University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

Tarleton, however, whatever may have been his
feelings or his thoughts, gave but little time to their
present indulgence. As soon as Janet Berkeley was
out of sight he again sought out Barsfield, whom he
found in no very excellent humour. The tory was mortified
on many accounts. He was irritated at the
escape of Mellichampe, a second time, from the fate
which he had prepared for him, and which, at one moment,
he had considered certain. He was annoyed at
the sudden appearance of his superior, and that superior
Tarleton, just when his controversies with a woman
placed him in an attitude so humiliating to a man and a
soldier. His brow was clouded, therefore, as these
thoughts filled his mind, and the scowl had not left his
features when Tarleton again made his appearance.
The fierce legionary was a man of promptitude, quick
decision, and few words:—

“So, Captain Barsfield, this prisoner of yours is the
son of Max Mellichampe?”

“The same, sir; a malignant I had thought quite too
notorious to have escaped your recollection.”

“It had not; though, at the moment when I first
heard it, I was confounding one name with another in
my memory.”

“I thought it strange, sir.”

“You must have done so,” was the cool reply of
Tarleton, “for the fine estate and former possessions of
Mellichampe, now yours through our sovereign's favour,
are too closely at hand not to have kept the old proprietor
in recollection. But our speech is now of the son:
what of him, Captain Barsfield?”

There was a good deal in this speech to annoy the
tory, but he strove successfully to preserve his composure
as he replied to the latter part of it.

“He, sir, is not less malignant—not less hostile to
our cause and sovereign, than his father. He is an exceedingly
active officer among the men of Marion; and,
like his father, endowed with many of the qualities which
would make him troublesome as an enemy. He is
brave, and possessed of considerable skill; quite too
much not to render it highly advantageous to us to have
him a prisoner, and liable to certain penalties as a criminal.
It was my surprise, Colonel Tarleton—” and a
little hesitation here, in the words and manner of the
tory, seemed to denote his own apprehensions of encroaching
upon delicate ground quite too far,—“it was
my surprise, sir, that, knowing his name and character,
you should have proceeded towards him with so much
tenderness.”

The legionary did not seem to feel the force of the
rebuke which this language conveyed. His thoughts
were elsewhere, evidently, as he replied, with an inquiring
exclamation,

“Eh?”

“You knew him, sir—a rebel—a spy,—for such I asserted
and can prove him to be,—yet you spared him.”

“I did,” said Tarleton; “you wonder that I did so.
Does your surprise come from the belief that I did him
or myself injustice? To what do you ascribe my forbearance?
or would you rather have had me truss him
up to a tree, because he merited such a doom, or sabre
him upon the ground, in order to preserve my consistency?”

The tory looked astounded, as well he might. There
was a strange tone of irony in the language of Tarleton,
and the words themselves had a signification quite
foreign to the wonted habit of the latter. He knew not
how to construe the object or the precise nature of the

question. The whole temper of the fierce legionary
seemed to have undergone a change, and was now a
mystery to Barsfield, as it had been a wonder to the
men around them. There was a sarcastic smile on the
lips of the speaker, accompanying his words, which
warned the tory to be heedful of the sort of reply to
which he should give utterance. He paused, therefore,
for a few moments, in order so to digest his answer as
to guard it from every objectionable expression; yet he
spoke with sufficient promptitude to avoid the appearance
of premeditating what he said.

“Surely, Colonel Tarleton, the rebel who resists
should die in his resistance—”

“But when wounded, Barsfield—when wounded, and
at your feet—” was the abrupt interruption of Tarleton,
who certainly did not diminish the surprise of Barsfield
while thus making a suggestion of mercy to the conqueror.
The tory could not forbear a sarcasm: with a
smile, therefore, he proceeded:—

“And yet, Colonel Tarleton, it has seldom been the
case that you have left to his majesty's enemies, even
when you have overthrown them, a second opportunity
of lifting arms against him.”

