University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.

The negro dropped the heavy pine-knot with the blow,
and, for a moment, stood gazing in stupor upon the horrid
spectacle—his own deed—before him. At length,
starting away, he dashed out of the bushes, in the direction
of the dwelling, crying aloud as he fled, in tones like
those of a maniac, and in words which indicated the intoxicating
effect of his new-born experience upon him—

“Ho! ho! I kill um—I hit um on he head. He's
a dirt—he's a dirt—I hab foot on um—I mash he brains.
Ho! ho! I kill buckrah. I's a nigger, I kill buckrah!
You tink for hang me—you mistake. Mass Wedderspoon
say de wud—Mass Arnest no say `no.' I kill
'em. He dead!”

He rushed into the apartment where the family were
all assembled in the highest degree of agitation. The
storm of battle, which still raged around them with unmitigated
fury, had terrified Mr. Berkeley and Rose
Duncan to the last degree. They appealed to Scipio
for information, but he gave them no heed.

“Whay's young missis?—young missis I want. I
hab for tell um someting.”

He refused all other answer, and made his way into
the adjoining apartment. Janet was at the window—
that nearest to the clamour—at which, through another
dreadful fight, she had watched unhesitatingly before.
She started to her feet as she beheld him.

“Ernest—speak to me, Scipio. What of Ernest?
Where is he?—tell me he is safe.”

“He dead!—I kill um!”

She shrieked and fell. The event restored the negro
to his senses. He picked her up, howling over her all

the while, and bore her to the adjoining apartment, where
the care of Rose Duncan in a short time recovered her.

“Speak to me, Scipio,” she cried, rising, and addressing
him with an energy which despair seemed to have
given her, and which terrified all around—“Tell me all
—what of Ernest? He is not hurt—he has escaped?
You have told me falsely—he lives!”

“I 'speck so, missis—'tis I's a d—n fool for tell you
he been hurt. He no hurt. 'Tis Mass Barsfield I been
knock on de head—”

“Barsfield!—you!” was the exclamation of all.

“Yes—de d—n nigger—enty he been hab Arnest
'pon de ground?—he want to 'tick him wid he sword. I
take lightwood-knot, I hammer um on he head tell you
sees noting but de blood and de brain, and de white ob
he eye. He dead—'tis Scip mash um.”

“You struck him, Scipio?” said Mr. Berkeley.

“Mass Wedderspoon tell me, mossa. Enty he been
guine 'tick Mass Arnest? When I see dat, I 'tan look.
Jack Wedderspoon cuss me, and say—`why de hell you
no knock um?' Well, wha' I for do? Enty he tell
me? I knock um fur true! I hit um on he head wid
de pine-knot. De head mash flat like pancake. I no
see um 'gen.”

The maidens shuddered at the narration, but Janet
spoke instantly.

“But Ernest—what of him, Scipio? Was he hurt?
You have not said—is he safe?”

“I sway, misses, I can't tell. I 'speck he been hurt
someting. I left um on de ground. He ain't git up.”

“I will go,” she exclaimed.

“Think not of it, Janet, my child, till the noise is
over.”

But she had gone—while he yet spake, she had left
the room and the house—Scipio closely attending her.
The feebleness of age seemed no longer to oppress the
aged man. He rushed after the daughter of his heart

with much of the vigour of youth, and with all the fearlessness
of a proper manhood. In that moment her worth
was conspicuous, in his forgetfulness of all fear and feebleness.
He heeded not the cries and the clamour—
the dreadful imprecations and the sharp ringing shot,
which momently assailed his ears in his progress. The
fight was still going on along the avenue and in the park,
but its fury was abating fast. Mr. Berkeley hurried forward,
but soon became confused. His daughter was not
to be seen, nor Scipio, and he knew not in what direction
to turn his footsteps. While he paused and doubted,
he heard the rush of cavalry, like the sweeping force of
a torrent coming down the hills at midnight. He could
see, in the bright moonlight, the dark figures and their
shining white blades. The clashing of steel superseded
the shot of the marksmen, and the horsemen now evidently
swept the field in irresistible wrath. The tories
were flying in all directions—the partisans riding over
them with unsparing hoofs, and smiting down with impetuous
steel. A group fled towards the house, and came
directly upon the spot where the old man's feet seemed
to be frozen. Timidly he shrank behind a tree, and,
as the cavalry pursued, the tories broke, and dispersed
in individual flight. One of them, an officer, sank back
slowly, and with an air of resolution and defiance in his
manner which soon provoked the attention of a partisan
trooper. He pressed forward upon the Briton, who
turned gallantly and made fight. The huge-limbed steed
of the partisan was wheeled from side to side under the
curb of his rider, with an ease that almost seemed the result
of an instinct of his own. Neither the steed nor his
rider could be mistaken.

