University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Three days elapsed from the departure of Blonay
with Colonel Tarleton before he returned to Piney
Grove. Barsfield grew impatient. He had matured
his plan in his mind—he had devised the various processes
for the accomplishment of his purpose, and he
was feverish and restless until he could confer with his
chief agent in the business. He came at last, and first
brought intelligence to the tory of the failure of the legionary
colonel to surprise the wary Marion.

“And where now is Colonel Tarleton?” demanded
Barsfield.

“Gone up after the `game cock.”[1]

“I'm glad of it,” said the tory, involuntarily. “He
might have been in our way. When did you separate
from him?”

“Day before yesterday—he went up the river. I
went back into the swamp.”

“And why? Had not the rebels left it? Did you
not say that they crossed the river on the approach of
Tarleton?”

“Yes—but, adrat it! they crossed back mighty soon
after Tarleton had gone out of sight.”

“And they are even now in the swamp again?”

“Jist as they was at first.”

“The devil! And you have seen them there since
the departure of Tarleton?”

“Reckon I has.”

“They are audacious, but we shall rout them soon.
My loyalists are coming in rapidly, and I shall soon be
able, I trust, to employ you again, and I hope with more
success, in ferreting them out. But why did you delay
so long to return? Have you seen your enemy?”

“Adrat it, yes,” replied the other, coldly, though with
some show of mortification.

“Where—in the swamp?”

“No—on the road here, jist afore dark last night—a
leetle more than long rifle shot from the front of the
avenue.”

“Well?”

“'Tworn't well. I tracked him over half a mile afore
I could git a shot—”

The Half-Breed paused.

“What then?” demanded Barsfield, impatiently.

“Adrat it! jist as I was guine to pull trigger, a pain,
something jist like a hammer-strike, went into my elbow,
and the bullet—'twas a chawed one, too—must have
gone fur enough from the scull 'twas aimed fur.”

“You missed him?” inquired Barsfield.

“Reckon I did. He stuck to his critter jist as if
nothing had happened strange to him, and rode off in a
mighty hurry.”

“And how came you to miss him? You hold yourself
a good shot.”

“'Tain't often I miss; but I felt all over, afore I pulled
upon him, that I was guine to miss. Something seemed
to tell me so. I was quite too quick, you see, and didn't
take time to think where I should lay my bullet.”

“Yet you may have hit him. These men of Marion
sometimes stick on for hours after they get the death-wound—long
enough, certainly, to get away into some
d—d swamp or other, where there's no getting at the
carcass.”

“Adrat it—I'm fear'd I hain't troubled him much. I
felt as if I shouldn't hit him. I was so consarned to hit
him, you see, that my eye trimbled. But there's no
helping it now. There's more chances yet.”

“You seek him every day?” inquired Barsfield, curious
to learn the habits of a wretch so peculiar in his
nature.

“And night—a'most every day and night, when I reckon
there's a chance to find him.”

“But how do you calculate these chances?”

“I've got a'most all his tracks. He's a master of the
scouts, and as I knows pretty much where they all keeps,
I follows him when he goes the rounds.”

“Why, then, have you not succeeded better before?
Have you not frequently seen him before last night?—did
you never get a shot till then?”

“Yes, three times—but then he had other sodgers
with him—good shots, too, and raal swamp-suckers—

sich as John Davis—who's from Goose Creek, and can
track a swamp-sucker jist as keen as myself. A single
shot must be a sure shot, or 'tain't a safe one. So we
always says at Dorchester—and it's reason, too. It
wouldn't be no use to shoot one, and be shot by two
jist after. There wouldn't be no sense in that.”

“No, but little—and yet I shall probably have to take
some risk of that sort with my enemy. Do you know,
Blonay, that I'm thinking to let Mellichampe run?”

“You ain't—sartin now, cappin! Don't you hate
him?”

“Yes! as bitterly as ever. You wonder that I should
so determine towards my enemy. He is still such, and
I am his, not less now than ever. But I have been
thinking differently of the matter. I will meet him only
like a man, and a man of honour. His life is in my
hands—I could have him murdered in his bed, but I will
not. More than this—my word, as you know, will convict
him as a spy upon my camp, and this would hang
him upon a public gallows in the streets of Charleston.
I will even save him from this doom. I will save him,
that we may meet when neither shall have any advantage
other than that which his own skill, strength, and courage
shall impart. You shall help me, or rather help him, in
this.”

“How?” was the very natural response of the Half-Breed.

“Assist him to escape. Hear me—if he does not
escape before the week is out, I am commanded to conduct
him to Charleston, to stand his trial as a spy, under
charges which I myself must bring forward. He must
be convicted, and must perish as I have said, unless he
escapes from my custody before. He is too young,
and, I may add, too noble, to die in so disgraceful a
manner. Besides, that will be robbing me of my own
revenge, which I now desire to take with my own
hands.”

The last suggestion was better understood by the Indian
spirit of Blonay than all the rest. The tory captain
proceeded—

“There are yet other reasons which prompt me to
desire his escape—reasons which, though stronger than
any of those given, it is not necessary, nor, indeed, would
it be advisable, for me to disclose now. It is enough
that I save him from a fate no less certain than degrading.
You cannot object to give your co-operation in
saving the life which you were employed to take.”

The Half-Breed did not refuse the new employment
thus offered to his hands; but his words were so reluctantly
brought forth as clearly to imply a doubt as to
whether the one service would be equally grateful with
the other.

“How!” exclaimed Barsfield; “would you rather
destroy than save?”

“Adrat it, cappin, it's easier to shoot a man than take
a journey.”

