University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
THE FRIENDS.—A CONFERENCE.

The stranger, as he leaped upon the solid earth, appeared
of a noble and commanding presence. In shape he was
symmetrically and vigorously made. Tall, erect and muscular,
his person was that of one who had been long
accustomed to hardy and active exercises. In his movements
there was a confident ease—the result equally of a
fearless spirit and a noble form—which tallied well with a
certain military exactness of carriage; commending his
well-finished limbs to the eye, while conveying to the
mind of the observer an impression, not less favourable, of
the noble and firm character of their proprietor. Nor
were the features of his countenance wanting in any thing
which might support this impression. His face was full
but not fleshy; the skin, a clear red and white, which the
summer sun had simply darkened into manliness. His
eye, of a lively and intelligent blue, might have denoted
a rather preponderating playfulness of temper, but for the
sterner expression of his mouth, the lines of which were
more angular than round, the lips being too thin for softness,
and when compressed, indicating a severe directness
of purpose, which the gentler expression of his other features
failed entirely to qualify. He had a lofty forehead,
broad, intellectual, and contemplative. His hair, which
was of a dark brown colour, was long, and, like his beard,
had been suffered to remain untrimmed, possibly as much
in compliance with the laws of necessity as of taste. We
have already intimated that the stranger was youthful. He
had probably beheld some twenty-five or thirty summers,
though it may be that premature toils and trials had anticipated
the work of time, and made him seem somewhat
older than he really was. He had, in the tout ensemble
of his face, the appearance of one who had just arrived at
the equal maturity of mind and body.

His dress was simple, and characterized by as little pretension
as could possibly be found in one who was not
only young, but evidently in the military. In its material
and make, it corresponded with that of the ordinary woodmen
of the country. His pantaloons consisted of a dark
blue homespun, the legs being wrapped in leggings of a
somewhat coarser texture and darker hue. From these
the original dye had been obliterated in blotches, here and
there; or so obscured by stains from the yellow waters of
the swamp, with which the wearer had been so recently
familiar, that it would require a very discriminating eye to
determine at a glance of what colour they originally were.
A hunting-shirt of a deeper blue than that of his under
clothes, and perhaps of better material, which reached
midway between his hips and knees, completed the
essential parts of his costume. This portion of the dress
was evidently made with some regard to the shape,
and, possibly, the tastes of the wearer; a matter not so
certainly clear in the case of the pantaloons. It fitted
closely, without a wrinkle, and displayed the symmetry
and muscle of his form to the greatest possible advantage.
It had been ornamented, it would seem, in better days,
with a deep fringe of a complexion somewhat more showy
than that of the garment, but of this only a few occasional
traces now remained, to testify, much more effectually, to
the trials through which it had passed, than its own former
brightness and integrity. The little cape which surmounted
the coat, and fell back upon the shoulders, had fared
rather more fortunately than the rest of the garment, and
formed no unseemly finish to the general fitness of the
costume; particularly as the wearer, with a better taste
than prevailed then, or has prevailed since, had freed his
neck from all the buckram restraints of gorget, cravat, or
stock—bandagings which fetter the movements of the
head, without increasing its dignity or comfort. Enough
of the broad sun-burned bosom was revealed by the open
shirt before, to display that classic superiority of air
of which modern fashions almost wholly deprive the
noblest aspect. Upon his head, without shading his brow,
rested a cap of otter-skin, rude and ample in its make, the
work, most probably, of some favourite slave. A small
yellow crescent, serving the purpose of a button, looped

up one of the sides in the centre, and might on occasion
have sustained a feather. Plain mocasins of buckskin, the
original yellow of which had been entirely lost in the more
doubtful colours acquired in the swamp, completed the externals
of his dress. It may be added that he wore no
visible armour; but once, as he stooped to fasten his skiff
beside the shore, the butt of a heavy pistol might have
been seen protruding from beneath the thick folds of his
hunting-shirt. From the unnatural fulness of the opposite
breast, it would not be rash to conjecture that this weapon
of war was not without its fellow.

