University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The group, at that moment in the avenue, formed a
striking picture. The voice of Tarleton seemed to have
the effect of paralyzing and fixing to his place each of
the parties. Janet, on bended knee, with her person
half stretched over the insensible body of her lover, her
face turned and her hand uplifted to the legionary colonel,
looked, at the same moment, relieved and apprehensive.
She felt that the presence of Tarleton was a
restraint upon the vindictive personal hostility of Barsfield;
but did she not also know that the name of the
legionary was synonymous in Carolina with every thing
that was bloody and revengeful? She hoped and trembled,
yet she was better pleased that the destinies of her
lover should rest with the latter than the former. Tarleton
could have no individual hatred to Mellichampe;—
she well conceived the viperous and unforgiving hate
which rankled against him in the bosom of the tory.

The quiet inquiry—the even and subdued tones, of
Tarleton, had the effect of a like paralysis upon the
limbs of Barsfield. His mood was rebuked—his violent
proceedings at once arrested, as he heard them:
yet they were words of simple inquiry.

“What does all this mean, Captain Barsfield?—why
is this lady here?”

The tory explained, or sought to explain, but he performed
the task imperfectly.

“A wounded enemy—a prisoner, sir. I would have

conveyed him where he could procure tendance, but
Miss Berkeley resisted.”

The maiden rose. She approached Tarleton, and said
to him, in low, but still audible tones,

“Because I would not trust him. He would have
killed him—he would have murdered him with his
bloody sword, if I had not come between.”

“But who is he, young lady—what is the youth in
whom you take such interest?”

Her lips quivered, and a faint flush spread itself over
her cheeks, but she did not reply.

“Who is the prisoner, Captain Barsfield?”

“A rebel, sir—one Mellichampe.”

“Son of Max Mellichampe?” demanded Tarleton,
interrupting him.

“The same, sir; as malignant a rebel as his father;
and one not only liable to be dealt with as such, but one
whom I would secure for trial as a spy.”

At these words she spoke. The accusation against
her lover aroused her. Her eye flashed indignant fires
upon the tory as she spoke fearlessly in reply.

“It is false, sir—a wilful falsehood, believe me. Ernest
Mellichampe was no spy; he could not be. This
man conceives his enemy's character from his own.
Mellichampe is incapable, sir, of so base an employment;
and Captain Barsfield knows him sufficiently
well to know it. Ernest did but come to the house to
see us, as he was accustomed to come; and it so happened
that Captain Barsfield, with his troop, came that
very day also. My father always extended to Ernest
Mellichampe the same hospitality which he extended to
Captain Barsfield; and so, sir, you see that Ernest was
our visiter, our guest, like Captain Barsfield, and one of
them could no more be a spy than the other. Captain
Barsfield knows all this; and, if he did not hate Ernest,
I should not have to tell it you. But I tell you the
truth, sir, as I am a woman: Ernest was no spy, and
the charge against him is false and sinful.”

She paused, breathless and agitated. Tarleton smiled
faintly as he heard her through, and his eyes rested with
a gentle and most unwonted expression upon the glowing
face of the fair pleader. Her eye shrunk from,
while her whole frame trembled beneath, his gaze.

“But why is he here, my good young lady—why, if
he is our friend—why is he here?” inquired Tarleton, in
the gentlest language.

“I said not that, sir—I said not that he was a loyalist,—Ernest
Mellichampe, sir, is one of Marion's
men.”

“Ha!” was the quick exclamation of Tarleton, and
his brow was furrowed with a heavy frown as he uttered
it.

“But not a spy—oh no, sir, not a spy!—an open,
avowed, honourable enemy, but no spy. He fought
against this man, sir—this man Barsfield—who hates
him, sir, and came here only just now, sir—I saw it myself—and
would have killed Ernest with his sword, sir,
and he senseless, if I had not come between him and
the weapon.”

“Is this so, Captain Barsfield?” inquired Tarleton,
gravely.

“The rebel's weapon was uplifted, Colonel Tarleton,
and he opposed me when I sought to make him my
prisoner.”

“Oh! false—false, sir—and foolish as it is false!”
was her reply; “for how could he fight, sir, when he
was so hurt, and lying almost senseless on the grass?”

“He could offer but little resistance, indeed, Captain
Barsfield!” remarked Tarleton, sternly and coolly; “and
this reminds me that he will the more speedily need the
assistance of our surgeon. Here, Decker—Wilson—
Broome—go one of you and request Mr. Haddows to
prepare himself for a wounded man—sabre-cut, head
and shoulder,—away!—and you—a score of you, lift
the body and bear it to the house. Tenderly, men—

tenderly: if you move so roughly again, Corporal Wilson,
I'll cleave you to the chine with my sabre. Ha!
he shows his teeth again!—a fierce rebel, doubtless,
young lady, and a troublesome one, too, though you
speak so earnestly in his behalf.”