The bitter smile passed from the lips of the legionary,
and his eye rested sternly upon the face of the tory.
The sarcasm was evidently felt, and, for a few moments,
there was in Tarleton's bosom something of that fierce
fire which, at one period, would have replied to the
sharp word with the sharper sword, and to the idle sneer
with a busy weapon. But the sternness of his brow, a
moment after, became subdued to mere seriousness, as
he replied—

“It is true, Captain Barsfield, my sabre has perhaps
been sufficiently unsparing. I have been a man
of blood; and heretofore, I have thought, with sufficient
propriety. I have deemed it my duty to leave my king
as few enemies as possible, and I have not often paused

to consider of the mode by which to get rid of them;
but—”

He did not conclude the sentence. His face was
turned away from the listener. Thought seemed to
gather, like a cloud, upon his mind; and a gloomy and
dark hue obscured his otherwise pale features. The
tory regarded him with increased surprise as he again
addressed him; he could no longer conceal his astonishment
at the change in the mood and habits of the
speaker.

“May I ask,” he continued, “what has wrought the
alteration which I cannot but see now in your deportment,
Colonel Tarleton?”

“Is it not enough,” was the quick response of the legionary,
“that Cornwallis has grown merciful of late?”

“It has been of late that he has become so,” said
Barsfield, with a smile; “only since the battle of Gum
Swamp, may we reckon?”

“He, at least, requires that I shall be so,” said
Tarleton, calmly, “though the indulgence of a different
temper he still appears to keep in reserve for himself.
He would monopolize the pleasure of the punishment,
and, perhaps, the odium of it also. That, at least, I do
not envy him.”

“And in that respect your own mood seems to have
undergone a change which could not have been produced
by any command of his?”

Barsfield was venturing upon dangerous ground in this
remark, but he presumed thus freely as he listened to
the tacit censure which Tarleton had expressed in reference
to the conduct of his superior.

“It has, Captain Barsfield, and the proof of it is to
be found in the proceedings of this day. Under your
representations I should, at another time, with the full
sanction of Cornwallis, have strung up this rebel Mellichampe
to the nearest tree, though but a few moments
of life were left him by the doubtful mercies of your

sabre or mine. I have not done so; and my own mood
is accountable for the change, rather than the orders of
my superior. The truth is, I am sick of blood after the
strife is over; and I relieve myself of the duties of the
executioner by the alteration of my feelings in this respect.
Mellichampe will, perhaps, complain of my
mercy. He must remain your prisoner, to be carefully
kept by you, for trial in Charleston, as soon as his
wounds will permit of his removal to the city. An execution
is wanted there, for example, in that unruly city;
and this youth, coming of good family, and an active insurgent,
is well chosen as the proper victim. I am instructed
to secure another for this purpose, and my
pursuit now is partly for this object. Two such subjects
as Walton and Mellichampe, carted to an ignominious
death through the streets of Charleston, will
have the proper effect upon these insolent citizens, who
growl where they dare not bite, and sneer at the authority
which yet tramples them into the dust. You
must keep this youth safely for this purpose, Captain
Barsfield; I shall look to you that he escape not, and
that every attendance and all care be given him, so that
he may, as soon as possible, prepare for his formal trial,
and, as I think, for his final execution. My own surgeon
shall remain with him, the better to facilitate these
ends, which, as you value your own loyalty, you will do
your utmost to promote.”

“Am I to remain here, then, Colonel Tarleton?
Shall I not proceed to Baynton's Meadow, agreeably to
the original plan, and afterward establish myself in post
at Kaddipah?”

“No! you must establish yourself here. The position
is safer and better suited to our purposes than
Kaddipah. Surround yourself with stockades, and summon
the surrounding inhabitants. The probability is,
that you are too late for the gathering at Baynton's
Meadow. I fear me that Marion is there now. You

should have crossed the river yesterday; the delay is
perhaps as fatal in its consequences as it was unadvised
and injudicious. But it is too late now to think upon.
To-morrow I will move to Baynton's Meadow, if I do
not first find Marion in the swamp.”

