University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

The battle of Dorchester was over; the victorious
Partisans, successful in their object, and bearing away
with them the prisoner whom they had rescued from the
felon's death, were already beyond the reach of their
enemies, when Colonel Proctor, the commander of the
British post, sallied forth from his station in the hope to
retrieve, if possible, the fortunes of the day. A feeling
of delicacy, and a genuine sense of pain, had prompted
him to depute to a subordinate officer the duty of attending
Colonel Walton to the place of execution. The rescue
of the prisoner had the effect of inducing in his mind
a feeling of bitter self-reproach. The mortified pride
of the soldier, tenacious of his honour, and scrupulous
on the subject of his trust, succeeded to every feeling
of mere human forbearance; and, burning with shame
and indignation, the moment he heard a vague account
of the defeat of the guard and the rescue of Walton, he
led forth the entire force at his command, resolute to recover
the fugitive or redeem his forfeited credit by his
blood. He had not been prepared for such an event as
that which has been already narrated in the last pages of
“The Partisan,” and was scarcely less surprised, though
more resolute and ready, than the astounded soldiers
under his command. How should he have looked for
the presence of any force of the rebels at such a moment,
when the defeat and destruction of Gates's army,
so complete as it had been, had paralyzed, in the minds

of all, the last hope of the Americans? With an audacity
that seemed little less than madness, and was desperation,
a feeble but sleepless enemy had darted in between
the fowler and his prey—had wrested the victim of
the conqueror from his talons, even in the moment of
his fierce repast; and, with a wild courage and planned
impetuosity, had rushed into the very jaws of danger,
without shrinking, and with the most complete impunity.

The reader of the work of which the present is offered
as a continuation, will perhaps remember the manner
in which we found it necessary to close that story.
It was from a scene of bloody strife that we hurried the
chief personages of the narrative, and, only solicitous
for their safety, paused not to consider the condition of
the field, or of the other parties who remained behind.
To that field we will now return, and at a moment which
leaves it almost doubtful whether, in reality, the strife be
ended. The cry of men in their last agony—the panting
prayer for a drop of water from the gasping wretch,
through whose distended mouth the life-blood pours forth
more freely than the accents that implore Heaven and
man alike for succour and relief—the continued flight
of the affrighted survivers, and the approaching rush of
Proctor's troop—these speak as loudly for the dreadful
conflict as the shrill blast of the hurrying trumpet, or the
sharp clashing of conflicting steel. The beautiful town
of Dorchester, in a bright flame at several points, illumined
with an unnatural glare the surrounding fields and
foliage, and, with the shrieks of flying women and children,
still more contributed to the terrible force of the
picture. The ruddy light bathed and enveloped for
miles around, with a brilliancy deeper than that of the
sun, the high tops of the towering pines, while the thick
dense smoke, ascending over all, hung sluggishly and
dark in the slumberous sky of August, like some of
those black masses of storm that usually come in the

train, and burst in ruin over the southern cities with the
flight, of the sister month of September.

The hurry of Col. Proctor was in vain. He came
too late to retrieve the fortunes of the fight. The partisans
had melted away like so many shadows. Vain
were all his efforts, and idle his chagrin. He could only
gaze in stupid wonderment upon the condition of the
field, admiring and deploring that valour which had eluded
his own, and set at naught all his precautions.
Never had surprise been more complete; never had
enterprise been better planned or more perfectly executed,
with so much hazard and with so little loss. The
whole affair was one to annoy the British commander
beyond all calculation. There was nothing to remedy
—there was no hope of redress. The rebels were beyond
his reach, and, even were they not, the force under
Proctor was quite too small, and the condition of his
trust, in and about Dorchester, of too much hazard and
importance, to permit of his pursuing them. Convinced
of this, he turned his attention to the field of battle,
every step in the examination of which only contributed
the more to his mortification and regret. Several of his
best soldiers lay around him in the last agonies or the
final slumbers of death; several were maimed or
wounded, and the few who survived and had fled from
the unlooked-for combat had not, in every instance, escaped
unhurt. But few of the partisans had fallen, and
their wounds had all been fatal. They were no longer
at the mercy of any human conqueror. There was
none upon whom the mortified commander, had he been
so disposed, could wreak his vengeance, and punish for
the audacity of his rebel leader. The bitterness of his
mood increased with the conviction that there was no
victim upon whom to pour it forth. Revenge and regret
were alike unavailing.