The latter remark of Tarleton was elicited by the
feverish resistance which the partly-aroused Mellichampe
now offered to his own removal. The soldiers had
sought to wrest his sabre from his grasp, and this again,
with the pain of the movement, had provoked his consciousness.
He struggled desperately for an instant,
gnashed his teeth, threw his eyes round upon the group
with an air of defiance even in their vacancy, then closed
them again, as he fainted away in a deathlike sickness
in the arms which now uplifted him.

Janet would have clung still to her lover as they bore
him towards the dwelling, but Tarleton interposed.
He approached her with a smile of gentleness, which
was always beautiful and imposing when it made its appearance
upon his habitually sombre features.

“Come, Miss Berkeley, let us go forward together.
You will not fear to take the arm of one whom you
doubtless consider in the character of an enemy—one,
probably, of the very worst sort. Your rebel there, in
whom you have taken such a sweet interest, has no
doubt taught you to believe me so: and you have readily
believed all that he has taught you. I see how matters
stand between you—nay, blush not—you have nothing
to blush for. You have only done your duty—the
duty of a woman, always a more delicate, often a more
holy, and sometimes a far more arduous duty than any
of those which are peculiarly the performance of man.
I admire you for what you have done, and you will regard
me as a friend hereafter, though I am at war now
with some of those whom you love most dearly. This
matters nothing with me: nor am I always the stern
monster which I appear to so many. I am, they say,

fond of blood-spilling, and I fear me that much of what
they say is true; but Bannister Tarleton was not always
what he now appears. Some of his boy feelings
have worked in your favour; and, so long as they last—
and Heaven grant that they may last for ever—I will
admire your virtues, and freely die to preserve and promote
them. Go now and attend upon this youth: and,
hear me, young lady, persuade him back to his true allegiance.
You will do him as good a service by doing
that, as you have done him now. He will be well attended
by my own surgeon, and shall want for nothing;
but he must remain a prisoner. The charges of Captain
Barsfield must be examined into, but he shall have
justice.”

“Oh! sir, do not believe those charges—do not believe
that man. He is a bad man, who personally hates
Ernest, and will do all he can to destroy him, as he destroyed
his father.”

“His father! Yes—yes—I remember. Max Mellichampe—his
plantation was called—”

“Kaddipah.”

“I see! I see!” responded Tarleton, musingly, and
his eyes were on the ground; while the sabre, which he
had carried in his hand, still in its sheath, came heavily
to the earth with a clatter that made the maiden start.
A few moments pause ensued, when Tarleton proceeded:

“Fear nothing for the safety of the youth. He shall
be tried impartially, and treated honourably, though we
must now keep him a prisoner, and Barsfield must have
his keeping.”

“Oh, sir—not Barsfield—anybody else.”

“It cannot be,” was the response; “but there is no
danger. I shall say but a few words to Barsfield, and
Mr. Mellichampe will be much safer in his custody than
in that of any other. Take my word that it will be so.
You have some prejudices, I perceive, against Barsfield,

which do him injustice. You will discover, in the end,
that you have wronged him.”

“Never, sir, never. You know him not, Colonel
Tarleton, you know him not.”

“Perhaps not, my dear young lady; but I know that
Mr. Mellichampe will be safe after I have given my orders.
All I request of you is to be patient. Encourage
the prisoner—tell him to fear nothing; and fear
nothing yourself.”

She hesitated—she would have urged something farther
in objecting to Barsfield as the keeper of her lover;
but a sudden change came over the countenance
of the legionary, even as an unlooked-for cloud enlarges
from a scarce perceptible speck, and obscures
the hitherto untroubled heavens. His figure suddenly
grew erect, and his air was coldly polite, as he checked
her in the half-uttered suggestion.

“No more, Miss Berkeley, I have determined. The
arrangements most proper for all parties shall be made,
and all justice shall be done the prisoner. Have no
doubts—rely on me, I pray you, and be calm—be confident
in the assurances I give you. For once believe
that Bannister Tarleton can be humane—that tenderness
and justice may both be found at his hands. Go
now to your dwelling. You have duties there; and
oblige me, if you please, by saying to your father that,
if agreeable to him, I will take dinner with him to-day.”

He kissed her hand as he was about to leave her,
with a grave, manly gallantry, that seemed to take the
privilege as a matter of course; and she did not resist
him. Murmuring her acknowledgments, she hurried
away to the dwelling, and was soon out of sight.
Tarleton stood for a few moments watching her progress,
with a painful sort of pleasure evident upon his
pale countenance, as if some old and sacred memories,
suddenly aroused from a long slumber, were busy stirring
at his heart.