The conference was interrupted at this moment by
the approach of Blonay. His features suddenly caught
the eye of the legionary, who called him forward. The
Half-Breed, with his ancient habit, stood leaning against
a neighbouring tree, seeming not to observe any thing,
yet observing all things; and, with a skill which might
not readily be augured from his dull, inexpressive eye
and visage, searching closely into the bosoms of those
whom he surveyed, through the medium of those occasional
expressions of countenance, which usually run
along with feeling and indicate its presence.

“Ah! you are the scout,” said Tarleton. “Come
forward; I would speak with you.”

The Half-Breed stood before him.

“And you promise that you can guide me directly
to the camp of the rebel Marion?”

“Yes, colonel, I can.”

“You have seen it yourself?”

“I have, colonel.”

“Unseen by any of the rebel force?”

“Yes, colonel.”

“Can you guide us there, too, undiscovered?”

“Adrat it—yes—if the scouts ain't out. When I
went the scouts were all in, since there was no alarm,
and Marion was guine upon an expedition.”

“What expedition?”

“Well, I don't know, colonel—somewhere to the
north, I reckon—down about Waccamaw.”

“And suppose his scouts are out now—will they
see us—can we not make our way undiscovered?”

“'Taint so easy, colonel; there's no better scouts in
natur than the `swamp fox' keeps. They will dodge all

day long in one thicket from the best ten men of the
legion.”

“Is there no way of misleading the scouts?”

“None, colonel, that I knows. If you could send
out a strong party of the horse in a different direction,
as if you was trying to get round them, you might trick
the old fox into believing it; but that's not so easy to
do. He's mighty shy, and ain't to be caught with
chaff.”

“Nor will I try any such experiment. Hark'ee, fellow:
if I find that you deceive me, I shall not stop a
moment to give your throat the surety of a strong cord.
Your counsels to break my force, to be cut up when
apart, are those of one who is drawing both right and
left, and argues but little respect for my common sense.
But I will trust you so far as you promise. You shall
guide me to the hole of the fox, and I will do the rest.
Guide me faithfully, and stick close to your promise,
and I will reward you; betray me, deceive me, or even
look doubtfully in our progress, and, so sure as I value
the great trust in my hands, your doom is written. Away
now, and be ready with the dawn.”

The scout bowed and retired. The moment that his
back had been turned upon the speaker, Tarleton motioned
two soldiers, who stood at a little distance, and
who kept their eyes ever watchfully upon Blonay.
They turned away at the signal, and followed the scout
at a respectful distance, but one not too great to render
the escape of the suspected person at all easy. Every
precaution was taken to prevent the scout from noticing
this surveillance; but the half-oblique eye which
he cast over his shoulder at intervals upon the two,
must have taught any one at all familiar with the character
of the Half-Breed, that he was not unconscious
of the close attention thus bestowed upon him. He
walked away unconcernedly, however, and it was not
long before, upon the edge of the forest, he had gained

a favourite tree, against the sunny side of which he
leaned himself quietly, as if all the cares and even the
consciousness of existence had long since departed
from his mind.

It was in this spot, an hour after, that he was sought
out by Barsfield. The tory captain had some cause of
displeasure with the scout, who had evaded his expressed
wish to gain the clew to the retreat of Marion. He
had other causes of displeasure, which the dialogue between
them subsequently unfolded.

“Where did you meet with Colonel Tarleton to-day,
Mr. Blonay? You had no knowledge of his approach?”

“None, cappin—I heard his trumpet a little way off,
when I was making a roundabout for the swamp thicket,
and he came upon me with a few dragoons afore I seed
him.”

“It is strange, Mr. Blonay, that a good scout, such as
you are, should be so easily found when not desiring it.
Are you sure that you tried to keep out of his way?”

