University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Blonay, as we have seen, had proceeded, after leaving
the tory captain, upon his old mission as the avenger
of blood. Night after night, day after day, he had
gone upon the track of his enemy, and, as yet, without
success. But this did not lessen his activity and hope;
and we find him again, with undiminished industry,
treading the old thicket which led to the camp of Marion.
Let us also proceed in the same direction, and
penetrate the gloomy swamp and dense woodland recess
which sheltered the little army of the lurking partisan.
The pomp and circumstance of war—the martial music—the
gorgeous uniform—the bright armour of a systematic
array of military power, were there almost entirely
wanting. The movements of the partisan were
conducted without beat of drum or bray of trumpet.
In the silent goings on of the night his movements were
effected. Mysterious shadows paced the woods amid
kindred shadows; and, like so many ghosts trooping
forth from unhallowed graves, the men of Marion sallied
out in the hour of intensest gloom, for the terror of
that many-armed tyrant who was overshadowing the
land with his legions.

Never was a warfare so completely one of art and
stratagem as that which Marion carried on. Quick in
the perception of all natural advantages which his native

country presented for such a warfare, he was not
less prompt in availing himself of their use and application.
Hardy and able to endure every privation and
all fatigue, he taught his men to dwell in regions where
the citizen must have perished, and to move with an
alacrity which the slower tactics of European warfare
could never have conceived of. In his camp the men
soon learned to convert their very necessities into
sources of knowledge and of independence. The bitter
of the acorn soon ceased to offend their appetites
and tastes. The difficulties of their progress through
bushes and briers soon taught them a hardiness and capacity
to endure, which led them, after no long period of
initiation, to delight in all the necessities of their situation,
and to rejoice at the sudden whisper which, at
midnight, aroused them from their slumbers under the
green-wood tree, to sally forth by moonlight to dart upon
the new-forming camp of the marauding tory or unsuspecting
Briton.

It was the morning of that day on which Blonay had
made his communication to Barsfield, announcing the
acceptance by Janet Berkeley of his offer to aid in the
escape of Mellichampe. The camp of the “swamp
fox” lay in the stillest repose. The spacious amphitheatre
was filled up with the forms of slumbering men.
The saddle of the trooper formed a pillow, convenient
for transfer to the back of the noble steed that stood
fastened in the shelter of another tree close behind
him, the bridle being above him in the branches.
The watchful sentinel paced his round slowly on the
edge of the swamp, looking silently and thoughtful in
the deep turbid waters of the river. No word, no
whisper, broke the general stillness,—and the moments
were speeding fast on their progress which should
usher in the dawn. At length the stillness was broken.
The tramp of a steed beat heavily upon the
miry ooze which girdled the island, and, soon following,

the clear challenge of the sentry arrested the progress
of the approaching horseman.

“Who goes there?” was the prompt demand. The
answer was given.

“Dorchester!” The scout entered the lines and
proceeded on foot to the little clump of trees which had
been devoted to Marion. The new-comer made but
little noise; yet, accustomed to continual alarms, and
sleeping, as it was the boast of Marion's men, with an
ear ever open and one foot always in stirrup, the sound
was quite sufficient to raise many a head from its pillow,
and to persuade many an eye to strain through the gloom
and shadow of all objects around, to catch a glimpse of
the person, and, if possible, guess the object of his visit.
Here and there a whisper of inquiry assailed him as he
passed along; and, half asleep and half awake, but still
thoughtful of one leading topic of most interest with him,
one well-known voice grumbled forth an inquiry after
the provision-wagons, and growled himself to sleep
again as he received no reply. A full half hour, perhaps,
had elapsed before the visiter came forth from the
presence of Marion to the spot of general encampment.
Thence he proceeded to a tree that stood by itself
on the verge of the island, where he found a group of
three persons huddled up together, and still engaged in
a slumber which seemed silent enough with all, though
scarcely very deep or perfect with any. One of the
three started up as the person approached, and hastily
demanded the name of the intruder. The voice of
the inquirer was that of Thumbscrew, and his gigantic
frame was soon uplifted as the respondent announced
himself as Humphries.

