University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Blonay emerged from the swamp only to commence
a journey of new difficulties, the termination of which
he could not foresee. Leaving him upon the road for a
while, we will now change the scene to that beautiful
tract of country lying close along the borders of the
Santee, and stretching thence, in a northwardly direction,
across the present district of Williamsburg to the
river Kaddipah—a stream which, according to modern
usage, has shared the fate of most of our Indian waters,
and exchanging that more euphonious title, conferred
upon it by the red man, is now generally known to us as
Lynch's Creek. With a patriotic hardihood, that will be
admitted to have its excuse if not its necessity, we
choose to preserve in our narrative the original Indian
cognomen whenever we may find it necessary to refer to
it; and the reader, whose geographical knowledge might
otherwise become confused, will henceforward be pleased
to hold the two names as identical, if not synonymous.

To the Santee, extending from point to point in every
direction leading to the Kaddipah, the action of the Carolina
partisans was for a long time limited. Our narrative
will be confined within a like circuit. The entire
region for nearly two hundred miles on every hand was
in the temporary and occasional occupation of Marion
and his little band. With the commission of the state,

conferring upon him the rank of a brigadier in its service,
Governor Rutledge had assigned to the brave partisan
the entire charge in and over all that immense
tract comprehended within a line drawn from Charleston
along the Atlantic to Georgetown, inclusive,—thence in
a westerly direction to Camden, and thence in another
line, including the Santee river, again to Charleston.
This circuit comprehended the most wealthy and populous
portion of the state, and could not, under existing
circumstances, have been intrusted to better hands.
And yet, not a foot of it but was in actual possession
and under the sway of the invader. His forts and garrisons
at moderate intervals covered its surface, and his
cavalry, made up chiefly of foreign and native mercenaries,
constantly traversed the entire space lying between
them. The worthy governor of South Carolina, thus
liberal in appropriating this extensive province to the
care of the partisan, dared not himself set foot upon it
unless under cover of the night; and the brave man to
whom he gave it availed himself of the privileges of
his trust only by stratagem and stealth. Fortunately,
the physical nature of the country so bestowed was well
susceptible of employment in the hands of such a warrior
as Marion. It afforded a thousand natural and almost
inaccessible retreats, with the uses of which the
partisan had been long familiar. The fastnesses of
river and forest, impervious to the uninitiated stranger,
were yet a home to the “swamp fox.' He doubled
through them, night and day, to the continual discomfiture
and mortification of his pursuers. From the Santee
to the Black river, from Black river to the two Peedees,
through the Kaddipah, from thence to Waccamah,
and back again to the Santee, he led his enemies a long
chase, which wearied out their patience, defied their
valour, and eluded all their vigilance. Availing himself
of their exhaustion, he would then suddenly turn upon
the pursuing parties, watch their movements, await the
moment of their neglect or separation, and cut them up
in detail by an unlooked-for blow, which would amply
compensate by its consequences for all the previous annoyance
to which he might have been subjected in the
pursuit.

It was to his favourite retreat at Snow's Island that
Major Singleton followed his commander after the successful
onslaught at Dorchester. Himself familiar with
the usual hiding-places, he had traced his general with
as much directness as was possible in following one so
habitually cautious as Marion. He had succeeded in
uniting with him, though after much difficulty; and, as
the partisan studiously avoided remaining very long in
any one place, the union had scarcely been effected before
the warriors were all again in motion for the upper
Santee. This river, bold, broad, rapid, and full of
intricacies, afforded the finest theatre for the sort of warfare
which they carried on. Its course, too, was such as
necessarily made it one of the great leading thoroughfares
of the state. Detachments of the enemy's troops were
continually passing and repassing it, in their progress
either for the seacoast or the interior. Supplies and recruits
to Cornwallis—then in North Carolina — despatches
and prisoners in return from him to the Charleston
garrison, made the region one of continual life, and,
to Marion, of continual opportunity. Hanging around
its various crossing-places like some vigilant and vengeful
hawk in confident expectation of his prey, he kept
an unsleeping watch, an untiring wing, an unerring weapon.
In its intricacies we shall find him now—the
swamps not less his home than the element of his peculiar
genius. His scouts are dispersed around him in all
directions and in all disguises—lying in the bush by the
wayside—crouching in the oozy mire in close neighbourhood
with the reptile—watchful above, and buried in the
thick overhanging branches of the tree—crawling around
the cottage enclosure, in readiness and waiting for the
foe.