“Yield—surrender, sir—you prolong the fight uselessly.
Your men are dispersed,” were the words of
Singleton.

`Never—to a rebel!” was the response of Clayton
—`Never!” and he struck at the partisan with an earnestness

and skill as he replied, which showed him that
he was not an enemy to be trifled with. The fierce mood
of Singleton grew uppermost as he witnessed the obduracy
of the Briton. His own blows were repeated with
furious energy, and the retreat of Clayton was, perforce,
more rapid than before. Backing, and fighting all
the while, his feet became entangled in some obstruction
behind him, and he stumbled over it without being able
to recover himself. He now lay at the mercy of his
enemy. The courtesy of Singleton effected what his
valour had not done. His horse was curbed in the instant
which saw Clayton fall. The point of his sabre,
which had been directed towards, was now turned from
his bosom, and he bade him rise. The Briton bowed,
and presented his sword.

“Oblige me by keeping it, sir,” was the reply of the
partisan. “Let me see you to the house in safety.”

The only inmate of the house who received Lieutenant
Clayton was Rose Duncan.

“I am a prisoner, Miss Duncan,” said the lieutenant,
and it did not pain him greatly to tell her so.

“Indeed—I'm so glad of it,” was the almost unconscious
reply.

Clayton looked grave as she said so, and Major Singleton
withdrew, leaving him, however, not so dissatisfied
with the general tenour of events as might have been
expected. It was surprising how soon he forgot that he
was a prisoner, and how readily Rose became his custodier.
But this concerns us not.

In the neighbouring court the bugle of Marion called
his men together. The battle was over. The victory
was complete, and the only concern before the partisans
was to ascertain the price which it had cost them. This
could not be so readily determined.

“But what tidings of Mellichampe?” demanded Marion.
“Have you heard nothing, Major Singleton?
This was your charge.”

“Nothing, as yet, sir—I have dispersed my men in
search. It is unaccountable, too, that we have heard
nothing of Witherspoon, nor has Captain Barsfield been
reported. The command does not seem to have been
with him. Lieutenant Clayton is my prisoner.”

While they yet spoke, the whistle of Witherspoon—a
faintly uttered note, but well known as that of the woodman—came
to them from the bay. To this point they
instantly proceeded. But Janet Berkeley was there long
before them. She had outstripped even the speed of
Scipio; she had heard and been guided by the accents
of her lover's voice, as she entered the copse.

“Jack, dear Jack—Witherspoon, my friend—my
more than friend—my father—speak to me!”

It was thus that the youth, bending over his prostrate
companion, expressed his agony and apprehension at the
condition in which he found him. Witherspoon bled inwardly,
and could scarcely speak, as he was in momentary
danger of suffocation. The next moment the arms
of Janet were thrown about her lover, whom she found
in safety, and she burst into an agony of tears, which at
length relieved her. With her appearance, the strength
and consciousness of the wounded woodman seemed to
come back to him. He looked up with a smile, and
said, feebly, as he beheld her—

“God bless you, Miss Janet—and make you happy.
You see he's safe—and there's no danger now, for I
rether reckon, from what I hear and from what I don't
hear, that the tories are done for.”

“Oh, Mr. Witherspoon—what can I do for you? I
hope you are not much hurt.”

“Pretty bad, I tell you. I feel all over I can't tell
how,—and when it comes to that, you see, it looks
squally. I'm afeard I've no more business in the
swamp.”