“Come with me, Witherspoon—I want you,” said
the trooper.

“Wait a bit, till I pull up my suspenders, and find
my frog-sticker, which has somehow tumbled out of
the belt,” was the reply.

A few moments sufficed to enable him to effect both
objects, and the two emerged from the shelter of the
tree together. Day was dawning as they gained the
skirts of the island where Humphries had fastened his
horse, and where they were, in great part, free from
the observation of their comrades, who were now starting
up from their slumbers on every side. When they
had reached this point, Humphries, without farther preliminary,
unfolded his business to his companion.

“Thumby—old fellow—I'm hunted, and need your
help.”

“Hunted—how—by whom?”

“By a scoundrel that seeks my life—a fellow from
Dorchester, named Blonay.”

“Blonay—Blonay:—I never heard that name before.”

“Goggle, then—that's the nickname that he goes by.
You've heard John Davis speak of him. I happened to
ride over his old mother the time of that brush at Dorchester,
when Major Singleton got Colonel Walton out
of the cart, and he's been hunting me ever since.”

“The d—l! But how could he find you out—how
could he track you so?”

“That's the wonder; but the fellow's got Indian
blood in him, and there's no telling where he can't go.
He's as keen upon trail as a blood-hound.”

“Have you seen him?—How do you know he's on
trail?”

“I haven't seen him; but I know he's been after me
for some time.” And Humphries then reminded the
inquirer of the pursuit of Blonay from the very skirts
of the camp, when, to save himself, the Half-Breed
slew his own dog, which had led to his detection, and
so nearly to his capture.

“And why do you think that he's still after you?
Don't you think the run that you give him then has
pretty nigh cured him of his hunt?”

“No, no! The scoundrel will never give up the
hunt till he can see my blood or I draw his. There's
no help for it,—he will hunt me until I set seriously to
hunt him.”

“And you have heard of him lately, Bill?”

“Ay—heard of him—felt him! Look here.”

And, as he spoke, lifting the cap from his head, he
showed his comrade the spot through which the passage
of the bullet was visible enough. Then, putting aside
the hair from his forehead, he placed the finger of Witherspoon
upon the scull, along which the ball had made
its way. The skin was razed and irritated into a whelk,
such as a severe stroke of a whip might occasion upon
the skin. An eighth of an inch lower, and the lead
would have gone through the brain.

“By the eternal scratch!” exclaimed Witherspoon, as
he felt and saw the singular effect which the shot had
produced, “that, I may say, was a most ticklish sort of
a trouble. It was mighty close scraping, Bill; and the
fellow seems to have been in good arnest when he
pulled, though it's a God's marcy he took you to have
more head high up than o' one side. Had he put it here
now, to the right or to the left, I don't care which, and
not so immediately and ambitiously up in the centre, he
would have mollified your fixings in mighty short order,
and the way you'd have tumbled over would be a warning
to tall men like myself.”

Humphries winced as much from the remarks of
Witherspoon as under the heavy pressure of his finger,
which rambled over the wounded spot upon his head
with the proverbial callousness of a regular army surgeon's.

“'Tis just as you say, Thumby,” replied the other,
with much good-humour,—“a mighty close scrape, and
ticklishly nigh: but a miss is good as a mile; and
though this shot can't be considered a miss exactly, yet,
as no harm's done, it may very well be counted such.

The matter now is, how to prevent another chance, and
this question leads to a difficulty. How did the fellow
come to take track upon me so keenly from the jump?
and how has he contrived to keep on it so truly until
now? These are questions that ain't so easy to
answer, and we must find out their answer before we
can fall on any way to circumvent the varmint. I
thought at first that he might have got information from
some of Barsfield's tories; but since we've been in the
swamp they can't take track upon us, and only he has
done it; for the general now knows that it was this
same skunk that showed the back track of the swamp
to Tarleton, and that he most certainly found out only
by following after me. I've been thinking over all these
matters for a spell now of more than ten days, and I
can make little or nothing out of it; and, to say truth,
Thumby, it's no little trouble to a man to know there's
a hound always hunting after him, go where he will—in
swamp or in thicket—on the high road and everywhere
—that never goes aside—thirsting after his blood, and
trying all sort of contrivances to git at it.”

