University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN THE TWO SCOUTS.

Meanwhile, the alarm had been given at Briar Park,
and the whole house was in commotion. Watson Gray
was the first to stumble up, and into consciousness, upon
the flight of Mary Clarkson; simply because he had
been fortunate enough to feel the full force of the flying
footsteps of her father. But several moments had elapsed
after her departure, before the discovery of the fact was
made, and the pursuit, which was then offered, appears
to have taken a wrong direction. Certainly, they did not
find the place of her concealment, nor the traces of her
flight. Yet no pains were spared to do so. The circumstances
were mysterious and exciting;—to Flora
Middleton, particularly so. She reproached herself,
though, certainly without justice, for having left the poor
girl in the custody of a drowsy servant; and her self-childings
were by no means lessened when the minds of
all at the barony appeared to settle down in the belief
that, in her delirium, the poor girl had wandered off to
the river banks and cast herself into its waters. Thus,
a second time, was the innocent Congaree made to bear
the reproach of participating in, and promoting, the destruction
of the same unhappy life. In the chamber of
the outlaw, the feelings, if less solemn and tender, were
surely not less grave and serious. To Watson Gray,
the mere death of the poor victim of his confederate,
would have been of very small importance. Perhaps,
indeed, he would have felt that it was a benefit—a large
step gained towards the more perfect freedom of his
principal. But there were some circumstances that
compelled his apprehensions. Who had been in the
chamber? What heavy feet were they that trampled upon

him, and why was that strange and formidable knife
resting beside the person of the outlaw? That somebody,
from the apartment of Mary Clarkson, had been in
that of Edward Conway, was soon apparent from the
discovery of the little lamp which the former had carried,
and which had fallen from her hands upon the couch of
the latter, in the moment when she saw her father's face.
This had been recognised by the servants, and the fact
made known in the confusion of the search. But, though
Gray felt certain that Mary had been in the room, he was
equally certain that there had been another also. It was
possible that, in her delirium, the poor girl may have
carried the knife as well as the light, and that she may
have meditated the death of her betrayer—all that was
natural enough; but Gray felt sure that a heavier foot
had trampled upon his neck and breast. Naturally of a
suspicious temper, his fears were confirmed, when, issuing
from the house at the first alarm, he found his
guards either withdrawn, or straggling towards their posts
in almost helpless inebriety. Their condition led him to
recall the story of the surgeon. The description which
the latter gave of the stranger who had penetrated to the
breakfast-room—his garments of blue homespun, and the
huge knife which he carried,—tended, in considerable
degree, to enlighten him on the subject. He called the
attention of the surgeon to the knife which had been
found on the bed, and the latter so far confirmed the
identity of that with the one which the supposed ghost
was seen to carry, as to say that the one was equally
large of size with the other; but the former was incomparably
more bright. He handled, with exceeding caution,
the dark and dingy instrument, and re-delivered it,
with fingers that seemed glad to be relieved from the
unpleasant contact. Seeing the surprise of the scout at
such seeming apprehension, he began a long discourse
about contagion, infection, and the instinctive dread which
he had of all cutaneous disorders; to all of which Gray
turned a deaf ear, and a wandering eye. The outlaw
had been wakened by the unavoidable noise of the search,
and had heard with some surprise and interest the circumstances
which were detailed to him by Gray.

“How strange!” he exclaimed. “Do you know I
had the sweetest sleep, in which I dreamed that Mary
and myself were walking over the old rice-dam on the
Santee, and I began to feel for her just as I felt then,
when I first knew her, and she seemed twice as lovely,
and was twice as intelligent. How strange!”

Gray had judiciously suppressed some of the circumstances
connected with the events of the evening. He
had concealed the knife entirely, and forbore stating to
him, as well as to every body else, every thing which
related to the supposed intrusion of some stranger into
the household.

“You have found her, Gray?” said the outlaw, when
the former returned from the search.

“No! she is nowhere in the grounds.”

“Indeed! could she have wandered to the river?”

“That is what they all think.”

“But you?”

“I know not what to think.”

“Why should you not think with them?”

“I should, but she did not seem to me to have strength
enough for that. The river is a mile off; and she was
evidently sinking fast when I saw her this evening.”

