
danger is the very sweetness, and should not be a
dampener of love. If the man be what he should be, he
will not heed, but rather desire it, as in stimulating his adventure
it will also stimulate his feeling and his flame.
For my part, I vow that I would not have one of your
tame, quiet, careful curs—your household husbands,
who would neither do nor dare, but squat, purring like
overgrown tabbies in the chimney-corner, pass away
a long life of tedium in a protracted and monotonous
humming. If ever I get a lover, which, Heaven knows,
seems but a doubtful prospect at this moment, I vow he

should have no quiet—he should be required to do just
what you fret that Mellichampe is now doing. He
should scale fences and walls, ford creeks when there's
a freshet, and regularly come to visit me through the
swamp; and this he must prove to me that he has done,
by a fair exhibition of his bespattered boots and garments.
As for difficulties such as these frightening a lover from
his purpose, I would not give my name for any lover
who would not smile upon, while overcoming them.”

In a sadder tone than ever Janet replied to the playful
girl, who continued to run on and interrupt her at intervals
wherever her speech seemed more desponding
than usual:—

“It is not mere difficulties, Rose, but positive dangers,
that I dread for Ernest; and, but that I know he will not
heed my words in such a matter, I should utterly break
with him, and for ever, if it were only to keep him away
from the risk into which he plunges with little or no consideration.
Twice or thrice has he nearly fallen a victim
to this same man, Barsfield, who has a desperate
hatred towards him—”

“And a desperate love for you,” said the other.

“Which is quite as idle, Rose, as the other is rash,”
replied Janet, calmly, to the interruption. “Vainly have
I implored him to desist—to forbear seeking or seeing
me until the danger and the war are over; and, above all
things, to avoid our plantation, where my father is too
timid and too feeble to serve him when there is danger,
and where I am certain that spies of the tories are always
on the watch to report against any of the whigs
who may be stirring.”

“And, like a good, stubborn, whole-hearted lover,
Mellichampe heeds none of your exhortations that would
keep him away. Heaven send me such a lover! He
should come when he pleased, and, if I prayed him at all,
it should be that he would only leave me when I pleased.
I would not trouble him with frequent orders, I assure
you.”

“Ah, Rose! would I had your spirits!”

“Ah, Janet! would I had your lover! He is just the
lover, now, that I desire; and these perils that he seems
to seek, and this rashness of which you complain, commend
him warmly to my imagination. Poor fellow! I'm
only sorry that he should have his labour for his pains
to-night; and must go back the way he came, without
getting what he came for.”

“Heaven grant that he may, Rose!” said the other,
earnestly; “but do you know that even this alarm will
scarcely discourage Ernest Mellichampe? He has promised
to come to-night, and exacted my promise to meet
him under the great magnolia. I am persuaded that he
will keep his word, in spite of all the dangers that beset
him. He is bold to hardihood, and I look not to sleep
to-night until I have heard his signal.”

“Confess, confess, Janet, that you will sit up in the
hope to hear it.”

“Not in the hope to hear it, Rose, but I will sit up—
at least for some time longer. I could not sleep were I
to go to bed, under the anxiety which the belief that he
will come must occasion in my mind. But you need
not wait for me.”

“I will not—I should be very peevish were I to hear
a love-signal, and have no share in the proceedings. I
am certainly a most unfortunate damsel, Janet, having a
heart really so susceptible, so very much at the mercy
of my neighbours, without having one neighbour kind
enough to help me in its management.” And thus, rattling
on, the thoughtless girl threw herself upon her
couch, and was soon wrapped in pleasant slumbers.
Janet, sad and suffering, in the meanwhile turned to the
open window, unconsciously watching the now rising
moon, while meditating the many doubts and misgivings,
the sad fears and the sweet hopes, of a true heart and a
warmly interested affection.