University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

To estimate the solitude of such a creature as Blonay
under the present loss of his parent, by any of those
finer standards of humanity which belong to a higher
class and better habits, would be manifestly idle and erroneous.
But that his isolation previously from all others,
and his close dependance for sympathy upon the
one relative whom he had just lost, added largely to his
degree of suffering now, is equally unquestionable. Supposing
his mere human feelings to have been few and
feeble, they were yet undivided. Concentrating upon
the one object as they had done for so long a period,
they had grown steady and unwavering; and, if not very
strong or very active at any time, they were at least sufficiently
tenacious in their hold to make the sudden
wrenching of their bands asunder to be felt sensibly by
the surviver. But he did full justice in his deportment
to the Indian blood which predominated in his veins.
He had no uttered griefs; no tears found their way to
his cheeks, and his eyes wore their wonted expression
as he took his seat upon the floor of his lonely cabin,
and, stirring the embers upon the hearth, proceeded, with
the aid of the rich lightwood which lay plentifully at
hand, to kindle up his evening fire.

But, if grief were wanting to the expression of his
countenance, it did not lack in other essentials of expression.
Having kindled his fire, he sat for some time
before it in manifest contemplation. His brow was knitted,
his eyes fixed upon the struggling blaze, his lips
closely compressed, and a general earnestness of look
indicated a labouring industry of thought, which, were
he in the presence of another person, would never have

been suffered so plainly to appear. For some time he
sat in this manner without change of position, and during
all this period it would seem that he was working out in
his mind some particular plan of conduct in the pursuit
of an object of no less difficulty than importance. Of
that object we can only conjecture the nature from a reference
to events, and to his actual condition. The vindictive
blood within him—his irresponsible position in
society—the severity of the treatment to which, justly
or not, he had been subjected by one of the parties between
whom the province was divided—and the recent
dispensation which had deprived him of the companionship
of one, who, however despicable and disgusting to
all others, was at least a mother to him—were circumstances
well calculated to arouse the savage desire of
vengeance upon those to whom any of his sufferings
might be attributed. That such were his thoughts,
and such the object of his deliberations, may safely
be inferred from the few words of muttered declamation
which fell from his lips at intervals while thus rapt in
his contemplations. It would be to no purpose to record
these words, since they do little more than afford a
brief and passing sanction to the opinion we have thus
ventured to entertain, and prove, at the same time, the
character of a mood seemingly hostile to humankind in
general. They were bitter and comprehensive, and
summed up, to the cost of humanity, all the wrongs to
which he had been subjected, and many others, wrongs
in his sight only, of which he but complained. Yet an
attentive listener might have observed that in what he
said there was an occasional reference to one individual
in particular, who was yet nameless; which reference,
whenever made, called up to his black, penetrating, but
blear eyes, their most malignant expression. All their
fires seemed to collect and to expand with a new supply
of fuel at such moments, and his swarthy skin glowed
upon his cheeks as if partaking with them a kindred
intensity of blaze.

He remained in this state of feeling and reflection
for some hours, indulging his usual listlessness of habit
while pursuing the thought which his mood had prompted;
when, at length, as if he had arrived at a full and
satisfactory conclusion, he arose from his place, supplied
the fire with new brands, and, as night had now set
in, proceeded to bring forth his supper from the little
cupboard where it usually stood. His fare was simple
and soon despatched. When this duty had been performed,
he next proceeded to such arrangements as
seemed to indicate his preparation for a long journey.
He brought forth from the recess which had supplied
him with his evening repast a small sack of corn-meal,
possibly a quart or more, and a paper containing at least
a pound of common brown sugar. A huge hoe, such
as is used in the corn-field, was then placed by him before
the blazing fire—the flour and sugar, previously
stirred together, were spread thickly over it, and, carefully
watching the action of the heat upon his mixture, he
took due heed to remove it at that period when he perceived
the flour to grow slightly brown, and the sugar to
granulate and form in common particles along with it.
It was then withdrawn from the fire, exposed for an hour
to the air, and afterward poured into a sack made of the
deerskin, which seemed to have been employed frequently
for a like purpose. To this, in another skin,
the remnant of a smoked venison ham was added, and
the two parcels, with one or two other items in the
shape of hoe-cake and fried bacon, were deposited in
a coarse sack of cloth, opening in the centre like a
purse, and so filled as to be worn across the saddle after
the fashion of the common meal-bag. This done, he
proceeded to what appeared a general overhaul of the
hovel. Various articles, seemingly of value, were
drawn out from their secret recesses; these were carefully
packed away in a box, and, when ready for removal,
their proprietor, honestly so or not, proceeded to secure

them after his own manner. Leaving the cabin for an
instant, he went forth, and soon returned, bearing in his
hands a spade, with which, in a brief space, he dug a
hole in the centre of the apartment sufficiently large
to receive and conceal his deposite. Here he buried
it, carefully covering it over and treading down the
earth with his feet until it became as hard as that which
had been undisturbed around it. Placing every thing
which he was to remove ready for the moment of departure,
he threw himself upon the miserable pallet of his
hut, and soon fell into unbroken slumbers.

