University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

But it was not for the maiden to retire that night to
her slumbers without some better assurances for hope
than those contained in the parting intimation of her
lover. An auxiliary, but little looked for, was at hand;
and, as she left the little antechamber in which her interview
with Mellichampe had taken place, she felt her
sleeve plucked by some one from behind. She turned
in some trepidation, which was instantly relieved, however,
as her eye distinguished the intruder to be Blonay.
The distorted features of this man had never offended
Janet, as they were apt commonly to offend those of
others. She saw nothing in mere physical deformity,
at any time, to hate or to despise; and, as pity was always
the most ready and spontaneous sentiment of her
soul, she had regarded him from the first—as she knew
nothing of his moral deformities—with none but sentiments
of commiseration and indulgence. The effect of

this treatment, and of these invariable shows of sympathy
on her part, was always made visible in his deportment
and look whenever he approached her. He
strove, on all such occasions, to subdue and keep down
those expressions of hate, cunning, and cupidity, which
a long practice in the various arts of human warfare had
rendered, if not the natural, the habitual features of his
face. A ludicrous combination of natural ugliness with
smiles, intended for those of complaisance and regard,
was the consequence of these efforts; and, however
unsuccessful the Half-Breed may have been in the assumption
of an expression so foreign to his own, the
attempt, as it conveyed a desire to please and make
himself agreeable, was sufficient to commend him to the
indulgence of one so gentle of mood as Janet Berkeley.
Approaching her now, the countenance of Blonay wore
its most seductive expression. The grin of good feeling
was of the most extravagant dimensions, expanding
the mouth from ear to ear; while the goggle eyes above,
from the vastness of the effort below, were contracted
to the smallest possible limits. But for this good-natured
expression, the mysterious caution of his approach
might have alarmed the maiden. A single start,
as she recognised him, only testified her surprise, and
she paused quietly the moment after, to learn his motive
for the interruption.

“Hist, miss—I ax your pardon, but please let me
come after you in the room; I want to tell you something.”

She did not scruple to bid him follow her, and they
entered the apartment in which she had conversed with
Barsfield. There she found Rose Duncan awaiting her.
Janet signed to Rose to leave them for a while, and the
moment they were alone the Half-Breed drew nigh, and
in a whisper, and with an air of great mystery, commenced
as follows:—

“You've hearn from the cappin, miss, about the
young man what's a prisoner here?”

He spoke affirmatively, though with an inquiring expression
of countenance, and Janet nodded her head
assentingly.

“Adrat it, miss, if they ever gits the young man to
Charleston city, there's no chance for him; so the cappin
says.”

He paused. At a loss to determine what could be
the motive of the scout in thus addressing her upon this
topic, yet fondly believing that he had some plan of
service in reserve, by which he hoped to commend himself,
she strongly mastered her feelings, which every
reference to the painful topic brought into increased and
trying activity, and, bowing her head as she spoke, she
simply responded—

“True, sir—yes—I fear it; but what can be done?”

This question, though uttered unconsciously, and entirely
unintended, was, however, to the point, and the
answer of Blonay was immediate—

“Ah, that's it, miss—what's to be done? The cappin
says something's to be done, but he can't do it, you
see, 'cause they trusts him, and he can't break his trust.
It's much as his neck's worth, you see, to do it.”

With some surprise, she inquired of whom he spoke?

“Why, you don't know the cappin that's here—Cappin
Barsfield. He says as how the young man's to be
hung if he gits to Charleston, and how he must get
away before; and he tells me I'm to try and git him off,
without letting the sodgers see.”

“Barsfield—Barsfield say this—Barsfield do this,
Mr. Blonay? Impossible!—you do not know the
man!”

“It's a round truth, miss—he tell'd me so with his
own mouth, and tell'd me—ax pardon, miss, but I must
tell you all what he said—”

He paused hesitatingly.

“Speak boldly,” she said, encouragingly.

“He said, miss, as how he loved you, though you
didn't fancy him no how, and hadn't no thought 'cept for
the young fellow that's a prisoner; and how he wanted
to help the young man, though he didn't like him no
how; and he would do so, if 'twas only to do you
pleasure.”