The stranger ascended from the banks and made his way
towards the foot of the heights, that, skirting the northern
edges of the Wateree, conduct the eye of the spectator to
tke lofty summits of the Santee hills beyond. Here he
was joined by another, who had evidently been for some
time expecting him. This was a man of middle size,
stout, well-made, coarse in feature, strong of limb, active
of movement, apparently without the refining influences
of society and education, and evidently from the lower
orders of the people. Let not this phrase, however, be
understood to signify any thing base or unbecoming.
Though a poor man, our new acquaintance was not the
work of one of nature's journeymen, fashioned when the
“master hand” was weary. With head and feet equally
bare, he carried the one with a virtuous erectness that
could not be well misunderstood; while the other were
set down with the freedom and fearlessness of a man conscious
that he walked the soil of his native land in the
full performance of the equal duties of the patriot and warrior.
In his hand he grasped a rifle of immoderate length,
the fractured stock of which, lashed together with buckskin
thongs, bore tokens of hard usage in more respects
than one. The unquestionable poverty of this man's condition—which,
indeed, was that of the whole American
army—did not seem to have any effect upon his deportment
or to give him any uneasiness. He seemed not to
know that his garments suffered from any peculiar deficiencies;
and never did the language of a light heart
declare itself with so little reservation from a blue eye and
a good-natured physiognomy. The slight cloud of anxiety

which hung at moments above his brow, and which gathered
there in consequence of cares of no ordinary kind,
could not long, at any time, withstand the buoyant action
of the cheerful spirit within. This constantly shone out
from his face, and spoke aloud in the clear, ringing tones
of his manly yet not unmusical accents. Drawing nigh
to our first acquaintance, he grasped his hand with the
joyous look and warm manner of one who felt, in the
meeting with his comrade, something of a sentiment far
stronger than that which governs the ordinary friendships
among men. Nor was the manner of his comrade less
equivocal, though, perhaps, more quiet and subdued. The
behaviour of the twain was that of an intimacy unbroken
from boyhood, and made mutually confident by the exercise
of trusts which had been kept equally sacred by both
the parties.

“Well, Clarence, I'm glad you've come. I've been
waiting for you a'most two hours. And how goes it in
the swamp—and did you git the letters?”

“I did: all's well with us—pretty much as when you
left. But how with you, Jack? What news do you
bring? Is the coast clear—are the light troops gone in?”

“Well, I reckon I may say yes. Greene's drawed off
from Camden sence the brush at Hobkirk's, and there's no
telling jest now which way he's going. As for Marion,
you know its never easy to say where to look for him.
Lee's gone down on the s'arch somewhere below, and
we're all to be up and busy at short notice. I hear tell of
great things to do. Our ginral, Sumter, is in motion, and
picking up stragglers along the Catawba. I reckon he'll
soon be down, and then gallop's the word. Something
too I hear of Colonel Tom Taylor at Granby, and—”

“Enough, enough, Jack; but you say nothing of Butler
and his men? Are they out of the way—are they off? If
you know nothing about him—”

“Well, I reckon they're at Granby by this time.
They've given up the hunt as a bad job. I saw Joe
Clinch, one of his troop, only two days ago, and gin him
a sort of hint that the chap they were after was more like
to be found above the Congaree than in these parts. `For
what's to save him,' I said to Joe, `down here in this
neighbourhood, where we're all true blue, and he a fire-hot

tory?' That was a good reason for Clinch and all
his troop, I reckon. They tuk it for one, and by peep of
dawn, they were streaking it along the river road. They've
got to `Ninety-Six,' by this time, and even if they ha'nt,
it's all the same to us. They're out of your way.”

“But you did wrong, John Bannister, in saying that
Edward Conway was a tory. He himself denies it.”

“Well, Clarence, that's true, but I don't see that his
denying it makes much difference. It's natural enough
that a man should say he's no tory when he's in a whig
camp. The vartue of a whole skin depends upon it.
There's a chance of broken bones if he says otherwise,
which Ned Conway aint a going to resk.”

“At least, for my sake, John Bannister, give Edward
Conway the benefit of your doubts,” replied the other,
with an expression of grave displeasure on his countenance.
“We do not know that he is a tory, and the best of men
have been the victims of unjust suspicion. I must repeat
that you did wrong, if you loved me, in calling him by
such a name.”

“Ah, Clarence, he's your half-brother, and that's the
reason you aint willing to believe any thing agin him; but
I'm dub'ous I said nothing worse than the truth when I
told Clinch he was a tory. I'm sure the proofs agin him
would have hung many a tall chap like himself.”