The scene to which we would now direct the eye of
our reader is sufficiently attractive of itself to secure his
attention. The country undulates prettily around us, for
miles, in every direction: now rising gently into slopes,
that spread themselves away in ridges and winding lines,
until the sight fails to discover the valleys in which they
lose themselves—and now sinking abruptly into deepening
hollows and the quietest dells, whose recesses and
sudden windings, thickly covered with the massive and
umbrageous natural growth of the region, terminate at
last, as by a solid wall, the long and variously-shadowed
prospect. On the one hand a forest of the loftiest
pines, thousands upon thousands in number, lies in the
deep majesty of unappropriated silence. In the twilight
of their dense and sheltered abodes, the meditative and
melancholy mind might fitly seek, and readily obtain, security
from all obtrusion of uncongenial objects. Even
the subtile and oppressive beams of the August sun
come as it were by stealth, and tremblingly, into their
solemn and sweet recesses. Their tops, gently waving
beneath the pressure of the slight breeze as it hurries
over them, yield a strain of murmuring song like the
faint notes of some spirit mourner, which accords harmoniously
with the sad influence of their dusky forms.
The struggling and stray glance of sunlight, gliding
along their prostrated vistas, rather contributes to increase
than remove the sweet gloom of these deep
abodes. The dim ray, like an intrusive presence, flickering
between their huge figures with every movement
of the declining sun, played, as it were, by stealth,
among the brown leaves and over the gray bosom of the
earth below. Far as the eye can extend, these vistas, so
visited, spread themselves away in fanciful sinuosities,
until the mind becomes unconsciously and immeasurably
uplifted in the contemplation of the scene, and we feel
both humbled and elevated as we gaze upon the innumerable
forms of majesty before us, rising up, it would

seem, without a purpose, from the bosom of the earth—
living without notice and without employ—uncurbed in
their growth—untroubled in their abodes—and perishing
away in season only to give place to succeeding myriads
having a like fortune. On the other hand, as it were, to
relieve the mind of the spectator from the monotonous influence
of such a survey, how different is the aspect of
the woods—how various the other features of the scene
around us. Directly opposed to the pine groves on the
one hand, we behold the wildest and most various growth
of the richest southern region rising up, spreading and
swelling around in the most tangled intricacy—in the
most luxurious strength. There the hickory and gum
among the trees attest the presence of a better soil for
cultivation, and delight the experienced eye of the planter.
With these, clambering over their branches, come
the wild vines, with their thorny arms and glowing vegetation.
Shrubs gather in the common way; dwarf trees
and plants, choked and overcome, yet living still, attest
the fruitfulness of a land which yields nutriment but denies
place; and innumerable species of fungi, the yellow
and the purple fringes of the swamps, the various
mosses, as various in hue as in form and texture—parasites
that have no root, and, like unselfish affections,
only claim an object upon which to bestow themselves—
these, crowding about and clustering in gay confusion
along the dense mass, swelling like a fortress before
the eye, seem intended to form a labyrinthine retreat for
the most coy of all selfish creations.

Immediately beyond this dense and natural thicket,
the scene—still the same—presents us with another aspect.
A broken and dismantled fence, the rails half
rotten and decaying fast on all sides, seems to indicate
the ancient employment of the place by man. The
period must have been remote, however, as the former
product of the spot thus enclosed had been superseded
by the small-leafed or field pine-tree, in sufficient size

and number almost to emulate the neighbouring and
original forest. There was little here of undergrowth,
and yet, as the pine thus occupying it is of inferior and
frequently of dwarf size, the thicket was sufficiently
dense for temporary concealment. It had a farther advantage
in this respect, as it sunk rapidly in sundry places
into hollows, that lay like so many cups in the bosom
of crowding hills, and had for their growth, like the original
wood we have just passed over, a tangled covering
of vines and shrubbery.