“And he told you this?” inquired the maiden, in unmixed
astonishment.

“Jist the words, miss.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes; and he said as how he couldn't help the
young man off, for he had to watch him, but that I must
do it; and he gave me this money to do it.”

“And did he counsel you to tell me of this?”

“No, miss, he only tell'd me to tell you that I could
git the young fellow out of prison, and git you to make
him know how he was to do, and all about it; but the
cappin told me I wasn't to say nothing about him in the
business, for he said you hated him so you would think
something wrong if you knew he had a hand in it.”

“And I do think there is something wrong in it.
Heaven help me! what new plot is he weaving now?
What new mischief would he contrive? Is Mellichampe
never to escape his toils? Would to Heaven
that I had a friend!”

“Adrat it, miss, but ain't I willing to be your friend?
and I won't ax you for no pay. I'm a poor sort of body
enough, and you're a sweet lady; but I'm willing to be
your friend, and to pull trigger for you, if needs be and
the time comes for it. Jist say now that I shall be your
friend, and there's no telling how much I can help you
in this here squabble.”

“You can help me nothing, I fear me, Mr. Blonay;
and as for this plan of Captain Barsfield, I will have
nothing to do with it or him. I doubt—I suspect all
his plans; and however much he may profess of regard

for me, I look upon this employment of you, for the purpose
of which you speak, as only a new scheme for the
entrapment of Mr. Mellichampe.”

“That's jist what I was going to tell you, miss; for,
you see, it don't stand to reason, that when a man hates
another to kill, he's going to help him to git away; and
so, when the cappin first spoke to me, I was bewildered
like, and said I'd do it; but, soon as I got in the bush,
and begun to think about it, adrat it! the whole contrivance
stood clear before me, and so I went back to
him.”

“For what?'

“Well, you see, to tell him as how I couldn't think
to handle the thing, for I didn't see to the bottom of it.”

“Well—what then?”

“Why, then he up and tell'd me all the whole truth—
all what he kept before; and, sure enough, 'twas jist as
I thought, and jist what you think. The cappin only
wanted to have a drive himself at the young fellow, and
he thought, if he could git me to talk to you, and make
fine promises as how I could git him out of prison,
why, I should lead him into a trap that he'd set, so that
there would be no gitting off.”

“You refused?”

“No,—reckon not. I worn't a fool, you see. I
know'd if I said no, it wouldn't be so safe for me any
longer in these parts; and then agin I know'd if he
didn't git me he'd git somebody else, so I took the
money, and promised to do my best and to try you.”

“I thank you, Mr. Blonay,—from my heart I thank
you. You have done me good service indeed, and you
shall be rewarded. Had you not told me all of this
business—had you suppressed the connexion of Captain
Barsfield with the design, I might have accepted your
services for Mr. Mellichampe; nay, I must have been
driven, by the desperate situation in which he stands, to
consent to his flight under your direction. And then,

—oh, horrible to think upon!—my hand would have
been instrumental in his murder. I should have prepared
the snare which was to give his victim to this
bloody man!”

She preserved her coolness, though trembling with
the new emotions which the communication of Blonay
had inspired, and drew from him, by a series of questions,
the whole dialogue which had taken place between
him and the tory. From these developments she was
persuaded—not that her lover was likely to escape at the
coming trial, and thus defeat the wishes of his enemy—
but that the anxious thirst of Barsfield for his revenge
in person made him unwilling to lose his prey, even
through the hands of the executioner. With this impression
her misery was doubly increased. She saw
nothing but dangers and difficulties on every hand.
Should Mellichampe be carried safely to the city, what
but a cruel and bitter death awaited him there! But
could he be carried there in safety? This seemed to
her impossible. Would he not go under the custody
of Barsfield's creatures? No longer guarded by her
watchful attendance—no longer safe from the presence
and the obtrusion of others, would not his enemy then
have those thousand opportunities for working out his
vengeance which now were denied him by the excellent
arrangements made by Tarleton? And, if he fled before
that period came, what but the knife or the pistol
of the waylaying ruffian could she expect for him in his
flight? As these fears and thoughts accumulated in
her mind, she found herself scarcely able to maintain a
proper firmness in the presence of the savage. She
accordingly prepared to dismiss him, and had already
put in his hands a small sum of gold, which he did not
demur to receive, when she remembered that it might
be of advantage, and was certainly only her duty, to
disclose these circumstances to Mellichampe before
finally rejecting the proposition.