The stars were yet shining, and it lacked a good hour
of the daylight when he arose from his couch and began
to bestir himself in preparations for departure.
Emerging from the hovel with his bundles, as we have
seen them prepared the night before, he placed them under
a neighbouring tree, and, undoing the string from the
neck of the hungry cur that kept watch in his kennel
immediately beside the hovel's entrance, he left him in
charge of the deposite, while he took his way to the
margin of a little canebrake a few hundred yards off.
There, with a shrill whistle and a brief cry two or three
times repeated, he called up from its recesses a shaggy
pony—a creature of the swamps—a hardy, tough, uncouth,
and unclean little animal, which followed him like
a dog to the hovel which he had left. The hollow of a
cypress yielded him saddle and bridle, and the little goat-like
steed was soon equipped and ready for his rider.
This done, Blonay fastened him to a tree near his dog,
and without a word proceeded to apply the torch to several
parts of the building. It was not long before the
flames rose around it in every quarter; and, lingering
long enough to perceive that the conflagration must now
be effectual, the Half-Breed at length grasped his rifle,
mounted his tacky, and, followed by his ill-looking dog,
once more took his way to the village of Dorchester.

Moving slowly, he did not reach the village until the

day had fully dawned. He then proceeded at once to
the garrison, and claimed to be admitted to the presence
of the commander. Proctor was too good a soldier, and
one too heedful of his duty, to suffer annoyance from a
visit at so early an hour; and, though not yet risen, he
gave orders at once for the admission of the applicant,
and immediately addressed himself to the arrangement
of his toilet. With a subdued but calm air of humility,
Blonay stood before the Briton—his countenance
as immoveable and impassive as if he had sustained no
loss, and was altogether unconscious of privation. Regarding
him with more indulgence than had hitherto been
his custom, Proctor demanded of him, first, if the soldiers
had properly assisted him in the last offices to his
mother; and next, his present business. Blonay had
few words, and his reply was brief.

“The old woman didn't want much help, and we
soon put her away. About what I want now, colonel, it
aint much, and it'll be a smart bit of time 'fore I come
back to trouble you again.”

“Why, where do you propose to go?” demanded the
Briton.

“I'm thinking to go up along by Black river, and so
up into Williamsburgh, and perhaps clear away to old
Kaddipah—Lynch's Creek, as they calls it now. I
don't know how long I may be gone, and it's to get a
paper from you that I'm come.”

“To Black river and Lynch's Creek—why, know
you not that the rebels are thick as hops in that quarter?
What carries you there?”

“There's a chap in that quarter stands indebted to me,
and I wants he should settle, seeing pay-day's come and
gone long ago. I aint'fear'd of the rebels, for I'm used
to the woods and swamps, and 'taint often I'll be in
their company. I'll keep out of harm's way, colonel, as
long as I can; and when I can't keep out any longer,
why, then I'll stand a shot, and have done with it.”

“And what sort of paper is it that you desire from
me?” asked Proctor.

“Why, sir—a little protection like, that'll be good
agin our own people, and stand up for my loyalty.
You can say I'm a true friend to his majesty, and how
you knows me; and that'll be enough, when you put
your own name to it in black and white.”

“But to show that to a rebel will be fatal to you.
How will you determine between them?”

“Every man has his own mark, colonel, same as
every tree; and where the mark don't come up clear to
the eye, it will to the feel or the hearing. I'm a born
hunter, colonel, and must take my chance. I aint
afear'd.”

“And yet, Blonay, I should rather not give you a
passport to go in that quarter. Can you not wait until
Lord Cornwallis takes that route? Is your claim so
very considerable?”

“'Taint so much, colonel, but I can't do so well
without it. I've been in want of it long enough, and
I'm dubous him that owes me will clear away and go
into North Carolina, and so I'll lose it. You needn't
be scared for me, colonel; I'm not going to put my head
in the bull's mouth because his hide has a price in market;
and I think, by the time I get up there, Marion's
men will be all off. I aint afeard.”

Proctor, after several efforts to dissuade him from his
purpose, finding all his efforts unavailing, gave him the
required passport, which he carefully concealed from
sight, and, with many acknowledgments and professions
of loyalty, took his departure. From Dorchester, proceeding
to the battle-ground, he again carefully noted
the tracks of the one shoe, which he followed with the
keen eye of a hunter, from side to side of the road, in
its progress upward to the cypress swamp. Sometimes
losing it, he turned to the bushes on either hand, and
where they seemed disordered or broken, he continued

