University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

It was with conflicting emotions and an excited
pulse that Mellichampe hurried away from the embrace
of the maiden, possibly the very last that he should ever
be permitted to enjoy. In another moment, and the
woods were before his eyes; and he now felt assured
that every step which he took from the dwelling must
be taken in sight of his enemies. Yet he did not the
less boldly descend from the threshold, though he believed
that with every movement he came nigher to his
murderer. He did not deceive himself with idle hopes
of the forbearance and tender mercy of his foe, yet he
was resolute to struggle to the last—he was prepared
for any thing but martyrdom.

Scarcely had he stepped from the door of the dwelling
into the shadow of a little clump of trees that lay
before it, when he heard the well-known whistle of
Witherspoon. He could not mistake the sounds, and
they came with a most cheering and refreshing influence
upon his senses.

“Trusty and brave Jack!” he muttered to himself, as
he listened,—“at least I shall have one true and strong
arm to help me in the struggle. I am not alone.”

The repeated sounds guided him in his progress.
He could not be mistaken now in their direction: he
felt certain that they came from the little bay, which he
well knew could easily conceal the scout so long as it
continued unsuspected. He turned quickly in the
direction of the sounds: Blonay touched his arm—

“This way, sir,” said the Half-Breed, in a whisper.

“No, sir, this way!” sternly, but in a similar whisper,
responded Mellichampe. “This way, sir, as I bid
you: you go with me in this direction, or you die.”

“But, cappin—” said the other, hesitatingly.

“No words—I trust you not—on!”

The muttered and decisive language was amply
seconded by the action of the speaker. One hand
grasped the maimed wrist of the Half-Breed, the other
held in the same moment the cocked pistol to his eyes.
Wincing under the pain which the sudden seizure of his
injured hand by that of Mellichampe had necessarily occasioned,
the fierce savage, with the other, grasped his
knife, and half drew it from the sheath. But the momentary
anger seemed to pass away before he had fully
bared it. He thrust it back again, and calmly replied
to his irritable companion—

“You can trust me, cappin; I'll go jist as you tells
me, for I promised the gal—she's a good gal—I promised
her to do the best, and I'll do jist as you says.
Lead on where you wants to go.”

“No, no—do you lead on, sir: I will not trust you.

To the bay—but keep the trees, and do not show your
person unnecessarily. On, sir—the moment you go
aside, I shoot you down like a dog.”

The words were of fierce character, and uttered with
singular emphasis, but still in a whisper. The Half-Breed
by no means relished the manner of Mellichampe,
but he muttered to himself—

“I promised her—she's a good gal—”

And thus, reminding himself of his pledges, he prepared
to go forward.

“Keep close to those water-oaks,” said Mellichampe
to his companion, and he himself sank into their shadow
as he spoke. At that moment another whistle—not
that of Marion's men—came from the path which they
had left. It was answered by another, a few paces distant,
on the opposite hand. Mellichampe thrust Blonay
forward, and they both moved with increased rapidity
along the range of water-oaks, which at intervals afforded
them a tolerable shelter. Again the whistle was repeated,
and, to the disquiet of the fugitives, it was instantly
answered by some one immediately in front of
them, and on the very path they were pursuing.

“I reckon they've found us out—” Blonay began to
speak, but Mellichampe interrupted him.

“Silence, sir—no word—but follow me,” and the
youth moved hurriedly along, still upon the path he had
been pursuing, but looking out for his enemy, and cocking
his pistol in readiness. A bush parted and waved
a little before him, and with its evident motion Mellichampe
darted aside. In the next moment came the
shot, and immediately succeeding the report the youth
heard a gasping exclamation from his companion, by
which he knew him to be wounded—

“Ah!—it's me—it's hit me—”