“Seek me to-morrow,” she said, hurriedly—“seek
me in private, when the troops are on parade. Keep
yourself unseen, Mr. Blonay, and we will then speak
more on this matter.”

At the earliest opportunity on the morning of the
next day she sought Mellichampe, and unfolded all the
particulars of the interview with Blonay. The speech
of her lover, as he listened to her communication, astounded
her not a little.

“Admirable!—Excellent!” were the words of exultation
with which he received the intelligence. “This
will do admirably, dear Janet, and corresponds finely
with a plan which I had conceived in part. A good
plan, attended with difficulties, however, which, without
the aid of Blonay, I could not so easily have overcome.
I now see my way through. The scheme of Barsfield
will help me somewhat to the execution of my
own project, and must greatly facilitate my chances of
escape.”

“Speak—how—say, dear Ernest,” cried the maiden,
breathlessly.

“Hear me. We will accept of the services of this
fellow Blonay,—I will take his guidance.”

“What! to be murdered!”

“No! to escape.”

She shook her head doubtfully.

“Listen!” he proceeded. “Blonay is trusted by
Barsfield, and evidently does not trust in return. It is
shown sufficiently in the development which he has
made to you of all the plans of the tory. We do not
see exactly why this should be so, but so it evidently is.
The probability is, indeed, that Blonay is conscious that
he has no claim upon Barsfield after he shall have
served him by my death, and he fears that he himself
will be as soon murdered by his employer when he shall
have discharged his agency, in order to the better concealment
of his own share in my escape. There are

no ties among ruffians save those of a common interest,
and the policy of Barsfield will be the destruction of
one to whom he has been compelled to confide so
much. According to Blonay's own showing, the necessity
of the case extorted from the tory a confession
of his true design, which, before, he was disposed to
withhold. Unfaithful to Barsfield, the Half-Breed will
be faithful to me; and, from all that I can see, there
must be some secret reason for his desire to serve you,
which you will learn in time. Meanwhile we will accept
his services,—we will make the most of him, and
bride high in order to secure him at all points.”

“But may not all this be only another form of deception,
dear Ernest?” cried the less sanguine maiden.
“Think you we can rely upon one whom money can
buy? Alas! Ernest, it seems to me that these dangers
grow more terrible and numerous the more we survey
them.”

“To be sure they do, dear Janet,—the thing is a
proverb. But we should never look at the fear, but the
hope—never at the danger, always at the success.
Whether Blonay be honest or not, it matters no great
deal to me in the plan which I have formed. To a certain
extent we may still rely upon him, and be independent
of him in every other respect. We want but little
at his hands—little in his thought, and little in that of
Barsfield—if it be the design of the latter to entrap me
into flight the better to effect my murder. I only desire
to secure my escape beyond this dwelling,—to escape
these sentinels, and once more plant my footstep in
the green woods that grow around us. Let him help
me but to that degree of freedom, and I ask nothing
farther. Let the strife come then—let the ambuscade
close then its toils about me, and the danger appear.
I shall then be free: my arms to strike—my voice to
shout aloud—my soul to exult in the fresh air of these
old forests, though I perish the very next moment.”

“Speak not so, Ernest,” she implored.

“I must: for I will then breathe again in freedom,
though I breathe in death. I shall complain nothing
of the fight.”

“This is madness, Ernest. This is only flying from
one form of death to another.”

“Granted—and that is much. Who would not fly to
the knife, or the sudden shot, to escape the cord—the
degradation—the high tree—and the howling hate that
surrounds it, and mingles in with the last agonies of
death. Such escape would be freedom, though it
brought death along with it. But I would not die, my
Janet; with proper management I should be secure.”
He spoke with an air of confidence that almost reassured
her.

“How?” she cried, anxiously; “tell me all—tell
me your hope, Ernest. How will you escape—by
what management?”

