University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX

Blonay soon made his communication to Janet, and
bore his intelligence back to Barsfield.

“To-morrow night, then, is resolved upon?”

“Midnight,” replied the scout, telling the truth, which
he could not otherwise avoid, as the sentinel was to be
withdrawn from the gallery only at the time when Mellichampe
was prepared to sally forth. Had it been
possible to conceal the fact, Blonay would not have exposed
it.

“He lives till then!” was the fierce but suppressed
exclamation of the tory.

“Where do you go now, Mr. Blonay?” he inquired,
seeing the Half-Breed about to move away.

“Well, cappin, I'm jist guine to give a look after my
own man, seeing that I've been working hard enough
after your'n.”

“You are for the swamp, then?”

“Well, yes!”

“Remember not to delay—without your presence the
prisoner will hardly venture on a start.”

“I'll be mighty quick this time.”

“And let me know all that you can about the `fox.'
See to his force, for I shall soon be ready to take a drive
after him.”

The Half-Breed promised, and soon set out on his
journey, while Barsfield proceeded exultingly to arrange
his murderous projects. That night Janet Berkeley
conveyed to Mellichampe the particulars of her farther
progress.

“Well, dearest, does he give the route we are to
take? Have you got that?” was the first inquiry of the
youth.

She repeated the words of Blonay, which detailed the
route in the very language of the tory.

“This is most important. As we have that, we now
know what to do. We can countermine his projects, I
trust. We can prepare an offset for his ambush which
will astound him. The villain!—along the bay, by the
fence, and towards the mouth of the avenue—his ambush
is there—there, then, must the struggle come on. Well
—well—it must be so. There is no retreat now, Janet—there
is no help else!”

“Oh, Mellichampe—there is retreat—there must be
retreat, if you really think the ambush lies in that quarter.
You must take another path, or—”

“No, no, Janet—no. Think you, if he designs to
murder me, that he will not watch my flight? Every
step which I take from these apartments will be with the
eyes of his creatures upon me.”

“Then go not—since you will only go to death.”

“I will go, Janet—I must. It is my hope, and out
of his malice I hope to make my security. Hear me,
and understand his plan. He will assist me forth from
his encampment until I reach its utmost limit, and he
will then set upon me. To slay me within its boundary

would be to incur the suspicion of foul play on the part
of his superiors. He only seeks to avoid that—that is
all; and once having me beyond his bounds, and, as it
were, beyond his responsibility, he will then have no
scruple to slay me, as he will then have his ready reply
to any charge of foul practice. What will it be then but
the shooting down a prisoner seeking to escape—that
prisoner under charges, too, of being a spy, and notoriously
hostile to his master and his cause?”

“And yet, dearest Ernest, you will adventure this
flight even with this apprehension, and so perfect a consciousness
of it in your mind?”

“Even so, Janet—even so. I think he may be foiled.
Next to knowing the game of your enemy is the facility
of beating him at the play. I think to overmatch him
now, if my friends serve me, as I think they will, and if
they are still in the neighbourhood. We must lay ambush
against ambush—we must oppose armed men to
armed men, and then, God forget us if we play it not out
bravely.”

“But suppose, dear Ernest, that Scipio finds not the
men, or any of them?”

“I can then defer the flight, Janet; but he will find
them—they are even now about us, and so bent to serve
me is Witherspoon, that I make no doubt they would attempt
to rescue me from the clutches of the tory if I
were even under strong guard on my way to Charleston.
They know my danger, and will look to it. Witherspoon
must be in the neighbourhood—I am sure of it, and—
ha! hear you not, my love—even as I speak, hear you
not that whistle?—far off, slight, but yet distinct enough.
Hear it now again, and again. You will always hear
it thrice distinctly, and, if you were nigh, you could distinguish
a slight quivering sound, with which it diminishes
and terminates. That's one of our signals of encouragement,
and to my mind it conveys, as distinctly as
any language, the words—`Friends are nigh—friends

are nigh!' We have a song among us to that effect,
which I have hummed over to myself a hundred times
since I have been here—it promises so sweetly to one
in my condition—

“I believe the assurance. That song has strengthened
me—that single whistle note—and hear, Janet—hear
how it comes again, closer and closer, stronger and
clearer. That Witherspoon is a daring fellow, and cannot
be far from the avenue. No doubt he is even now
gazing down from some tree upon the unconscious sentinels.
If so, I am safe. He has seen all their positions—all
their movements—and has an eye and a head
that will enable him to note and take advantage of even
the smallest circumstance. You will see!”

“Then hurry, dear Ernest, that Scipio may find him
even now in the neighbourhood. Write—write.”

She stood beside him while he pencilled a scrawl for
the courier negro, and gave it into her hand.

“One thing, Janet,” he exclaimed, as she was about
to leave him. She returned. He whispered in her ear—

“Let him bring me weapons—some weapon—any
weapon—which may take life, and which he may conceal
about him.”

She said nothing of her directions to Blonay on this
very subject. He mistook her silence, and his words
were intended to reassure her.

“I must not be unarmed, my Janet, if possible. I
must have something with which to defend myself, or
the veriest trumpeter in the troop may destroy me at
odds with his own instrument.”