Looking round, he saw the Half-Breed fall forward
upon his face, but immediately rise upon his hands and
knees, and crawl towards a little cluster of bushes which

rose close at hand; where, with all the instinct of an
Indian, even after receiving his death-wound, he laboured
to conceal himself. The case was evidently a
desperate one. The youth was surrounded by his enemies;
and, unless the diversion of the partisans was
made promptly, he felt that he must be, in a few moments,
in the power of his murderers. The shot had
scarce been fired, and the exclamation of the wounded
man uttered, when he heard a rush as of several pursuers
from behind. He did not wait, but bounded forward,
for he knew that his friends were in front, and to
perish in the general combat would be infinitely better
than any other hazard. But he was not allowed so
readily to go forward. With his first movement from the
tree which had covered him at the moment when Blonay
fell, the assassin rushed out upon his path, with a recklessness
which showed that he believed Mellichampe to
be unarmed. He paid for his temerity with his life: at
five paces, and before he could recover from his error,
the youth shot him through the breast. The man staggered
out of his path, and fell without farther effort, crying
aloud—

“The spy,—the spy!—he's gone!—to the bay!—
Oh! I'm a dead man!”

While he was yet falling, Mellichampe hurled the
empty pistol into his face, and drawing the second and
last from his bosom, cocked it instantly for immediate
use, and hurried on towards the bay, which yet lay at
some little distance beyond him. The rushing and the
shouting of the tories, on every hand, informed him of
the close watch which had been kept upon his movements.
The voice of Barsfield was also heard above
the clamour, in furious exhortation—

“The spy has escaped with the Half-Breed: shoot
them both down—let neither escape—but fail not to
kill the spy;—no quarter to him!—five guineas to the
man who kills him!”

“He is here!” cried one, dragging the still living
but mortally wounded Blonay from the bush where he
had concealed himself.

“Ha! where?” was the demand of Barsfield, rushing
to the spot where he lay. Without looking he
plunged his sword into the body, and felt the last convulsion
as the victim writhed around the blade. But he
spurned the carcass with his foot the next moment, when
he discovered that the scout, and not Mellichampe, lay
before him. With a fierce shout he led and hurried the
pursuit, impetuously dashing forward with all the fury of
one who, having been certain of his victim, now begins
to apprehend disappointment.

“Death to the spy!—pursue!—Five guineas to him
who kills him! No quarter to the spy!”

Such were his cries to his men as he himself pursued.
They reached the ears of Mellichampe—they
aroused him to a like fury. Desperate and enraged,
his temper became unrestrainable, and, though imprudent
in the last degree, he shouted back, even as he
fled, his defiance to his foes. The whistle of Witherspoon
fortunately reached his ear in that moment, and
guided him on his flight. His voice, meanwhile, had
disclosed the direction which he had taken to those who
were now clamorously pursuing him. But the pursuit
was arrested at the luckiest moment for the fugitive.
The tents were now blazing, and wild cries came from
the centre of the encampment. Clayton rushed across
the path of Barsfield.

“Stand aside—away! The spy—slay him! No
quarter to the spy!” cried the fierce tory, as he thrust
Clayton out of his path—his eyes glaring like balls of
fire, and the foam gathering thick around his mouth and
almost choking his utterance.

“What is all this, Captain Barsfield?” cried the second
officer, confusedly, to his superior.

“Get from my path! Stand aside, or I hew thee
down!” was the desperate answer.

“But the camp's on fire!” said the lieutenant.
“The camp's on fire!” was the general cry around
him.

Barsfield only answered by pressing forward—selfishly
pursuing the one enemy, who, in his sight, took
the place and preference of all others. Indeed, at that
moment, he did not seem to be conscious of any other
object or duty than that of arresting Mellichampe.

“The spy—Mellichampe—he has seduced the sentinel—he
is fled—there—Lieutenant Clayton,—there
—in the bay! Pursue all, and kill him!—No quarter
to the spy!”

“But the camp—” said Clayton.

“Let it burn! Let it burn!” His words were silenced—drowned
in the sharp and repeated shot which
rang along the whole line of the avenue. He became
conscious on the instant, for the first time,—and now,
at once, conceived the nature of that concerted combination
which was likely to defraud him of his prey.
Still he did not conceive the assault to be made by any
large force. He did not think it possible.

“A surprise,” he said; “a mere diversion to help
the spy. To the front, Lieutenant Clayton,—send your
loyalists to the avenue! Line the front,—it will soon
be over,—it is but a straggling squad. Away—and
leave me for the spy. I will manage him with these
three men.”