“By the simplest agency in the world. Hear me:
Even now that trusty fellow Witherspoon is lurking
around my prison. Only last night, just after you left
me, I heard his signals close upon, and evidently this
side of, the avenue. But for the fear of provoking suspicion
I should have answered them. He is about me
night and day—he will sooner desert the squad than
me. And thus he will remain;—if I can convey intelligence
to him, I can do any thing—I can effect my
escape. I can put it out of the power of Barsfield to
do me any harm, unless he does it in fair fight.”

“But how will you do this; and what can I do towards
it?”

“Much, dearest—very much. But hear me farther.
If I can say to Witherspoon, On such a night I fly from
my prison,—I meet you at such a place,—I pursue such
a course,—I apprehend an ambuscade, and will require
that a counter-ambuscade be set,—ha! do you see?”

“Yes—yes—go on.”

“He will understand,—it will come to him like a
light—like a light from Heaven. He will not be able
to bring men enough to encounter Barsfield's whole
force, which has been growing largely, you tell me, but
he will bring enough to tell against the few whom the
tory will employ for my murder, and thus—ah! you understand
me now.”

“Yes, Ernest, but still I fear.”

“I hope!—what do you fear?”

“The fighting—”

“And, if I am free, dear Janet, I should still have to
fight until the war is over—until the invader has gone
from the land.”

“Yes, but—oh, Ernest, if there should not be men
enough?—if they should not come in time—?”

“These are risks which I must take hourly, my beloved,
and of which I may not complain now. Remember
the dreadful risk which I incur while remaining. Is
there no risk in going under a guard to Charleston, to
be tried as a spy,—and by such judges as Balfour, Rawdon,
and Tarleton?”

She shuddered, but said nothing. He continued—

“No, my love, I must not scruple to avail myself of
the help of Blonay, whether he be true or false. Let
him but help me beyond this prison—to those woods—I
ask from him no more. Let him lead me to the ambuscade.
If we can convey intelligence to Witherspoon,
we shall provide for it. I shall withhold every thing
from Blonay that might place us in his power. He
shall know nothing of our plans, but be suffered to pursue
his own. He shall guide me beyond the prison,—
that is all that I require; and as it is Barsfield's own
plan which we so far follow up, he will doubtless effect
all necessary arrangements for speeding me beyond the
regular guards in safety. Once let me reach the avenue,
and I leave his guidance and take the opposite
path, where I propose that Witherspoon shall place his
men.”

“And you will, then, employ Blonay to convey this
matter to Witherspoon?”

“No, no. We must have a trustier friend than Blonay
for such a business, and this is another difficulty. Blonay
could never find Witherspoon unless provided with
certain passwords, which, as they furnish the key to the
very dwelling of the “swamp fox,' I may not confide
wantonly.”

“Trust me, then, dear Ernest; I will seek him,—I
will not betray the trust, though they make even death
the instrument for extorting it from my lips.”

“True heart—dear love—I thank you for this devotion,
but I must seek an humbler agent.”

“Who?”

“Scipio. I will trust him, and you shall counsel
him, as I am not permitted to see him here, or to go beyond
my prison. To you will I give these words—to
you will I confide all the requisitions which I make upon
Witherspoon for the object in view, and we must then
arrange with Blonay to pave the way for my flight from
the dwelling, holding him, and, through him, his base
employer, to the idea that I fly upon the first suggestion
of Blonay, having no hope of aid from without.”

And thus, strong in his hope of success, and buoyant
with the promise of an escape from the dangers of that
mock trial, but real judgment, which had been held up
before him, and which he regarded with no less earnestness,
though with nothing of the fear of his feminine
companion, he detailed to the maiden the entire plan
which he had formed of flight, and, whispering in her
ear the passwords which led her through every scout
and sentry watching around the camp of Marion, he
left it to her to pencil the message to Witherspoon, which
he calculated would bring sufficient aid for the service
upon which he was required. The spirits of Janet rose
with the task thus put upon her. To be employed for
him she loved, in peril no less than in trouble, was the

supremest happiness to a heart so loving and so true as
hers. Her quick mind readily conceived the tasks before
her, and her devoted heart led her as quickly to their
performance.