The youth wrote briefly his directions to Witherspoon
—described his situation—his prospect of escape—the
route which he was to take, and the dangers which attended
it. This done, Janet immediately sought out
Scipio, in whose skill, courage, and fidelity Mellichampe
placed the utmost confidence. Before giving him his
instructions, she strove, in the most earnest language, to
impress upon him the necessity of the utmost caution.
Of this there was little need. Scipio was a negro
among a thousand; one of those adroit agents who
quickly understand and readily meet emergencies; one
who never could be thrown from his guard by any surprise,
and who, in the practice of the utmost dissimulation,
yet wore upon his countenance all the expression
of candour and simplicity. Add to this, that he loved
his master and his master's daughter with a fondness
which would have maintained him faithful, through torture,
to his trust, and we have the character of the messenger
which the urgencies of his situation had determined
Mellichampe to employ.

The difficulties in the way of Scipio were neither few
nor inconsiderable. He was first to make his way,
without search or interruption, beyond the line of sentinels
which Barsfield had thrown around the family enclosure.
These sentinels were closely placed, almost
within speaking distance from each other, within sight
at frequent intervals while going their rounds, and
changed frequently. Succeeding in this, the negro was
to go forward to the adjoining woods, and make his way
on until he happened upon Witherspoon, who was supposed
by Mellichampe to be in the neighbourhood, or
some other of the men of Marion, who could be intrusted
to convey safely the paper which he carried, and
which, describing Mellichampe's situation and hopes,
suggested the plan and agency necessary for his deliverance.
The difficulty, and, indeed, danger of this latter
part of Scipio's performance, was even greater than that

of passing the tory sentinels, since it was important that
his missives should fall into the right hands. To be so
far deceived as to place the passwords of Marion's men
and camp in other than the true, would be to sacrifice,
in all probability, the hardy but little troop of patriots
who found refuge in the swamps around.

Scipio well understood the importance of his trust,
and needed no long exhortation from his mistress on the
subject. After hearing her patiently for a while, he at
length, with some restiffness, interrupted her in the midst
of her exhortations—

“Da's enough, misses, I yerry you berry well; you
no 'casion say no more 'bout it. Enty I know dem
tory? Ef he git any ting out of Scip, he do more dan
he fadder and granfadder ebber 'speck for do. He's a
mean nigger, Miss Janet, can't trow duss in de eye of dem
poor buckrah, for it's only dem poor buckrah dat ebber
tun tory. Let um catch Scip bunning daylight. Enty
my eye open?—da's 'nough. I hab for pass de sentry
—I know dat—dat's one ting, enty, I hab to do fuss?”

“Yes, that is first to be done, Scipio, and you know
how close they are all around us. I know not how you
will succeed.”

“Nebber you mind, Miss Jannet; I know dem sentry;
whay he guine git gumption for double up Scip
in he tumb and forefinger, I wonder? Dat tory ain't
born yet for such ting, and I ain't fraid 'em. Well,
'speck I gone through dem sentry—I catch de clean
woods, and I can laugh out—wha' den?”

“Why, then you must look out for Mr. Witherspoon.”

“Misser Wedderspoon,—why you no call him Tumbscrew,
like udder people? Well, I hab look for him;
'spose I no find 'em—wha' den?”

“You must look out, then, for some other of Marion's
men; and this, Scipio, is the difficulty.”

“Wha' make him difficulty more nor tudder, I wonder?”
responded the confident negro.

“Because, Scipio, if the passwords get into the possession
of any of the British or tories—if you happen to
mistake and—”

“Gor-a'mighty, Miss Janet, you only now for mak'
'quaintan' wid Scipio? You tink I fool,—blind like
ground-mole, and rooting 'long in de ploughed ground
widout looking wedder I guine straight or crooked?
You 'spose I don't know tory from gentleman? I hab
sign and mark for know 'em, jist de same as I know
Mass Ernest brand on he cattle from old mossa's.”

“Well, Scipio, I trust in your knowledge and your
love for me.”

“Da's a misses—da's a trute, misses, what I say—
I 'speck if ebberybody bin lub you like Scip and Mass
Mellichampe, you git more lub in dis life dan you can
ebber carry wid you to Heabben. He keep you down
from Heabben—da's a God's trute, misses—so much
lub as you git on dis airt'. But dis is all noting but
talk and cabbage. You mus' hab meat and sarbice—
I know dat. I guine—I ready whenebber you tell me;
but s'pose, when I gone, old mossa call for me. He
will call for me, I know dat; he can't do widout me;
and he bery bex if you no talk to um and tell um Scip
gone upon transactions and engagements, young misses.”

“Don't let that trouble you, Scip; I will speak to my
father when you are going; but it is not time for you to
go yet; something more is to be done, and we must
wait until night before you can set forth.”

“Berry well; whenebber you say de word, misses,
Scip is ready.”

The faithful negro took readily the instructions given
him in their fullest scope. He comprehended, so far as
it was thought advisable to trust him with the scheme,
the nature of the proposed adventure. He was fully
informed on all the part he himself was required to play,
and was prepared to communicate freely to the woodman.

Advising and imploring to the last, the maiden
dismissed him from her presence to put himself in
readiness for his nocturnal journey, with a spirit full of
trembling, and many an inaudible but fervent prayer,
from the bottom of her heart, to Heaven.