While thus he mused upon the gloomy prospect and
the bloody field, the soldiers, who, meanwhile, had been

dispersed about in the inspection of the adjoining woods
and scene of strife, came before him, bringing an individual
whom they had found, the only one who seemed
to have escaped unhurt in the combat. Yet he was
found where the strife appeared to have been hottest. A
pile of dead bodies was around him, and, when discovered,
he was employed in turning over the senseless carcasses
and dragging them apart, as if searching for
some particular object. The British colonel started
when he beheld him; and, as he gazed upon the bronzed,
sinister, and well-known features, and saw with what
calm indifference the blear eye of the Half-Breed Blonay
met his own, a doubt of his fidelity grew active at
the expense of one whose character had always been
too equivocal to be held above the commission of the
basest treachery. The brow of the Briton put on new
terrors as he surveyed him; and, glad of any victim, even
though not the most odious, he addressed the reckless
savage in the sternest language of distrust.

“What do you here, Blonay? Speak quickly, and
without evasion, or you shall swing, by Heaven, on that
gallows instead of him whom you have helped from it.
Tell out the whole story of this traitorous scheme—unfold
the share you had in it, and who were your abetters
—who rescued the prisoner—by whom were they commanded—how
many—and where are they gone? Answer,
fellow; answer, and without delay; out—speak
out.”

Proctor could scarcely articulate his own requisitions,
so intense were his anxiety and passion. The person
addressed seemed almost totally unmoved by an exhortation
so earnestly made, or only moved to defiance.
His swarthy cheek grew even darker in its depth of
hue, and his lips were now resolutely fastened together,
as he listened to the language of his superior. His air,
full of scornful indifference, and his position, lounging
and listless, might have provoked Proctor to an act of

violence, had they been maintained much longer. But,
as if moved by more prudent counsels from within, the
Half-Breed, in a moment after, changed his posture to
one of more respectful attention. The rigidity passed
away from his muscles—his high cheek-bones seemed
to shrink—his eyes were lowered,—and his head, which
had been elevated before into an unwonted loftiness, was
now suffered, in compliance with his usual habit, to fall
upon one shoulder. His mood grew more conciliatory
as he proceeded to reply to one, at least, of the several
questions which Proctor had asked him, almost in a
breath. Still, however, the reply of the Half-Breed
was found rather to accord with the first than the last
expression of his air and attitude.

“And if you was to hang me up, colonel, you
wouldn't be any the wiser, and would hear much less
than if you was to let me run.”

“No trifling, sirrah, but speak to the point, and quickly:
I am in no mood for jest. Speak out, and say what
is the part you have taken in this business. The truth,
sirrah,—the truth only will serve you.”

“I'm no rebel, colonel, as you ought to know by
this time. As for the truth, I'm sure I can tell it, if
you'd ax me one thing at a time. I aint sparing of the
truth when I've got it.”

“I do know you, sirrah, and know you too well to
trust you much. Briefly, then, and without prevarication,
do you know the parties who rescued Colonel
Walton? What do you know of the matter? The
whole truth; for I have the means of knowing whether
you speak falsely or not.”

“Well, now, colonel, I knows no great deal; but
what I knows is the truth, and that I'll tell. The men
who foul here were Marion's men, I reckon. I looked
out from the bay-bushes there;—I was doubled up in
a heap, and I seed the whole business, from the very
first jump.”

“Relate the matter!”