“It's mighty ugly, that's clear,” said his companion,
musing.

“Yet, this trouble I've known ever since we chased
the fellow along the back track, when he cut the throat
of his dog, which only an Indian would do, to put us off
his own trail.”

“It's an ugly business, that's a truth, Humphries;
for, not to know where one's enemy is, is to look for a
bullet out of every bush. It can't be that some of our
men have been playing double, and have let this fellow
on track?”

“No, there's no reason to think it, for none of them
have been always able to find me when they wanted to,
and we know where to look for them always.”

“It's mighty strange and hard—and what are you to
do, Bill?”

“You must tell me—I know not what to do,” was
the desponding answer: “I've no chance for my life at
this rate, for, soon or late, the fellow must git his shot.
He'll never give up hunting me till he does. It's the
nature of the beast, and there's no hope for me until I
can put upon his trail, and hunt him just as he hunts me.
The best scout will then win the game and clear the
stakes.”

“It's mighty sartin, Bill, that he's got some string on
you in partic'lar: you've kept too much on the same
track.”

“No—from the moment I found that the fellow was
after me in the swamp, I've been changing every day.”

“And still he keeps after you?”

“His bullet tells that.”

“It's mighty strange. Have you had your nag's
hoofs trimmed lately?”

“No, they don't need it,—they're shod.”

“Shod!”

“Yes, in the forefeet.”

“Well, now, it's mighty foolish to shoe a horse that's
got to travel only in swamp and sand; but I'd like to
look at them shoes.”

“Come, then.” As they walked, they conversed
farther on the same subject.

“Where was them shoes put on?” inquired Thumbscrew.

“In Dorchester, about three months ago.”

“And where was this Ingen fellow then?”

“I don't know; somewhere about, I reckon.”

“Show me the critter: I'm dubous all the mischief
lies in them shoes.”

And, following Humphries, Thumbscrew went forward
to the spot where the horse was tethered.

“Lead him off, Bill—there, over that soft track—jist
few paces. That'll do.”

The busy eye of Witherspoon soon caught the little

ridges left by the crack in the shoe, which had so well
conducted the pursuit of Blonay.

“I guessed as much, Bill, and the murder's out,—
you've given the fellow a sign, and he's kept trail like a
trukey. Look here—and here—and here,—a better
mark would not be wanted by a blind man, since his
own finger could feel it, even if his eyes couldn't see.
There it is, and what more do you want?”

Humphries was satisfied, no less than his companion.
They had indeed discovered the true guide of Blonay
in his successful pursuit, so far, of his destined victim.
Nothing, indeed, could be more distinct than the impression
left upon the sand—an impression not only
remarkable as it was so unusual, but remarkable as it
occurred upon a small shoe, and seemed intentionally
made to divide it—the fissure forming the ridge making
a line as clearly distinct upon the shoe, as that made by
the shoe itself in its entire outline upon the pliable
sand.

“Well,” said Thumbscrew, after they had surveyed
it for several minutes, “and what are you going to do
now?”

“That's what I'm thinking of, Thumby, and it's no
easy matter yet to determine upon.”

“How!—why, what have you to do now but to pull
off the shoe, and throw the fellow from your haunches,
which you must do the moment you take him off his
track.”

“No, no,” coolly responded the other, “that will be
making bad worse, Thumby, since to throw him off one
track will be only to make him hunt out for another,
which we may not so readily discover. A fellow that
really hungers after your blood, as this fellow does after
mine, ain't so easily to be thrown off as you think. To
throw off this scent would be only to gain a little time,
and botch up the business that we had better mend.
The shoes must stay on, old fellow; and, as we've found

out that they are the guides which he follows, why, what
hinders that we should make use of them to trap him?”

“How?” said Witherspoon, curiously.

“Easy enough, Thumby, if I've got a friend in the
world who's willing to risk a little trouble, and perhaps
a scuffle, to help me out of the hound's teeth.”