“No more, Bannister—no more,” said the other,
gloomily. “It is enough that he is my brother. I am
not willing to examine his demerits. I know, and acknowledge
to you, that many things in his conduct look
suspicious; still I prefer to believe his word—his solemn
oath—against all idle reports—reports, which are half the
time slanders, and which have destroyed, I verily believe,
many lives and characters as worthy as our own. You
know that I have no reason to love Edward Conway. We
have never been friends, and I have no partialities in his
favour. Still, he is the son of my father, and I am bound
to defend him while I remain unconvinced of his treachery.
I am only afraid that I am too willing to believe what is
said in his prejudice. But this I will not believe so long
as I can help it. He solemnly assures me he has never
joined the tories. He would scarcely swear to a falsehood.”

“Well, that's the same question, Clarence, only in another
language. The man that would act a lie, wouldn't
stop very long to swear to one. Now, if Edward Conway
didn't join the tories, who did he join? He didn't join
us, did he? Did he swear to that, Clarence?”

“No! no! Would to God he could!”

“Well, then, what is it that he does say? I'm a-thinking
that it's good doctrine to believe, in times like these,
that the man that aint with us is agin us. Let him show
what he did with himself sence the fall of Charlestown.
He warn't there. You don't see his name on the list of
prisoners—you don't hear of his parole, and you know
he's never been exchanged. It mought be that he went
in the British regiments to the West Indies, where they
carried a smart chance of our people, that wouldn't ha'
got any worse character by taking to the swamps as we
did. Does he say that he went there?”

“He does not—he declines giving any account of himself,
but still denies, most solemnly, that he ever joined
the tories.”

“I'm mightily afeard, Clarence—now, don't be angry
at what I'm going to say—but I'm mightily afeard Edward
Conway aint telling you the truth. I wouldn't let him
go free—I'd hold him as a sort of prisoner and keep
watch upon him. You've saved him when he didn't desarve
to be saved by any body, and least of all by you;—
and you have a sort of substantial right to do with him
jest as you think right and reasonable. I'm for your
keeping him, like any other prisoner, and counting him in
at the next exchange. He'll go for somebody that'll pull
trigger for his country.”

“Impossible! How can you give me such counsel?
No, no, Jack, let him be all that you think him, the tory
and the traitor, still he comes from my father's loins, and
though another mother gave us suck, yet I feel that I
should defend him as a brother, though he may not be
altogether one. He shall suffer no harm at hands of
mine.”

“Well, I'm sure I don't say he ought. To keep him
under a strong thumb and fore-finger—to keep him, as
I may say, out of mischief and out of danger till the
time of exchange comes round, won't be to do him

any harm. It's only one way of feeding a mouth that,
mought be, couldn't feed itself so well in these tough
times; and taking a little Jamaica from other mouths that
mought like it jest as well, and desarve it a great deal
better.”

“What, Jack, do you begrudge Edward Conway the
pitiful fare which we can give him in the swamp? You
are strangely altered, Jack, towards him. You were once
his playmate in boyhood as well as mine.”

“Yes, Clarence, and 'twas then, so far back as them
same days of our boyhood—and they were mighty sweet
days, I tell you—that I found him out, and l'arned to mistrust
him. God knows, Clarence, and you ought to know
too, that Jack Bannister would like, if he could, all the
flesh and blood in this world that was ever a kin of your'n.
I tried mighty hard to love Ned Conway as I loved you,
but it was like fighting agin natur'. I tried my best, but
couldn't make it out with all my trying; and when I
caught him in that business of the dock-tailed horse—”

“Do not remind me of these matters now, Jack; I am
afraid I remember them too well already.”

“You're only too good for him, Clarence. I somehow
almost think he aint naturally even a half-brother of your'n
any how. You don't look like him; neither eye nor
mouth, nor nose nor chin, nor hair nor forehead—all's different
as if you had come from any two families that lived
at opposite eends of the river, and never seed one another.
But, as you say, I won't 'mind you of any matters that
you don't want to hear about. Them days is over with
me and him, and so I'll shut up on that subject. As for
begrudging him the bread and bacon, and the drop of
Jamaica, such as we git in the swamp yonder,—well, I
won't say nothing, because, you see, I can't somehow
think you meant to say what you did. All that I do say,
Clarence, is, that I wish I had enough to give him that
would persuade him to show clean hands to his friends
and blood-kin, and come out for his country, like every
man that has a man's love for the airth that raised him.”