“Relate—oh, ay—tell it, you mean. Why, then,
sir, the rebels came down the trace, from out the cypress,
I reckon, and—”

“Who led them?” demanded Proctor, impatiently.

“Why, I reckon 'twas Major Singleton.”

“Reckon! Do you not know, sir?”

“Well, yes, colonel, I may say I do, seeing that I
seed him myself.”

“And why, sirrah, did you not shoot him down? You
knew he was a rebel—that a price was set upon his
head—that you could have rendered no better service to
your king and to yourself, than by bringing in the ears
of a traitor so troublesome! Had you not your rifle,
sirrah? Why, unless you are a rebel like himself, did
you not use it?”

“Adrat it, colonel, it did go agin me not to pull
trigger; but, you see, colonel, 'twould ha' been mighty
foolish now. More than once I had the drop on both
of 'em, and could easy enough ha' brought down one or
t'other with a wink; but there was no fun in it to think
of afterward. I was only one shot, you see, sir, and
quite too close to get away. They were all round me,
and I had to lie mighty snug, or they'd ha' soon mounted
through the brush upon me like so many varmints; and
the swamp's a good mile off:—too far off for a man
that wants to hide his head in a hurry. It's no use,
colonel, you know, to lose one for one, when one's all
you've got.”

“Miserable coward!” exclaimed Proctor, with indignation.
“Miserable coward, to count chances at such
a moment; throwing away so good an opportunity. But
who was the other person? You spoke of another with
Singleton.”

“Eh,—what?” was the vacant and seemingly unconscious
reply of Blonay. The impatience of Proctor
appeared to increase.

“The other—the person beside Singleton. You said
that your aim was upon both of them.”

A quick, restless, dissatisfied movement followed on
the part of the Half-Breed; and, before he replied, he
drew himself up to his fullest height, while a darker red
seemed to overshadow his features. His answer was
hurried, as if he desired to dismiss the subject from his
mind.

“T'other was Bill Humphries.”

“And why have you named him, in particular, with
Singleton?”

“'Cause I only seed him.”

“What! you do not mean to say that these two men
beat the guard and rescued the prisoner?” demanded
the Briton, with astonishment.

“Adrat it, colonel, no—I don't say so. There was
a matter of twenty on 'em and more; but I didn't stop
to look after the rest. I took sight at them two—first
one and then t'other; and, more than once, when they
were chopping right and left among the redcoats, I could
ha' dropped one or t'other for certain, and would ha' done
so if 'twan't for the old woman. She would go on the
hill, you see.”

“Who?” asked the officer.

“Why, sir, the old woman. Jist when I was going
to pull trigger upon that skunk Humphries, as he came
riding down the road so big, I heard her cry out, and I
couldn't help seeing her. She did try hard to get out
of the way of the horses, but old people, colonel, you
know, can't move fast like young ones, and I couldn't
help her, no how.”

“Of whom do you speak now?” demanded Proctor.
“What old woman are you talking of?”

Blonay simply lifted his finger, without changing
countenance or position, while he pointed to a mangled
carcass lying a few paces from the place of their conference.
It was there, indeed, that the soldiers of Proctor,

on their coming up, had discovered him; and the eye
of the British colonel followed the direction of Blonay's
finger only to turn away in horror and disgust. The
miserable features were battered by the hoofs of the
plunging horses out of all shape of humanity, yet Proctor
was not slow to comprehend the connexion between
the vagrant before him and his hag-like mother. Turning
away from the spectacle, he gave directions to the
men to assist in removing the carcass, under the directions
of the son, whom he however proceeded to examine
still farther, and from whom, after innumerable questions,
he obtained all the leading particulars of the fray.
It seemed evident to Proctor, when his first feeling of
exasperation had subsided, that the bereaved wretch before
him was innocent of any participation in the assault
of the partisans, and he soon dismissed him to the performance
of those solemn offices of duty, the last which
were to be required at his hands for the parent he had
lost.