It was on the side of one of these descents, about
noon, on the third day after Blonay's departure from
Dorchester, that we find two persons reclining, sheltered
by a clump of the smaller pines of which we have spoken,
and sufficiently concealed by them and the shrubbery
around, to remain unconcerned by the near proximity of
the highway. The road ran along, and within rifle distance,
to the south, below them. The elder of the two
was a man somewhere between thirty and forty years of
age. His bulky form, as it lay extended along the grass,
denoted the possession of prodigious strength; though the
position in which he lay, with his face to the ground, and
only supported by his palms, borne up by his elbows
resting upon the earth, would incline the spectator to
conceive him one not often disposed for its exercise.
An air of sluggish inertness marked his manner, and
seemed to single him out as one of the mere beef-eaters,
—the good citizens, who, so long as they get wherewithal
to satisfy the animal, are not apt to take umbrage at
any of the doings of the world about them. His face,
however, had an expression of its own; and the sanguine
flush which overspread the full cheeks, and the quick,
restless movement of his blue eye, spoke of an active
spirit, and one prompt enough at all times to govern
and set in motion the huge bulk of that body, now so
inert and sluggish. His forehead, though good, was not
large; his chin was full, and his nose one of length and

character. He was habited in the common blue and
white homespun of the country. A sort of hunting-shirt,
rather short, like a doublet, came over his hips, and was
bound about his waist by a belt of the same material.
A cone-crowned hat, the rim of which, by some mischance,
had been torn away, lay beside him, and formed
another portion of his habiliments. Instead of shoes,
he wore a rude pair of buckskin moccasins, made after
the Indian manner, though not with their usual skill, and
which lacked here and there the aid of the needle. His
shirt-collar lay open, without cravat or covering of any
kind; and, by the deeply-bronzed colour of the skin beneath,
told of habitual exposure to the elements. A rifle
lay beside him—a stout instrument,—and in his belt a
black leather case was stuck conveniently, the huge
knife which it protected lying beside him, as it had just
before been made subservient to his mid-day meal.

His companion was a youth scarcely more than
twenty years of age, who differed greatly in appearance
from him we have attempted to describe. His eye was
black and fiery, his cheek brown and thin, his hair of a
raven black like his eye, his chin full, his nose finely
Roman, and his forehead imposingly high. His person
was slender, of middle height, and seemed to indicate
great activity. His movements were feverishly restless
—he seemed passionate and impatient, and his thin, but
deeply red lips, quivered and coloured with every word
and at every movement. There was more of pretension
in his dress than in that of his companion, though they
were not unlike in general structure and equipment.
Like him he wore a hunting-shirt, but of a dark green,
and it could be seen at a glance that its material had
been of the most costly kind. A thick fringe edged
the skirts, which came lower, in proportion to his person,
than those of his companion. Loops of green cord fastened
the coat to his neck in front, and a belt of black
polished leather confined it to his waist. He also carried

a rifle,—a Spanish dirk, with a broken handle of
ivory, was stuck in his belt, and a pouch of some native
fur, hanging from his neck by a green cord, contained his
mould and bullets. This dress formed the uniform of
a native company. His powder-horn had been well
chosen, and was exceedingly and curiously beautiful.
It had been ingeniously wrought in scraping down, so as
to represent a rude but clear sketch of the deer in full
leap, a hound at his heels, and a close thicket in the
perspective, ready to receive and shelter the fugitive.
These were all left in relief upon the horn, while every
other part was so transparent that the several grains of
powder were distinctly visible within to the eye without.

The youth was partially reclining, with his back against
a tree, and looking towards his elder companion. His
face was flushed, and a burning spot upon both cheeks
told of some vexing cause of thought which had been
recently the subject of conversation between them. The
features of the elder indicated care and a deep concern
in the subject, whatever it may have been, but his eye
was mild in its expression, and his countenance unruffled.
He had been evidently labouring to sooth his more
youthful comrade; and though he did not seem to have
been, as yet, very successful, he did not forego his efforts
in his disappointment. The conversation which
followed may help us somewhat in arriving at a knowledge
of the difficulty before them.