“No, cappin—there was no reason for me to try, for
I saw first that they were friends and not rebels; and
so I didn't push to hide, as I might have done, easy
enough.”

“And by what means did Colonel Tarleton discover
that you could lead him to the camp of Marion, unless
you studiously furnished him with your intelligence?”

“I did tell him, cappin, when he axed me. He axed
me if I knowed, and I said I did, jist the same as I said
to you; and he then axed me to show him, and I said I
could.”

“But why, when I asked you, did you deny your
ability to show me the way? Was it because you looked
for better pay at the hands of Tarleton?”

“No, cappin: but you didn't ax me to show you—
you only axed me to describe it, and that I couldn't do.
I can go over the ground, cappin, jist like a dog; but I

can't tell the name of the tree that I goes by, or this
bush, or that branch; and I haint any name for the
thicket I creeps through. I knows them all when I
sees them, and I can't miss them any more than the
good hound when he's once upon trail; but, if you was
to hang me, I couldn't say it to you in talking, so that
you could find it out for yourself.”

Blonay was right in a portion of his statement, but his
correctness was only partial. He could not, indeed,
have described his course; but he had been really
averse to unfolding it to Barsfield, and he had, with the
view to a greater reward, thrown himself in the way of
Tarleton, of whose approach he had been apprized. He
was true, in all respects, to the simple and selfish principle
upon which his education had been grounded by
his miserable mother. Barsfield had no farther objection
to urge on the subject. He was entirely deceived
by the manner of the scout. But there was yet another
topic of interest between them, and to this he called his
attention.

“You have not yet been successful with this boy?—
he lives yet—”

“Yes, but you have him now, and he can't help himself.
He is under your knife.”

“Ay!” exclaimed the tory, with an expression of
countenance the most awfully stern, and with a tone of
concentrated bitterness,—“ay! but I am as far off—
farther off, indeed—than ever. My hands are tied; he
is intrusted to my charge in particular, and my own
fidelity is interested in preserving him.”

“Eh?” was the simple and interrogative monosyllable
with which the scout replied to what was too nice a
subtlety in morals to be easily resolvable by a mind so
unconventional as his own. Barsfield saw the difficulty,
and tried to explain.

“I cannot violate a trust which is confided to me. I

must preserve and protect, and even fight against his
enemies, so long as he remains in my custody.”

“He is your enemy?” said Blonay, still wholly uninfluenced
by the remark of Barsfield.

“Yes, he is still my enemy.”

“And you his?”

“Yes.”

“He is aneath your knife?”

“Yes, entirely.”

The savage simply replied by taking his knife from
its sheath and drawing its back across his own neck,
while his countenance expressed all the fierce emotions
of one engaged in the commission of a murder. The
face of Barsfield took no small portion of the same
fierce expression: catching the hand of the speaker
firmly in his own, he replied—

“Ay, and no stroke would give me more pleasure
than that. It would be life to me—his death,—and why
may it not be done? It may be done! Blonay, we
will speak again of this; but be silent now, keep close,
and tell me where I may look for you to-night?”

“There!” and he pointed to a little swamp or bay,
in which he had slept before. It lay at the distance of
a mile, more or less, from the camp, which had been
already formed in the park, and near the yet consuming
mansion.

“There—I keep in the bay at night; for, though it
taint got no cypresses, sich as I used to love down upon
the Ashley, and about Dorchester, yet it's a close place,
and the tupolas and gums is mighty thick. You'll find
me there any time afore cockcrow. You have only to
blow in your hands three times—so—” producing a
singular and shrill whistle at the same time, by an application
of his mouth to an aperture left between his
otherwise closed palms,—“only blow so three times,
and I'll be with you.”

The tory captain tried to produce the desired sounds,

in the suggested manner, which he at length succeeded
in doing. Satisfied, therefore, with the arrangement, he
left his accomplice to the contemplation of his own loneliness,
and hurried away to his duties in the camp.