University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Barsfield sought his chamber, but not to sleep.
Some active thought was in possession of his mind, operating
to exclude all sense of weariness, and, indeed, almost
to make him forget, certainly entirely to overlook,
the previous fatigues of the day. He paced his room
impatiently for several minutes before he perceived that
the servant was still in waiting. When he did so, he at
once dismissed him; but, immediately after, called him
back.

“Who's that—Tony?”

“Yes, sa.”

“Where does the traveller—the blear-eyed fellow—
sleep to-night, Tony?”

“In de little shed-room, Mass Cappin.”

“Does it lock, Tony?”

“He hab bolt inside, sir.”

“'Tis well; take this; you may go now.”

He gave the negro, as he dismissed him, an English
shilling, which called forth a grin of acknowledgment
and a liberal scraping of feet. Alone, the tory captain
continued to pace up and down the apartment, absorbed
seemingly in earnest meditation. But his thoughts did
not make him forgetful of the objects around him. He
went frequently to the windows, not to contemplate the
loveliness of the night, but to see whether all was quiet
in the little world below. His frequent approach to
his own chamber door, which he opened at intervals,
and from which he now and then emerged, had a like object;
and this practice was continued until all sounds
had ceased; until all the family seemed buried in the
profoundest slumber. Cautiously, then, he took his way

from his own apartment, and proceeding through the gallery,
he soon reached the little shed-room to which Blonay
had been assigned. He paused for a single instant
at the entrance, then tapped lightly, and was instantly admitted.
For a brief space the eyes of Blonay failed to
distinguish the person of the intruder. A few embers
in the fireplace, the remnants of the light-wood brands
which had shown him his couch, yielded a blaze, but one
too imperfect for any useful purpose. The voice of Barsfield,
however, immediately enlightened the Half-Breed.

“A friend,” said the tory, in a tone low, carefully low,
and full of condescension. “A friend, and one who
needs the services of a friend. I have sought you, Mr.
Blonay, as I have reason to believe I can rely on you.
You have the certificate of Colonel Proctor, a sufficient
guarantee for your loyalty; but our brief conversation
this evening has convinced me that you are able, as
well as loyal, and just the man to serve my purposes.”

The tory paused, as if in expectation of some answer;
and Blonay, so esteeming it, proceeded in his own way
to the utterance of many professions, which might have
been unnecessarily protracted had not the impatience of
his visiter interposed.

“Enough! I believe that you may be relied on, else
I should not have sought you out to-night. And now
to my business. You heard me say I had an enemy?”

The reply was affirmative.

“That enemy I would destroy—utterly annihilate—
for several reasons, some of which are public, and others
private. He is a rebel to the king, and a most malignant
and unforgiving one. His father was such before
him, and him I had the good fortune to slay. The family
estate has become mine through the free grant of our
monarch, in consideration of my good services in that
act. Do you hear me, sir?”

“Reckon I do, cappin,” was the reply of the Half-Breed.

“Then you will have little difficulty in understanding
my desire. This son is the only man living who has
any natural claim to that estate in the event of a change
of political circumstances which shall throw back the
power of our sovereign. In such an event, he would
be the proper heir; and would, with reason, oppose his
claim to mine. That claim would be valid and incontestable,
most probably, under any change of circumstances,
were he once put out of the way. For this
reason, if for none other, I would destroy him.”

“And reason enough,” responded Blonay, “to kill a
dozen rebels.”

“True; but there are yet other reasons: he has aspersed
me, denounced me to my face, on the commencement
of this war, and under circumstances which
prevented me from seeking any atonement. In arms I
have never yet been able to encounter him; as, from his
good knowledge of the swamp, he readily eludes my
troop. He is, besides, attended by a fellow who watches
over his safety, and follows and guards his every movement;
and there are few men who manage with so much
skill and adroitness as the man in question. He is only to
be reached by one in a persevering search—one who
would not turn an inch from his course, but, like the
bloodhound, keep close upon the track without suffering
any thing, not even force, to divert him from his object.
Such a man I hold you to be.”

Blonay thanked the tory for his good opinion, and the
latter proceeded.

“You are for killing your enemy with your own hand.
I am indifferent who kills mine, so that he ceases to
trouble me. The man who slays him for me is as
much my instrument as the knife which, in your hand,
does the good deed for you. Besides, even had I this
desire, I could only pursue it at great sacrifice. I
should be compelled to give up my public duties, which
are paramount. I should be compelled to go singlehanded,

and play the part of an outlier in the swamps
along with those whom I attempt to overreach. I am
too well known by them all ever to hope to win their
confidence; and the very nickname which they have
conferred upon me for my adherence to my sovereign,
if repeated in my ears, as it would be by this taunting
youth in question, would only drive my blood into a
more foolish and suicidal rebellion than is theirs. Some
other man—some single-hearted friend, must avenge and
rid me of my enemy. Will you be that man?”

“Well, now, cappin, I should like to know more
about this business; and the man—I should like to
hear his name.”

“Mellichampe,—Ernest Mellichampe, the son of
Colonel Max Mellichampe, killed at Monk's Corner, in
January last.”

“Why, I don't know the man, cappin—I never seed
him, and shouldn't be able to make him out, even if I
stumbled over him crossing a log.”

“That is no difficulty. I will give you marks and
signs by which you cannot fail to know him under any
circumstances. You saw his face to-night. He came
here to see—and that is another reason for my hatred—
he came here to see, not our troop, nor our disposition,
nor with any reference to our warfare, but simply to see
the young lady of the house.”