“I am not more quick or impatient,” said the youth
to his companion, as if in reply to some remark from
the other, “than a man should be in such a case. Not
to be quick when one is wronged, is to invite injustice;
and I am not so young, Thumbscrew, as not to have
found that out by my own experience. I know no good
that comes of submission, except to make tyrants and
slaves; and I tell you, Thumbscrew, that so long as my
name is Mellichampe, I shall never submit to the one,
nor be the other.”

“A mighty fine spirit, Airnest; and, to speak what's
gospel true, I likes it myself,” was the reply of the other,
who addressed the first speaker with an air of respectful
deference, as naturally as if he had been taught to regard
him as a superior. “I'm not,” he continued, “I'm
not a man myself to let another play tantrums with me;
and, for sartain, I sha'n't find fault with them that's most
like myself in that partic'lar. If a man says he's for
fight, I'll lick him if I can;—if I can't—that's to say, if
I think I can't—I'll think longer about it. I don't see
no use in fighting where it's ten to one—where, indeed,
it's main sartain—I'm to be licked; and so, as I says, I'll
take time to think about the fighting.”

“What! until you're kicked?” replied the other, impetuously.

“No, no, Airnest—not so bad as that comes to, neither.
My idee is, that fighting is the part of a beast-brute,
and not for a true-born man, that has a respect for
himself, and knows what's good-breeding; and I only
fights when there's brutes standing waiting for it. Soon
as a man squints at me as if he was going to play beast
with me, by the eternal splinters, I'll mount him, lick or
no lick, and do my best, tooth, tusk, and grinders, to
astonish him. But, afore that, I'm peaceable as a pine
stump, lying quiet in my own bush.”

“Well, but when you're trodden upon?” said the other.

“Why, then, you see, Airnest, there's another question
—who's atop of me? If it's a dozen, I'll lie snug until
they're gone over: I see nothing onreasonable or onbecoming
in that—and that, you see, Airnest, is jist what I
ax of you to do. They aint treading on you 'xactly, tho'
I do confess they've been mighty nigh to it; but then,
you see, there's quite too many on 'em for you to handle
with, onless you play 'possum a little. There's no
use to run plump into danger, like a blind bull into a
thick fence, to stick fast there and be hobbled; when,
if you keep your eyes open, and a keen scent, you can

track all your enemies, one by one, to his own kennel,
and smoke 'em out, one after another, like a rabbit in a
dry hollow. Hear to my words, Airnest, and don't be
vexed now. Dang my buttons, you know, boy, I love
you the same as if you was my own blood and bone,
though I knows my place to you, and know you're come
of better kin, and are better taught in book-larning;
but, by God! Airnest, you haven't larned, in all your
larning, to love anybody better than I love you.”

“I know it, Thumby, I know it—I feel it,” said the
other, moved by the earnestness of his companion, and
extending his hand towards him, while his eyes filled
with ready tears. “I know it—I feel it, my friend;—
forgive me if I have said any thing to vex you. But my
heart is full, and my blood is on fire, and I must have
utterance in some way.”

“Never cry, Airnest—don't, I tell you,—'taint right—
it's onbecoming, Airnest, but—dang it!” he exclaimed,
dashing a drop from his own eye as he spoke, “dang it!
I do believe I've been about to do the same thing. But
it's all the fault of one's mother, as larns it to us so
strong when we're taking suck, that we 'member it for
ever after. A man that's got a-fighting, and in the wars
with tories one day and British the next, it's onbecoming
for him to cry; and, Airnest, though things are black
enough about home, it's not black enough to cry for.
It'll come light again before long, I'm sartain. I've
never seed the time yet when there wasn't some leetle
speck of light on the edge of the cloud somewhere—it
mought be ever so leetle, or ever so fur off, but it was
there somewhere: it mought be in the east, and that
showed the clearing away was further off; or it mought
be in the northward, and that wasn't the best place either
for it to break in, but it was somewhere for certain—that
leetle speck of white; jist like a sort of promise from
God, that airth should have sunshine again.”