“I know you mean him no wrong, Jack, and me no
pain, when you advise me thus; but my word is pledged
to Edward Conway, and I will keep it, though I perish.”

“And don't I tell you to keep it, Clarence? You promised

to save him from Butler's men, that was a-hunting
him, and what better way than to keep him close from
sight; for, if he once gits a-going agin, and they find his
tracks, it won't be your boldness or my quickness that'll git
him into the swamp so easily. If Butler's men hadn't
been up-countrymen, that didn't onderstand swamp edication,
no how, he wouldn't have had such a quiet time of
it where we put him. Well, you've done what you promised,
and what, I reckon, every man was bound to do
by his blood-kin. You've saved him from his enemies;
but there's no need you should give him your best nag
that he may gallop full-speed into their pastures. Now,
that's what you're a-thinking to do. And why should
you? If he aint a tory, and hasn't been one, why
shouldn't he be a whig? Why shouldn't he do what he
ought to ha' done five years ago—join Sumter's men, or
Marion's men, or Pickens' men, or any men that's up for
the country—and run his bullets with a tory's name to
each. I don't think Ned Conway a coward, no how, and
when he won't come out for his country at a pushing time
like this, I can't help considering him a mighty suspicious
friend.”

“Enough, Jack; the more you speak, and I think, of
this matter, the more unhappy it makes me,” replied the
other. “If I dared to think, I should probably come to
more serious conclusions than yourself on the subject of
my brother's conduct; which, I confess is altogether inscrutable.
I have only one course before me, and that is
to set him free, even as he desires, and let him choose his
own route henceforward. I have not spared argument to
persuade him to our ranks, and he holds out some hopes
to me, that when he has finished certain private business
he will do so.”

“Private business! Lord ha' mercy upon us! How
can a body talk of private business, when even throat-cutting
is so public?—when there's a sort of Injin bounty
for sculps, and it takes more than a man's two hands to
keep his own skin and teeth from going off, where they
are worth their weight in gold? Private business! Look
you, Clarence, did you think to ask him when he had last
seen Flora Middleton?”

“No, I did not,” returned the other, abruptly, and with

some impatience in his manner. “Why should I ask him
that? I had no reason to suppose that he had any particular
reason for seeing her at this, or at any other time.”

“Now, Clarence, you needn't be telling me that, when
I know so much better. I know that if he hasn't a reason
for seeing her, he's always had a mighty strong wish that
way; and as for your own feelings, Lord bless you,
Clarence, it's no fault of your'n, if every second man in
the regiment don't know the soft place in the colonel's
heart by this time, and can't put his finger on it whenever
he pleases. If you love Flora Middleton there's no harm
in it; and if Edward Conway loves her too—”

He paused, and looked at his companion with the air of
one who is doubtful of the effect of that which he has
already said.

“Well! What then?” demanded the other.

“Why, only, there's no harm, perhaps, in that either.”

“Ay, but there is, John Bannister, and you know it;”
cried the other, almost fiercely. “Edward Conway knew
that I loved Flora Middleton long before he had ever seen
her.”

“Very true; but that's no good reason why he shouldn't
love her when he did see her, Clarence.”

“But it is good reason why he should not seek her
with his love.”

“I reckon, Clarence, he don't much stand upon such a
reason. There's nothing brotherly in love matters, Clarence;
and even if there was, Ned Conway is about the last person
to make much count of it.”

“He does—he shall! Nay, on this point I have his
assurance. He tells me that he has not sought her—he
has not seen her for months.”

“And did Edward Conway really tell you so, Clarence?”

“He did—it was almost his last assurance when I left
him.”

“Then he told you a most crooked and abominable lie.
He has seen her within the last three weeks.”

“Ha! how know you?”

“From little Joe, the blacksmith, that was down by
Watson's before it was taken from the British. Little Joe
went with him to Briar Park, and saw him and Miss Flora
in the piazza together.”

The young man clutched the butt of the pistol in his
bosom with a convulsive grasp, but soon relaxed it. He
struck his forehead, the next moment, with his open palm,
then strode away from his companion, as if to conceal the
emotion which he could not so easily overcome.

“Well,” he exclaimed, returning, “I had a strange fear
—I know not why—that there was something insincere in
his assurance. He made it voluntarily,—we had not
named her,—and even as he spoke, there was a something
in his face which troubled me, and made me doubtful
of his truth. But he will go too far—he will try the
force of blood beyond its patience.”