“What, the gal in black,—her that looks so grand
and so sweet?” inquired Blonay, with some earnestness.

“The taller—the dark-eyed one—the daughter of
the old man, Mr. Berkeley.”

“And you reckon there's love atween them?” curiously
inquired the Half-Breed.

“Ay, such love as I would not have between them,”
bitterly responded the other: “I know that Mellichampe
has long loved her, and I fear that she requites him in
kind. This is another reason why I should hate him,
for I too—but why should I tell you this? It is enough

that I hate, and that I would destroy him. Here, Blonay,
take this—it is gold—good British gold; and I
give it as an earnest of what you shall have if you will
bring me the ears of my enemy. Take the swamp after
him—hunt him by day and by night; and when you can
come and show me, to my satisfaction, that he troubles
me no more, you shall have the sum doubled thrice.
Say that you will serve me.”

He put five guineas into the hand of the unreluctant
Half-Breed, who at once deposited them from sight in a
pocket of his garment; and yet, though he secured the
money, Blonay paused before giving his answer.

“Why do you hesitate?” demanded the tory.

“Well,” said the other, in his drawling fashion, “I
don't know, cappin, how one business can go with the
other. I have, you see, a little affair of my own to settle
with one of the rebels in Marion's men, that's rather
like the business you wants me to go upon for you.
Now, one must be settled 'fore the other; and 'tain't in
natur, when a man's blood's up, that he should turn
away from his own enemy to go after another man's.
I'm on trail of my enemy now, and I should be sorry to
drop it, I tell you; and, 'deed, cappin, I can't, no how.”

Barsfield was still prepared to meet the difficulties
suggested by his proposed instrument.

“You need not give up one pursuit in taking up the
other. It is fortunate for us that our enemies are
both in the same drive—they are both men of Marion,
and, in tracking one, the probability is that you cannot
be very far from the other. Indeed, for that matter, the
one will be most likely to help you to the other, as the
squad of Marion must now be greatly reduced, and he
cannot consequently venture to scatter them much.
This is no difficulty, but rather an advantage.”

Blonay was silenced, if not convinced on this point.
He did not reply, but seemed for a few moments lost in
deliberation; at length, breaking the silence abruptly, he

spoke of another, and seemingly a foreign feature of the
affair.

“And you say, cappin, that there's love atween him
and the young gal of the house—Miss Janet, as they
calls her?”

“Yes! but what is that to you?” replied the other,
sternly. “It matters nothing whether they love or hate,
so far as our business lies together. You are to labour
to make that love fruitless, if so be there is love, but
without troubling yourself to know or to inquire into
the fact.”

“Why, yes, that's true,” responded the other; “it
don't matter this way or that, and—”

They were interrupted at this moment by a distinct
and repeated whistle,—just such a signal sound as had
preceded the appearance of Mellichampe at the window
of the hall. The tory put his hand upon the wrist
of Blonay, while he bent forward his ear to the entrance
—muttering to himself a moment after, as he again
heard the signal,

“Now, by Heaven! but this is audacious beyond example.
The rebel is back again; a scare has no effect
upon him, and nothing but shot will. Stay!” he
exclaimed; “hear you nothing?”

“A footstep, cappin; I think a foot coming down the
steps.”

And, even as he said, they both distinctly heard, the
next moment, the tread of a foot cautiously set down,
moving towards the back entrance of the house. Barsfield
immediately sprang to the window of the apartment,
and beheld, in the dim light just then bringing out the
trees of the ground and garden into soft and shadowy
relief, a slender figure stealing away towards the garden,
carefully keeping as much as practicable in the shelter
of the huge water-oaks that obscured the alley. A
mingled feeling of exultation and anger spoke in his
tone, as he exclaimed—

“I have him now—the doe shall bring him to the
hunter—he shall not escape me now! Hark you, Blonay,
wait me here! I will get my sabre, and be with you
instantly. It will be hard if we cannot manage him
between us. But there must be no stir—no noise;
what we do must be done by stratagem and our own
force. Get yourself ready, therefore—your knife will
answer, for your rifle will be of little use in the thick
shrubbery of that garden. We must sneak, sir; no
dove-hunting without sneaking.”

With these words Barsfield left the apartment of the
Half-Breed and proceeded to his own. The feelings
of the former, however, scarcely responded to the sanguinary
words of the latter. When alone, his soliloquy,
brief and harsh, was yet new, seemingly, to his character.
Hated and harried as he had been by all before,
he had for the first time in his life been touched with the
influence of a gentler power; and, muttering to himself
during the absence of the tory, he disclosed a better
feeling than any that we have been accustomed to behold
in him.

“If the gal loves him and he loves her, I won't spoil
the sport atween 'em. She's a good gal, and had me
to come to supper at the same table, when the cappin
spoke agin it. She didn't laugh at me, nor stare at my
eyes, as if I was a wild varmint; and she spoke to
me jist as she spoke to other people. Adrat it! he
may cut his enemy's throat for himself, I sha'n't; but
then I needn't tell him so, neither;” and, as he spoke,
he twirled the little purse of guineas in his pocket with
a feeling of immense satisfaction. In a moment after
Barsfield returned, and led the way cautiously by a circuitous
track towards the garden.

Let us now retrace briefly the steps we have taken,
and observe the progress of some other of the persons
in our narrative.