The coolness of Barsfield seemed to have come
back to him as he gave these orders. But his rage
was the greater from having been suppressed so long.
He pressed forward to the bay with the three men who
were with him. He believed that Clayton would soon
manage the foe in front; and he was resolved upon the
death of Mellichampe, even if he did not. In another
moment, however, he was convinced that it was no random

attack, simply for diversion, from a small squad.
The clamour was that of a large force, and the repeated
and well-known cry of the partisans followed the
first volley of the sharp-shooters.

“Marion's men—true blues—true blues! Hurra!
no quarter—Tarleton's quarters! One and all, Marion's
men!”

“One and all, men!” were the stern, shrill notes that
followed the cry.

It was the sharp voice of Marion himself, and it was
heard distinctly over the field: the sounds were fitly
concluded by a second volley and an increasing uproar.

“He is there with all his force!” exclaimed Barsfield;
“but no matter. I cannot turn now, and, at
least, Mellichampe is mine. He is here in this bay.
They cannot help him in season, and he must perish.
That done, I care not if Marion conquers—we can but
become his prisoners.”

These were the calculations of Barsfield, half uttered
as he pursued. Mellichampe was immediately before
him. He had heard his shout. The pursuers
were now on the edge of the bay which the youth had
entered.

“To the gum-trees, Dexter, and watch that point—
see that he does not gain the avenue. Keep him from
crossing. Put in on the right, Beacham; and you, Mason,
go in on the left. Spare him not! Slay him like
a dog! No quarter to the spy!”

These were his rapid orders to his men as they rushed
into the close but narrow thicket which was called
the bay.

“But five minutes! give me that,” muttered Mellichampe
to himself, “and I ask for no more. But
where can Witherspoon be?”

The next moment he heard the whistle of his friend
in a denser part of the bay, and he hurried with a new
joy towards him.

“There are but three or four—and, if we can but join
first, we may give them work,” cried the youth, pressing
forward. But Witherspoon was now already engaged.
His voice kept pace in company with his sabre,
the clashing of which Mellichampe heard while
approaching him. The woodman had encountered one
of the pursuers. The affair, however, was soon over.
The man had met a sabre where he had looked only for
a victim.

“It's one less of the niggers,” cried Witherspoon,
aloud, as he struck his enemy down with a fatal blow.
“Hello! Airnest, boy, where is you?”

But the youth could not answer. He himself was
about to become busily engaged. Barsfield was before
him, and between him and Witherspoon. Mellichampe
had but his pistol, and he determined, as he saw the
copse disturbed in front, to conceal his weapon, as he
hoped that Barsfield would precipitate himself forward
as if upon an unarmed enemy, when he might employ
it suddenly and fatally. Indeed, he had no other
chance for life. In part, his plan was successful. The
tory leaped forward with a mad fury as he beheld the
youth. His sabre was waving above Mellichampe's
head, when the latter sank upon his knee and fired,—unerringly,
but not fatally. The ball penetrated the thigh
of the tory, who sank down upon him. They grappled
with each other upon the ground, struggling in a little
area where the trees seemed to have been scooped out,
as it were, expressly to afford them room for a struggle
of this sort. The physical power of Barsfield was
naturally greater than that of Mellichampe, and the recent
illness of the youth still farther increased the inequalities
between them; but Mellichampe had succeeded
in grasping the neckcloth of his enemy, while the
latter had a hold only upon one wrist and part of the
dress of the former. They were yet struggling upon
the ground without advantage to either, when one of

Barsfield's men came to his assistance. The moment
was full of peril to the youth; but his friend Witherspoon
was no less prompt to succour and save than the
tory to destroy. He bounded through the intervening
bushes in time to neutralize the efforts of the new-comer.
A sabre-stroke from the woodman brought
him to the ground, and disabled him from any movement
towards the combatants; but, raising a pistol,
even after he had fallen, before Witherspoon could help
Mellichampe or get out of his way, he shot him in the
side. Before he could draw a second the woodman
cut him down. He had hardly done so, when a faintness
came over the faithful fellow: he leaned against a
tree, then sank nervelessly to the ground.

“It's a tough shot, Airnest, and I can't help you.
Who'd ha' thought it? Ah! it bites! But hold on,
Airnest—hold on, boy; the major will soon come to
pull you out of the bear's claws.”

“You are hurt, Jack?”

“Reckon I am—a bad hurt too, Airnest, if one may
tell by the sort of feeling it has.”