“Speak not thus, Jack—but let us help you to the
house. Here, Scipio, lend a hand.”

But the woodman resisted them.

“No! no!” he exclaimed, “this is my house—the
woods. I've lived in them—and I feel that it will be
sweeter to die in them, than in a dark little room. I like
the green of the trees and the cool feel of the air. I
can't breathe in a little room as I can in the woods.”

“But, dear Jack, you can be better attended there—
we—”

“Don't talk, Airnest. I won't ax for much 'tendance
now. I feel I'm going—my teeth stick when I
set them down, and when I try to open them it's hard
work. I'm in a bad way, I tell you, when I can't talk
—talking was so nateral.”

“What can I bring you?—”

“Water!” he replied, gaspingly.

But, with the effort to swallow, there came a rush of
blood into his mouth which almost suffocated him.

“It's all over with me now—Airnest, boy. I've done
the best for you—”

The youth squeezed his hand, but was too much
moved to speak.

“I've worked mighty hard to git you out of the hobble,
and I'm awful glad that the bullet didn't come till
you were safe out of the claws of that varmint. You've
got a clear track now—and, oh! Miss Janet, I'm so
glad to see you together, lock and lock, as I may say,
afore I die. It's a God's blessing that I'm let to see
it.”

He linked their hands as he spoke, and the tears flowed
from his eyes as if he had been a child. Nor were
the two bending above him less moved.

“When you're man and wife, you mustn't forget Jack
Witherspoon. Ah, Airnest, you can't reckon how much
he loved you.”

“I know it—I feel it, Jack. Your present situation
—this wound—”

“I don't mind the pain of it, Airnest, when I think

that I saved you. You're safe—and 'tain't no hard matter
to die when one's done all his business. Indeed, to
say truth, it's high time—Ah! it's like a wild-cat gnawing
into the bones!”

The dialogue, broken and interrupted frequently by
the sorrow of the spectators and the agonizing pain of
Witherspoon, was at length interrupted by the entrance
into the area of the partisan general, with several of the
officers. Marion spoke in a low tone to Scipio, who
stood at the head of the dying man. The voice was recognised
by him.

“That's the gineral—the old `fox,”' he muttered to
himself, and he strove to throw back his eyes sufficiently
to see him.

“Stand out of the moonlight, nigger—I wants to see
the gineral.”

“I am here, Thumbscrew,” said Marion, kneeling
down beside him. “How is it with you, my friend?”

“Bad enough, gineral. You'll have to put me in the
odd leaf of the orderly's book. I've got my certificate.”

“I hope not, Thumby. We must see what can be
done for you. We can't spare any of our men,” said
Marion, encouragingly. The dying man smiled feebly
as he spoke again,

“I know you can't, and that makes me more sorry
But you know me, gineral—wasn't I a whig from the
first?”

“I believe it—I know it. You have done your duty
always.”

“Put that down in the orderly book—I was a whig
from the first.”

“I will,” said Marion.

“And after it, put down agen—he was a whig to the
last.”

“I will.”

“Put down—he never believed in the tories, and—”
here he paused chokingly from a fit of coughing—“and
he always made them believe in him.”

“You have done nobly in the good cause, John Witherspoon,”
said the general, while his eyes were filled
with tears, “and you may well believe that Francis Marion,
who honours you, will protect your memory. Here
is my hand.”

The woodman pressed it to his lips.

“Airnest—”

The youth bent over him. The arms of the dying
man were lifted—they clasped him round with a fervent
grasp, and brought his forehead down to his lips—

“Airnest!” he exclaimed once more, and then his
grasp was relaxed. He lay cold and lifeless—the rude
but noble spirit had gone from the humble but honourable
dwelling, which it had informed and elevated. The
grief of Ernest Mellichampe was speechless; and if the
happiness of the pair, united in the sweetest bonds by the
hands of the dying man, in that hour of pain, was ever
darkened with a sorrow, it was when they thought that he
who had served them so faithfully had not been permitted
to behold it.