“Would I could behold it now,” responded the other,

gloomily, to the cheering speech of his companion;
“would I could behold it now; but I see nothing of this
promise—there is no bright speck in the dark cloud
which now hangs about my fortunes.”

“You're but young yet, Airnest, and it aint time yet
for you to talk so. You haven't had a full trial yet, and
you're only at the beginning—as one may say, jist at
the threshold of the world, and hain't quite taken your
first step into it. Wait a little; and if you've had a little
nonplush at the beginning, why man, I tell you, larn from
it—for it's a sort of lesson, which, if you larn it well,
will make you so much the wiser to get on afterward,
and so much the happier when the storm blows over.
Now, I don't think it so bad for them that has misfortunes
from the jump. They are always the best people after
all; but them that has sunshine always at first, I never
yet knew one that could stand a shower. They're always
worried at every thing and everybody—quarrelling
with this weather, and quarrelling with that, and never
able to make the most of what comes up to 'em. Hold
on, Airnest—shut your teeth, and keep in your breath,
and stand to it a leetle longer. That's my way; and,
when I keep to it, I'm always sure to see that leetle
white speck I've been telling about, wearing away all
round, till it comes right before my eyes, and there it
sticks, and don't move till the sunlight comes out again.”

“You may be right in your philosophy,” responded
the youth, “and I would that I could adopt it for my
own; but my experience rejects, and my heart does not
feel it. These evils have come too fast and too suddenly
upon me. My father cruelly murdered—my mother
driven away from the home of my ancestors—that
home confiscated, and given to the murderer—and I, a
hunted, and, if taken, a doomed man! It is too much
for my contemplation. My blood boils, my brain burns
—I cannot think, and when I do it is only to madden.”

The speaker paused in deepest emotion. His hand

clasped his forehead, and he sank forward, with his face
prone to the earth upon which he had been reclining.
His companion lifted his hand, which he took into his
own, and, with a deep solicitude of manner, endeavoured,
after his own humble fashion of argument and speech, to
exhort his youthful and almost despairing associate to
better thoughts and renewed energy.

“Look up, Airnest, my dear boy,—look up, and listen
to me, Airnest. It's onbecoming to be cast down
like a woman, because trouble presses upon the heart.
I know what trouble is, and, dang my buttons, Airnest,
I feel for you all over; but I don't like to see you cast
down, because then I think you aint able to turn out to
have satisfaction upon the enemy for what they've done
to you. Now, though I do say you're to keep quiet,
and lie snug at the present, that isn't to say that you're
to do nothing. No, no,—you're to get in readiness for
what's to come, and not be wanting when you have a
chance to turn your enemy upon his back. It aint revenge,
but it's justice, and my lawful, natural right, that
I fights for; and you mustn't be cast down, Airnest, seeing
that then you moughtn't be ready to take the benefit
of a good opportunity.”

“It's revenge not less than justice,” said the youth,
impatiently. “I must have the one, whether the other
be obtained or not. I will have it—I will not sleep in
its pursuit; and yet, Thumbscrew, I will take your advice—I
will be prudent in order to be successful—I will
pause in order to proceed. Do not fear me now—I
shall do nothing which will risk my adventure or myself:
but I will temper my mood with caution, and seek for
that vengeance, which shall be the white speck among
the clouds of which you have spoken.”

“Well, now, that's what I call becoming, and straight-forward
right. I'm for—but hush! don't you hear
something like a critter? and—that was the bark of a
cur, I'll be sworn to it.”

The sturdy woodman thrust his ear to the earth, and
the sound grew more distinct.

“Keep close, Airnest, now, and I'll look out, and make
an examination. There's only one horse, I reckon,
from the sound; but I'll see before I leave the bush. I'll
whistle should I want you to lend a hand in the business.”

Seizing his rifle as he spoke, with an alacrity which
seemed incompatible with his huge limbs, and must
have surprised one who had only beheld him as he lay
supine before, he bounded quickly, but circumspectly, up
the hill, and through the copse towards the highway
from whence the sounds that had startled them appeared
to proceed. The cause of the disturbance may very
well be reserved for explanation in another chapter.