Without a word, Barsfield continued the struggle the
more earnestly, as he now found himself becoming
faint from the wound which Mellichampe had inflicted.
The youth himself grew momently less and less able to
resist his foe, and Witherspoon, who lay but a few feet
apart, and saw the mutual efforts of the two, could lend
no manner of assistance. The object of the tory was to
keep Mellichampe quiet with one hand while he shortened
his sabre with the other. This, as yet, he had striven
fruitlessly to do. The youth, who saw his aim, had
addressed all his energies to the task of defeating it;
and, when pushed away by Barsfield, had contrived, by
the grasp which he still maintained upon the neckcloth
of the latter, still to cling so closely to him as to prevent
his attainment of the desired object. While the
struggle thus remained doubtful, a new party was added

to the scene in the person of Scipio, who came stealing
through the bushes. He had heard the clamour in that
direction which had taken place at first, and the subsequent
silence frightened him still more than all the noise
of the previous struggle. He came to gain intelligence
for his young mistress, whose apprehensions,
though unuttered in language, or even in tears, were
only silent because they were unutterable.

Witherspoon saw the negro first.

“Ha, Scip—nigger—is that you? Come quick,
nigger, and help your mossa.”

“Dah him—wha's de matter, Mass Wedderspoon—
you hurt?”

“Ask no questions, you black rascal, but run and
help Airnest: don't you see him there, fighting with the
tory?”

“Who—Mass Airnest—fighting wid de tory,—hey?”

The negro turned his eyes, and stood in amaze, to
behold the sort of contest which Mellichampe and Barsfield
carried on. The tory first addressed him—

“Scipio, run to Lieutenant Clayton—”

“Run to the devil!” cried Witherspoon; “knock
him on the head, Scipio, and save your master,—don't
let him talk.”

“Only say de wud, Mass Wedderspoon,—say de
wud, Mass Arnest,—you say I must knock dis tory?”

“Yes, to be sure,” cried Witherspoon, in a rage.

“If you dare,” said Barsfield, “you'll hang, scoundrel.
Beware what you do—fly—go to Lieutenant
Clayton—”

The negro interrupted him—

“You 'tan' for me, Mass Wedderspoon—you tell me
fur do 'em, I do 'em fur true.”

“Do it—do it, d—n you!—don't stand about it. He
will kill Airnest if you don't,—he'll kill us all!”

The negro seized a billet—a ragged knot of the
richest pine wood that lay at hand,—and approached the
two where they lay struggling—

“I 'mos' 'fraid—he dah buckrah—I dah nigger.”

“Strike him!” cried Witherspoon, writhing forward
in an agony of excitement,—“strike him, Scip—I'll
answer for you, boy.”

“Hole you head fudder, Mass Arnest,” cried the
negro,—“I 'feard for hit you.”

“Will you dare, Scipio,—will you? Strike not,
Scipio—you shall have your freedom—gold—guineas,”
was the supplicating cry of Barsfield.

“I no yerry you, Mass Barsfield—you's a d—n
tory, I know. Dis dah my mossa,—I hab for mind um.”

While he spoke, he approached and planted one of
his feet between the bodies of the two combatants.

“Turn you' eyes, Mass Arnest.”

The heavy pine-wood knot was lifted above the head
of the tory. The eyes of Mellichampe were averted,
while Barsfield vainly strove to press forward as closely
to the youth as possible, and once or twice writhed
about in such a manner, though the grasp of Mellichampe
was still upon his collar, as entirely to defeat
the aim of the negro.

“'Tan' 'till—I mus' knock you, Mass Barsfield.”

“Scip—Scipio,” were the pleading tones of the tory,
as he threw up his arms vainly. The blow descended
and silenced him for ever. The billet was buried in his
brains. The scull lay crushed and flattened, and but a
single contraction of the limbs and convulsion of the
frame attested the quick transition of life to death—so
dreadful had been the stroke. Mellichampe had fainted.

“Hurra!—hurra! Well done, Scip—well done,—
you've saved the boy,—you're a nigger among a thousand!”

The tones of exultation and encouragement came
faintly from the lips of the woodman, who bled inwardly.
They fell upon unheeding senses, for the stupified
Scipio at that moment heard them not.