“There's nothing, Clarence, in the shape of licking
that sich a person don't desarve. I followed out more of
his crooks than one, years ago, when there was no war;
and he had all the tricks of a tory even then.”

“That he should basely lie to me, and at such a moment!
When I had risked life to save him!—When!—
but let me not grow foolish. Enough, that I know him
and suspect him. He shall find that I know him. He
shall see that he cannot again cheat me with loving language
and a Judas kiss.”

“Ah, Clarence, but you can cheat yourself. He knows
how quick you are to believe; and when he puts on them
sweet looks, and talks so many smooth words, and makes
b'lieve he's all humility, and how sorry he is for what he's
done, and how willing he is to do better—and all he wants
is a little time—as if ever a man wanted time to get honest
in! Look you, Clarence, you're my colonel, and what's
more, I'm your friend—you know I love you, Clarence,
better than one man ever loved another, and jest as well as
Jonathan ever loved David, as we read in the good book;
but, with all my love for you, Clarence, d—n my splinters,
if you let Ned Conway cheat you any longer with his
sweet words and sugar promises, I'll cut loose from you
with a jerk that'll tear every j'int out of the socket. I
won't be the friend of no man that lets himself be cheated.
As for hating Ned Conway, as you sometimes say I do,
there, I say, you're clean mistaken. I don't hate him—I
mistrust him. I've tried mighty hard to love him, but he
wouldn't let me. You know how much I've done to save
him from Butler's men; but I saved him on your account,

and not because I think he desarves to be saved. I'm
dub'ous that he is a tory, and a rank tory too, if the truth
was known, jest as they charge it upon him. I'm dub'ous
he'll join the British as soon as he can git a chance; and
I'm more than dub'ous, that, if you don't git before him to
your mother's plantation, and run the niggers into the
swamp out of his reach, he'll not leave you the hair of one
—he'll have 'em off to Charlestown by some of his fellows,
and then to the West Indies, before you can say Jack
Robinson, or what's a'most as easy, Jack Bannister.
There's another person I think you ought to see about,
and that's Miss Flora. Either you love her or you don't
love her. Now, if you love her, up and at her at once,
with all your teeth set, as if you had said it with an oath;
for though I know this aint no time to be a-wiving and
a-courting, yet, when the varmints is a-prowling about the
poultry-yard, it's no more than sense to look after the
speckled hen. Take a fool's wisdom for once, and have
an eye to both eends of the road. Go over to the plantation,
and when you're there, you can steal a chance to
cross over to Middleton's. It's my notion you'll find Ned
Conway at one place or t'other.”

“I'll think of it,” said Conway, in subdued tones;
“meantime, do you take the canoe back to the island and
bring him out. The horses are in readiness?”

“Yes, behind the hill. I'll bring him out if you say
so, Clarence, but it's not too late to think better of it. He's
safe, for all parties, where he is.”

“No, no, Jack, I've promised him. I'll keep my promise.
Let him go. I fear that he has deceived me. I
fear that he will still deceive me. Still I will save him
from his enemies, and suppress my own suspicions. It
will be only the worse for him if he does me wrong hereafter.”

“Clarence, if he turns out to be a tory, what'll our men
say to hear you harboured him?”

“Say!—perhaps, that I am no better.”

“No, no! they can't say that—they shan't say it, when
Jack Bannister is nigh enough to hear, and to send his
hammer into the long jaws that talk such foolishness; but
they'll think it mighty strange, Clarence.”

“Hardly, Jack, when they recollect that he is my
father's son.”

“Ah, Lord, there's mighty few of us got brothers in
these times in Carolina. A man's best brother now-a-days
is the thing he fights with. His best friend is his rifle.
You may call his jackknife a first-cousin, and his two pistols
his eldest sons; and even then, there's no telling
which of them all is going to fail him first, or whether
any one among 'em will stick by him till the scratch is
over. Edward Conway, to my thinking, Clarence, was
never a brother of your'n, if `brother' has any meaning of
`friend' in it.”

“Enough, enough, Jack. Leave me now and bring
him forth. I will do what I promised, whatever may be
my doubts. I will guide him on his way, and with this
night's work acquit myself of all obligations to him.
When we next meet, it shall be on such terms as shall
for ever clear up the shadows that stand between us.
Away, now!—it will be dark in two hours, and we have
little time to waste. The storm which threatens us will
be favourable to his flight.”