The tory captain paused for a moment, and surveyed
closely the features of the savage. His own glance denoted
no less of the fierce spirit which had dictated the
answer of the latter, and gladly, at that moment, would
he have sent the assassin forward to the chamber of his
enemy, in order to the immediate fulfilment of the contemplated
crime. But a more prudent, if not a better
thought, determined him otherwise. He subdued, as well
as he could, the rising emotion. He strove to speak
calmly, and, we may add, benevolently, and a less close
observer of bad passions and bad men than Blonay might
have been deceived by the assumed and hypocritical demeanour
of Barsfield.

“No, no, Mr. Blonay—it must not be. He is my
enemy, but he is honourably such; and as an honourable
enemy I am bound to meet him. I must take no
advantage of circumstances. He must have fair play,
and I must trust then to good limbs, and what little skill

I may have in my weapon, to revenge me of my wrongs
upon him. You, perhaps, do not comprehend this sort
of generosity. Your way is to kill your enemy when
you can, and in the most ready manner; and, perhaps,
if the mere feeling of hostility were alone to be considered,
yours would be as proper a mode as any other.
But men who rank high in society must be regulated by
its notions. To gratify a feeling is not so important as
to gratify it after a particular fashion. We kill an enemy
for our own satisfaction; but our seconds have a taste to
be consulted, and they provide the weapons, and say
when and how we shall strike, and stand by to share the
sport.”

“Adrat it, but there's no need of them. A dark wood,
close on the edge of the swamp, where you can roll the
carrion in the bog, and that's all one wants for his enemy
after the bullet's once gone through his head.”

“So you think, and so, perhaps, you may think
rightly; but I move in a different world from you, and
am compelled to think differently. I cannot revenge
myself after your fashion. I must give my enemy a
chance for a fair fight. I must devise a plan for his escape
from the guards, and in that, Blonay, I require your
assistance.”

“Adrat it, cappin, if so be all you want is to let the
fellow off, why don't you let him run without any fuss.
You don't want my help for that. He'll promise to
meet you, I reckon, in any old field, and then you can
settle your consarn without more trouble.”

“What! and be trussed up by Cornwallis or Tarleton
a moment after, as a traitor, upon the highest tree!
You seem to forget, Mr. Blonay, that, in doing as you
now advise, I must be guilty of a breach of trust, and a
disobedience of orders, which are remarkably positive
and strict. Your counsel is scarcely agreeable, Blonay,
and any thing but wise.”

“Adrat it, cappin, won't it be a breach of trust, any

how, supposing the chap gits off from prison by my
help?”

“Not if I can show to my superior that I maintained
a proper guard over him, and used every effort for his
recapture.”

“But how can he git off if you does that?” inquired
the seemingly dull Blonay.

“I will not do so. I will not maintain a proper guard.
I will give you certain opportunities, which shall be
known only to yourself, and, at the same time, I shall
keep up an appearance of the utmost watchfulness; so
that, whatever blame may attach to the proceeding, will
fall full, not upon my head, but the sentinel's.”

“Adrat it, cappin, I suppose it's all right, as you say.
I can't say myself. I don't see, but should like to hear,
cappin, what all's to be done.”

“Hear me:—the prisoner must be taught that you are
his friend—willing, for certain reasons, and for good rewards,
to extricate him from his predicament.”

“Yes—but how is he to know that? You won't let
anybody to see him—nobody but the doctor and the
young lady.”

“True—but it is through the young lady herself that
the matter is to be executed—”

“I won't do nothin to hurt the gal, cappin,” exclaimed
Blonay, quickly and decisively.

“Fool! I ask no service from you which can possibly
do her harm. Be not so hasty in your opinions, but
hear me out. It is through her that you are to act on
him. She has distinguished you with some indulgences
—she sent you your breakfast this morning—”

“She's a mighty good gal!” said the other, meditatively,
and interrupting the now deeply-excited and powerfully-interested
Barsfield.

“She is,” said the tory, in a tone artfully conciliatory.
“She is—and it will both serve and please her to extricate

this youth from the difficulties which surround him.
He is an object of no small importance in her sight.”

“The gal loves him,” still meditatively said the other.

“Yes—and you now have an excellent opportunity
to offer her your service without being suspected of
any wrong. Your are to seek her, and tell her what
you have heard respecting the prisoner. Say that he is
to be sent to town to stand his trial—that there is no
doubt that he will be convicted if he goes, and that his
execution will follow as certainly as soon. You can then
pledge yourself to save him—to get him out of the camp
—to place him safely in the neighbouring woods, beyond
my reach and my pursuit. She will, no doubt, close
with your offer, and by this act you will serve me quite
as much as the prisoner and herself.”

To this plan Blonay started sundry little objections,
for all of which the tory had duly provided himself with
overruling answers. The Half-Breed, simply enough,
demanded why Barsfield, proposing, as he did, to render
so great a service to the prisoner, should scruple to say
to him and to the young lady who watched—both sufficiently
interested to keep his secret—what he now so
freely said to him? This was soon answered.

“They will suspect me of a design to involve the
prisoner in some new difficulty, as they have no reason
to suppose me desirous of serving either. I have no
motive to befriend him—none. But, on the contrary, they
know me as his enemy, and believe the worst of me accordingly.
You only know why I propose this scheme.”

The Half-Breed was silenced, though not convinced.
Suspicious by nature and education, he began to conjecture
other purposes as prevailing in the mind of his employer;
but, for the time, he promised to prepare himself,
and to comply with his various requisitions. It was
not until he reached the woods, and resumed his position
against his tree, that the true policy of the tory captain
came out before his mind.