“Gimini! Bill Humphries, you don't mean to say
that you ain't been my friend, and that I ain't yours?
Say the word, old fellow, and show your hand, and if I
ain't your partner in the worst game of old-sledge you
ever played, with all trumps agin you, and a hard log
to set on, and a bad fire-light to play by, then don't
speak of me ever again when your talk happens to run
on Christian people. Say the word, old fellow, and
I'm ready to help you. How is it to be done?—what
am I to do?”

“Take my track also,—follow the shoe,—but take
care to give me a good start. I will ride on the very
route where I got the bullet.”

“What! to get another?”

“No. I will ride in company, and Blonay is quite
too cunning to risk a shot, with the chance of having his
own head hammered the next minute by my companion,
even if he tumbles me.”

“I see! I see! He will be on your track, and will
follow you, as he has done before, in hope to get another
chance. That's it, eh?”

“Yes—he will not be easily satisfied. Nothing but
his blood or mine will satisfy any such varmint as
this Half-Breed, who takes after the savages, from
whom he comes half way. He will be on the old
ground which he's travelled so long, and that I've travelled;
and he will keep close about me, day by day, and
month after month, and year after year, until he gets his
chance for a sure shot, and then the game's up,—and
he'll not rest quietly before. I know it's the nature of
the beast, and so I'm sure of my plan if you only follow

it up as I show you, and as I know you're able to
do easy enough.”

“I'm ready, by gum, Bill. You sha'n't want a true
heart and a stiff hand in the play on your side, so long
as Thumbscrew can help a friend and hurt an enemy.
I'm ready—say the word—the when and the how—
and here's your man.”

“Thank'ee, Thumby—I knew I shouldn't have to ax
twice—and so now listen to me.”

“Crack away.”

“I set off in two hours for the skirts of Barsfield's
camp, where I'm to put a few owls who shall roost
above him. After that I take the back track into the
swamp, and John Davis and young Lance will keep
along with me. I pretty much guess that this fellow
Blonay will not let half an hour go by, after I've passed
him, before he gets upon trail somewhere or other, and
fastens himself up in some bush or hummock, waiting a
chance at me when he finds I'm going back. If my
calculation be the right one, then all you've got to do is
to take the trail after me, keeping a close look-out, right
and left, for the fresh track of an Indian pony. If you
see that little bullet-foot of a swamp-tacky freshly put
down in the swamp or sand after mine, be sure the
skunk's started.”

“I see—I see.”

“Well, when you've once got his track, we have
him. If he finds he's got some one on his skirts, he'll
go aside, and you'll lose his trail, to be sure: but you'll
know then he's either on one side or 'tother in the
woods about you; and all you've got to do is to ride
ahead a bit and go into the bush too.”

“Good, by Gimini!”

“What then? Soon as he finds all things quiet, he'll
come out of the bush and take up my trail as he did before;
and, if you git a good place to hide in, so as to

be concealed and yet to watch the road, you can't help
seeing when he goes ahead.”

“That's true; but suppose he goes into the bush
again—what must I do then?”

“Just what you've done before—the very thing—until
he gets to the bayou that opens the door to the swamp.
If you can track him that far, you can track him farther;
for when he once gets there he'll be sure to go
into hiding in some corner or other where he knows I
must pass, waiting the chance to crack at me again.”

“Yes—yes! And I'm to try and find out his hollow?
I see, I see. It ain't so hard, after all, for I'm a very
bear in the swamp, and can go through a cane-brake with
the best of them. We shall have the skunk, Bill,—
there's no two ways about it. If he can keep the track
of a horseshoe through mud and mire for a month,
hunting an enemy, 'twont be very hard for me to keep
it too, helping a friend: and though, between us, Bill—
I'm mighty conflustered about Airnest, and that d—d
tory Barsfield, and what to do to help the lad out of
his hobbles, yet I'm not guine to let this matter stand
in the way of yours. I'll go neck and shoulders for you,
old fellow, and here's a rough fist on it.”

A hearty gripe testified the readiness of the one to
assist his friend, and the warm acknowledgments of the
other. The two then proceeded to make their arrangements
for the prosecution of a scheme so truly partisan.
In this affair it may be proper that we should attend them.