“Where then do you think her?”

“Somewhere at hand. In some outhouse, or some
hole or corner,—or, possibly, in some ditch, or close nest
of bushes, where we can't find her by night.”

“Good God! and she has probably perished there,
and thus!”

Gray was silent, and the outlaw felt the returning
pangs of that remorse which most probably would have
remained unfelt, except during the present period of his
own inability.

“Poor, poor Mary. I would, Gray, that I could live
over some things—some moments, of the past!”

“Do not let it afflict you so much. It can't be helped,
and these things are common enough!”

“Yes, yes! But such a catastrophe! You have been
looking for her?”

“Yes, for the last two hours.”

“But you will go again. You must, Gray!”

“With the daylight, I intend to do so.”

“That's well. See to her for God's sake, Gray, and
if she lives, let her last moments be easy. If all's over,
see her carefully buried.. It's an ugly business. Would
I were free of that! I know not any blood that I would
sooner wish to wash from my hands than hers.”

“That should be the wish of Clarence Conway, not
yours;” said Gray, taking the literal sense of the outlaw's
expression.

“Ah, Gray, the blow, the mere blow, is a small matter.
If I were free from the rest, I think nothing more
would trouble me. The last drop ran the cup over, but
who filled it to the brim? who drugged it with misery?
who made the poor wretch drink it, persuading her that
it was sweet and pure? Ah, Gray, I fear I have been a
bad fellow, and if there were another world hereafter—a
world of punishments and rewards!”—

“Your situation would be then changed, perhaps;” was
the brutal sneer of Gray, “and every privilege which you
had in this life, would then be given up to her. Perhaps,
you'd better sleep, captain; sickness and want of
sleep are not good helps to a reasonable way of thinking.”

“Gray, I suspect you're a worse fellow than myself,”
responded the outlaw with a laugh. “Ten to one the
women have more to complain of at your hands than
they ever had at mine.”

“I don't know. Perhaps. But I think not. The
little I know of them makes me fancy that they're a sort
of plaything for grown people. As long as they
amuse, well and good, and when they cease to do so,
the sooner you get rid of them the better. When I was
a young man, I thought differently. That is, I didn't
think at all. I had a faith in love. I had a similar faith
in sweetmeats and sugar-plums. I liked girls and confectionary;
and—perhaps you never knew the fact before—I

married one young woman, not very much unlike
your Mary Clarkson.”

“The devil you did!” exclaimed the outlaw.

“The devil I did marry!” returned the other gravely.
“You speak the very words of truth and soberness.
She proved worse than a devil to me. I trusted her like
a fool as I was, and she abused me. She ran off with
my best horse, in company with an Indian trader, whom
I took into my cabin, fed and physicked. He seized the
first opportunity, after he got well, to empty my house,
and relieve it of some of its troubles. But I didn't see
the matter in it's true light. I wasn't thankful! I gave
chase, and got my horse back—that was every thing,
perhaps, just after they had left Augusta.”

“And you let the woman go, eh?”

“I left her with him, where I found them, and they
liked the spot so well, that I think any curious body that
would seek, might find them there to this day. I have
some reason to believe that she has been more quiet
with him than she ever was with me. I don't believe
they ever quarrelled, and when she was my wife we
were at it constantly.”

“You're a famous fellow, Gray!” exclaimed the outlaw,
as he listened to a narrative of crime which was only
remarkable, perhaps, from the coolness with which the
chief actor related it.”

“No, captain, not famous. To be famous is about the
last thing that I desire; and I'm thinking, you don't
much care about it. But you'd better sleep now. Take
all the rest you can, and don't mind any thing you hear.
You'll want all your strength and sense, as soon as you
can get it, if you wish to get what you aim at.”

“No doubt,—I'll do as you counsel. But see after
the poor girl by daylight.”