Obedient to the commands of their superior, the soldiers
drew nigh, and proceeded to transfer the corpse to
one of the carts, which they had now already filled in
part with the bodies of some of those who had been
slain. The son resisted them.

“You aint going to have her to Dorchester burying-ground—eh?”

“To be sure—where else?” was the gruff reply of
the soldier having charge of the proceeding.

“Adrat it—she won't go there,” replied Blonay.

“And how the d—l can she help herself? She's as
dead, poor old creature, as a door-nail, and she's been
hammered much harder. See—her head's all mashed
to a mummy.” He raised the lifeless mass, and allowed
it to fall heavily in the cart, as if to convince the hearer,
however unnecessarily, that she no longer possessed a
will in the transaction. Blonay did not seem to heed
the soldier, but explained his own meaning in the following
words:—

“There's a place nearer home the old woman wants
to be buried in. She aint guine to sleep quiet in the
churchyard, with all them people round her. If you
wants to help me, now, you must give me a cart on purpose,
and then I'll show you where to dig for her. She
marked it out herself long time ago.”

His wish was at once complied with, as the orders of
Colonel Proctor had been peremptory. An additional
cart was procured, into which the mangled remains were
transferred by the soldiers. In doing this, Blonay
lent no manner of assistance. On the contrary, his
thoughts and person were entirely given to another office,
which seemed to call for much more than his customary
consideration. Bending carefully, in all directions,
over the scene of strife, even as a hungry hound gathering
up from the tainted earth the scent of his selected
victim, he noted all the appearances of the field of combat,
and with the earnest search of one looking for the
ruined form of a lost but still remembered and loved
affection, he turned over the unconscious carcasses of
those who had fallen, and narrowly examined every several
countenance.

“He aint here,” he muttered to himself; and an
air of satisfaction seemed to overspread his face. “I
thought so—I seed him go to the cart, and he warn't
hurt then. I'll chaw the bullet for him yet.”

Thus saying, his search seemed to take another direction,
and he now proceeded to inspect the ground on
which the battle had taken place. In particular, he
traced out upon the soft red clay, which had retained
every impression, the various marks made by the hoofs
of the shodden horses. One of these he heedfully regarded,
and pursued with an air of intense satisfaction. The
impression was that of a very small shoe—a deer-like
hoof-trace—quite unlike, and much smaller than, those
made by the other horses. There was another peculiarity
in the shoe which may be noted. That of the

right forefoot seemed in one place to be defective. It
had the appearance of being either completely snapped
in twain, and the parts slightly separated directly in the
centre, or, by a stroke of the hammer, while the metal
was yet malleable, it had been depressed by a straight
narrow line evenly across. Whatever may have been
the cause, the impression of the shoe upon the earth
left this appearance of defect, making the track of its
owner sufficiently conspicuous to one having a knowledge
of, and on the look-out for, it. Having once satisfied
himself of the continued presence of the shoe, with
which he seemed to have been previously familiar, he
gave over his examination; and, as the cart was now
ready, and all preparations completed for the return of
the party to the village, he gathered up his rifle, drew
the 'coon-skin cap over his eyes, and, without a word, at
once fell in procession with the rest, following close behind
the body of his mother. Passing through the village
of Dorchester, where they only paused to procure
a coffin, which was furnished by the garrison, they proceeded
directly to the miserable cabin a few miles beyond,
which she had hitherto inhabited. Here, under a
stunted cedar, in a little hollow of the woods behind her
dwelling, a stake, already driven at head and foot, designated
the spot which she had chosen for her burial-place.
The spade soon scooped out a space for her reception,
and in a few moments the miserable and battered hulk
of a vexed and violent spirit was deposited in silence.
The son lingered but a little while after the burial was
over. He turned away soon after the rest; and, without
much show of sympathy, and with none of its feeling,
those who had thus far assisted left him to his own
mood in the now desolated abiding-place of his mother.