the trail, until, again emerging from the cover, he
would find, and resume, the more distinct impression, as
it was made upon the clay or sandy road. In this way
he reached the broken ground of the swamp, and there
he lost it. Alighting, therefore, he concealed his pony
in a clump of bushes, and with his rifle primed and ready
for any emergency, he pursued his farther search into
the bosom of the swamp on foot. Here he still thought
that he might find the partisans—if not the entire troop
of Singleton, at least a portion of it; probably—though
on this head he was not sanguine—the very object of
his search. From point to point, with unrelaxing vigilance
and caution, he stole along until he reached the
little creek which surrounded and made an island of the
spot where Singleton had held his temporary camp. The
place was silent as the grave. He crossed the narrow
stream, and carefully inspected the ground. It bore
traces enough of recent occupation. The ashes of several
fires, still retaining a slight degree of warmth—the
fresh tracks of horses, that of the broken shoe among
them—hacked trees, and torn bushes all told of the
presence there, within a brief space, of the very persons
whom be now sought. The search of Blonay, worthy
of that of the ablest Indian hunter, was thorough and
complete. From the one island, he took his way to
sundry others which lay in its neighbourhood, susceptible
of occupation, in all of which he found traces of men
and horses, encouraging him to proceed farther and
with continued caution. At length he passed an oozy
bog, and stood upon a little hummock, which seemed
formed for a place of refuge and repose. An awful
silence rested over the spot, and the exceeding height of
the cypresses, and the dense volume of undergrowth
which surrounded and darkened the wide intervals between
them, seemed almost too solid to admit of his
progress. The gloom of the region had all the intensity
of night, and appeared to impress itself upon the feelings
of one even so habitually wanting in reverence as the
Half-Breed. He paused for an instant, then moving
forward by a route which he seemed to adopt with confidence,
he rounded the natural obstruction of woods
and thicket, and an amphitheatre opened before him, not
so spacious as it was perfect. He paused suddenly
—he heard a footstep—there was evidently a rustling in
the woods. He stole behind a tree for an instant,
sank upon his knee, lifted his rifle, which he cocked with
caution, and watched the quarter intently from which the
sound had arisen. A shrill scream rose upon the air,
and in the next instant he beheld a monstrous wild-cat,
startled like himself, and by him, bound forward to an
opposite point of the area, and leap into the extending
arms of a rotten tree, that shook under its pressure.
Perching upon the very edge of a broken limb which
jutted considerably out, it looked down with threatening
glance upon his approach. He rose from his knees, and
advanced to the spot from whence the animal had fled,
and over which it still continued to brood with flaming
eyes and an aroused appetite. It was not long before
Blonay discovered the occasion of its presence. The
figure of a man, huge of frame, but seemingly powerless,
lay stretched upon the ground. The Half-Breed soon
recognised the person of the maniac Frampton. He
lay upon the little mound which covered the remains of
his wife. To this he seemed to have crawled with the
latest efforts of his strength. That strength was now
nigh exhausted. His clothes were in tatters, and covered
with traces of blood and mire. His bloodshot eyes
were glazing fast. The curtain of death was nearly
drawn over them, but his feeble hand was uplifted occasionally
to the tree where the wild-cat sat watching hungrily
for the moment when the restless but feeble motion
of the dying man should cease. Blonay approached,
and, as his eye glanced from man to beast, he lifted his
rifle, intending to shoot the monster. The action seemed
to irritate the creature, whose half-suppressed scream, as
Blonay advanced his foot towards him in the act to fire,
appeared to defy and threaten him.

“The varmint!” exclaimed the Half-Breed, “I could
shoot him now easy enough, but it's no use. There's
plenty more on 'em in the swamp to come after him, and
I don't love them any better than him. There's no reason
why I should keep the meat from him, only for
them. It's the natur of the beast to want its fill, and
what the wild-cat don't eat the buzzards must. The varmint
won't touch him so long as he can move a finger,
and when he can't he won't mind much how many of
'em get at him.”

So speaking, he turned from the animal to the maniac.
The hand was uplifted no longer. The eye had nothing
of life's language in it. The last lingering consciousness
had departed for ever; and Blonay looked up to the
watching wild-cat as he turned the body with his foot,
muttering aloud as he did so—“Adrat it, you may soon
come down to dinner.”

The animal uttered a short, shrill cry, two or three
times repeated, and with a rising of its bristles, and such
a flashing of its eyes, that Blonay half determined to
shoot it where it stood, for what appeared to him its determined
insolence. Once, indeed, he did lift his rifle,
but, with the thought of a moment, he again dropped it.

“It's only a waste,” he muttered to himself, “and can
do no good. Besides, it's a chawed bullet. It's of no
use to bite lead when a wild-cat's to be killed. Smooth
bullet and smooth bore will do well enough, and them I
hain't.”

Such were his words as he turned away from the spot,
and departed for the place where his horse was fastened,
—such was his philosophy. The bullet, marked for vengeance
by the impression of his teeth, was not to be
thrown away upon mere pastime; and, though feeling a
strong desire to destroy the cat, he was yet able to forbear.

He hurried through the quagmire, but had not
gone far when the repeated screams of the animal, calling
probably to its fellows, announced to the Half-Breed
that he had already begun to exult in the enjoyment of
his long withheld and human banquet.