“Yes, yes!—we'll take all the care that's needful;”
was the response. To stifle the remorse of his superior,
Gray had taken a way of his own, and one that was
most successful. The cold sneer is, of all other modes,
the most effectual in influencing the mind which does
not receive its laws from well-grounded principles. How

many good purposes have been parried by a sneer! How
many clever minds have faltered in a noble aim by the
sarcasm of the witling and the worldling! How difficult
is it for the young to withstand the curling lip, and the
malignant half smile of the audacious and the vain.
Gray knew his man, and, in his narration, he had probably
shown a degree of contumelious indifference to the
character of woman, and the ties of love, which he did
not altogether feel. It served his turn, and this was all
that he desired of any agent at any time. He turned
from gazing on the outlaw, with such a smile as showed,
however he might be disposed to toil in his behalf, he
was still able to perceive, and to despise, what seemed to
him to be the weaknesses of the latter. Leaving the
chamber, he descended to the area in front of the dwelling,
and drew together, without noise, the file of soldiers
that had been left with him by Rawdon. These were
now tolerably sobered, and having taken pains to see
that their arms were in good condition, for it may be said
here that the smallest part of Gray's purpose and care
was to find the girl whom it was his avowed object to
seek,—he led them forth into the adjoining thicket about
an hour before the dawn of day. Of the reputation of
Gray as a woodsman we have been already more than
once informed, and the suspicions which he entertained
were such as to make him address all his capacity to the
contemplated search. His little squad were cautioned,
with respect to every movement; and divided into three
parties of four men each, were sent forward to certain
points, with the view to a corresponding advance of all,
at the same moment, upon such portions of the woods as
seemed most likely to harbour an enemy. Spreading
themselves so as to cover the greatest extent of surface,
yet not be so remote from each other as to prevent co-operation,
they went forward under the circumspect conduct
of their leader, with sure steps, and eyes that left no
suspicious spot unexamined on their route.

The day was just begun. The sun rising through
the dim vapoury haze that usually hangs about him
at the beginning of his pathway in early summer,
fell with faint beauty upon a gentle headland that jutted

out upon the Congaree, and compelled its currents to
turn aside from the direct route, making a sweep around
it, most like the curve of a crescent. Some thirty steps
in the back ground was a clump of massive trees, the
principal of which were oak and hickory. They grew
around one eminent pine that stood, alone, of all its
species, as it was alone in its height and majesty. At
the foot of this tree, and under the cathedral shelter of
the oaks, John Bannister was busy in throwing out the
earth for the spot chosen by Clarkson for his daughter's
grave. The father sat at a little distance in the back
ground, his child's head lying in his lap. The labours of
Bannister had been severe, and he would not suffer the
old man to assist him. The earth was rigid, and the innumerable
roots of the contiguous trees traversed, in
every direction, the spot chosen for the grave. Fortunately
the stout woodsman had secured an axe as well as
a shovel, and the vigour of his arm at length succeeded
in the necessary excavation. To remedy, as far as he
might, the want of a coffin, the worthy fellow had
stripped the rails from the neighbouring fences, and he
now proceeded to line, with them, the bottom and sides
of the grave. These were in turn lined with pine bark
and green moss, and the couch of death was spread with
as much care and tenderness, under the cheerless circumstances,
as if wealth had brought its best offerings, and
labour had yielded its most ingenious toils in compliance
with the requisitions of worldly vanity. Bannister was
yet in the grave making these dispositions, when Watson
Gray, with his soldiers, advanced upon the party. To
old Clarkson the task had been assigned of keeping
watch. It was physically impossible that Bannister
should do so while deep buried and toiling in the earth.
The old man was too much absorbed in contemplating
the pale features of his child, and too full of the strife
within his heart, to heed the dangers from without; and
so cautious had been the approach of Gray and his party,
that they were upon the sufferer before he could rise from
his feet or make the slightest effort to relieve himself
from his burthen. It was fortunate for Bannister that,
being in the grave and stooping at the time, he was below
the surface of the earth, and remained unseen at the
time when Clarkson was taken. But, hearing strange
voices, he immediately conjectured the approach of enemies,
and cautiously peering above the grave, beheld at a
glance the danger which threatened him. He saw
Watson Gray, conspicuous, and standing directly above
the person of Clarkson, whose daughter's head still lay
in his lap. One of his hands was pressed upon her
bosom, as if he felt some apprehension that she would
be taken from him. On either hand of Gray he beheld
a group of soldiers, and a glance, still further, to the
right and left, showed that they were so placed as to
present themselves on every side between him and the
forest. His flight seemed entirely cut off. But the
coolness and courage of the woodman did not leave him
in the emergency. He had already resolved upon his
course, and rising rapidly to the surface, he became
visible to his enemies. The voice of Watson Gray was
heard at the same instant, calling to him to surrender.

“Good quarter, Supple Jack!—be quiet and take it.
You can't get off. You're surrounded.”

The tone of exultation in which the rival scout addressed
him, made it a point of honour with Bannister to
reject his offer, even if he had had no reason to suppose
that the assurance of safety meant nothing. He
well knew, in those days, what the value of such an
assurance was; for Tarleton, Rawdon, and Cornwallis,
had long since shown themselves singularly reckless of
all pledges made to the poor bodies who were out in the
rebellion of '76.

“Make terms when you've got me, Watson Gray;”
was the scornful answer of the scout. “The only quarters
I ax for is my own, and I'll save them when I've
got 'em.”

“Run, and I'll shoot!” cried Gray threateningly.
“Look, my men are all round you.”

“I reckon then I'll find 'em in the bottom of the Congaree;”
was the fearless answer, as the scout leapt for
the river bank with the speed of an antelope.

“Shoot!” cried Gray—“Shoot him as he runs!
Fire! Fire!”

The vollies rang on every side, but the fugitive remained
erect. He had reached the river bank. He
seemed unhurt. His enemies pressed forward in pursuit;
and clapping his open palms together above his
head, he plunged boldly into the stream, and disappeared
from sight. Bannister could swim like an otter, and
with head under water almost as long. But once he rose
to breathe, and his enemies, who waited for his re-appearance
with muskets cocked, now threw away their
fire in the haste with which they strove to take advantage
of his rising. When he next became visible, he
was on the opposite shore, and bade them defiance. A
bitter laugh answered to their shout as he turned away
slowly and reluctantly, and disappeared in the distant
thickets.

Gray had lost his prey a second time, and he turned,
with no good humour, to the prisoner with whom he had
been more successful.

“Who are you—what's your name?”

“Jacob Clarkson!”

“Ha! you are then the father of this girl?”

“Yes!” was the sad reply of the old man, as his head
sank upon his breast.

“Do you know this knife?” demanded Gray, showing
the knife which had been found at the bedside of Morton.

“It is mine.”

“Where did you lose, or leave it.”

“I know not. I dropped it somewhere last night.”

“Where—at the house of Mrs. Middleton?”

“It may be!—I was there!”

“You were in the chamber of Captain Morton!”

“Not that I know on,” was the reply.

“Beware! You cannot deceive me. You stood beside
his bed. You went there to murder him. Confess
the truth:—did you not?”

“No!” cried the old man, starting to his feet. “I did
go there to murder a man, but God forbid it. I couldn't,
though he was lying there before me. She come between.

She made me stop, or I'd ha' killed him in another
moment. But it was Edward Conway that I would
have killed. I know nothing about Captain Morton.”

“Ha! I see it. Hither, Sergeant Bozman. Tie this
fellow's hands behind him.”

“Hands off!” cried the old man, with a sudden show
of fight—“Hands off, I tell you! I must first put her in
the ground.”

“Give yourself no trouble about that. We'll see it
done;” said Gray.

“I must see it too;” said the old man resolutely.

The resolution he expressed would have been idle
enough had Gray been disposed to enforce his wishes;
but a few moments' reflection induced him, as no evil
consequence could possibly ensue from the indulgence,
to yield in this respect to the prisoner.

“The old rascal!” he exclaimed—“Let him stay.
It's perhaps only natural that he should wish to see it;
and as they have got the grave ready, put her in at
once.”

“Stay!” said the father, as they were about to lift the
body. “Stay!—only for a minute!” and while the
soldiers, more indulgent perhaps than their leader, gave
back at his solicitation, the father sank to the ground beside
her, and the tones of his muttered farewell, mingled
with his prayer, though undistinguishable, were yet
audible to the bystanders.

“Now, I'm ready;” said he, rising to his feet. “Lay
her down, and you may tie me as soon after as you
please.”

The burial was shortly over. No other prayer was
said. Old Clarkson watched the sullen ceremonial to its
completion, and was finally, without struggle—or sign
of discontent, borne away a prisoner by his inflexible
captor.