University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
BUCKLING ON ARMOUR.

It may readily be supposed that the disappearance of
Watson Gray caused some uneasiness in the mind of his
principal; but when, hour after hour elapsed, yet brought
neither sign nor word which could account for his absence,
or remedy its evil consequences, the uneasiness of
the outlaw naturally and proportionately increased. The
fearful hour was speeding onwards to its crisis, as it
seemed, with more than wonted rapidity of time. The
aspect of events looked black and threatening. Wounded
and feeble, wanting in that agent who, in his own prostration,

was the eye, and the wing, and the arm, of his
resolves, Edward Morton could not shake off the gathering
clouds of apprehension which hung heavy about his
soul. He had risen at the first blushing of the day, and,
with the assistance of a servant, contrived to put on his
garments. The sword which he was scarcely able to
wield,—certainly, with no efficiency—was buckled to his
side;—but his chief reliance, in the event of a last struggle,
lay in his pistols, of which an extra pair had been
provided by Watson Gray, the moment he discovered
the probable danger of his superior. As the day advanced,
and Gray did not appear, the outlaw felt it necessary
to make those preparations, the chief duty of
which now promised to devolve upon him; and with
some difficulty, descending to the lower story of the
house, he proceeded to drill his men in anticipation of
the worst. He had already resolved not to go further,
unless Gray made his appearance in season and counselled
the measure. He had, from the first, been opposed
to the trial; though he could not but acknowledge that
the arrangement had been most favourable, at the time,
which his confederate could hope to make. He was now
more thoroughly confirmed than ever in his determination
to keep his defences, and convert the mansion house into
a strong hold, which he would surrender only with his
life. The surgeon, Hillhouse, was present, with a double
share of resolution, to second his resolve. The picture
which Watson Gray had judiciously presented to his
mind, the night before, of the sacking of his various
wardrobe, by the sable mutineers, had been a subject of
sleepless meditation to him the whole night, and had imbued
him with a bitter disposition, to kill and destroy, all
such savage levellers of taste and fortune as should cross
his path or come within shooting distance from the windows.
His person was decorated with more than usual
care and fastidiousness that morning. He wore a rich
crimson trunk, that shone like flame even in the darkened
apartments. This was tapered off with stockings of the
softest lilac; and the golden buckles which glittered upon
his shoes, also served to bring “a strange brightness to
the shady place.” His coat, worn for the first time since
he had reached the barony, was of the rich uniform of
the British Guards. Altogether, Surgeon Hillhouse, in
his present equipments, made a most imposing figure.
His person was not bad, though his face was monstrous
ugly; and he possessed a leg which was symmetry itself.
He measured at annual periods, the knee, the calf, and
the ankle, and by a comparison with every other handsome
leg in the army, he had been able to satisfy himself
that his was the perfect standard. It did not lessen the
military effect of his appearance, though somewhat incongruous
with his display in other respects, that he wore a
common belt of sable strapped about his waist, in which
were stuck half a dozen pistols of all sizes. He had a
taste in this weapon, and had accumulated a moderate assortment,
most of which were richly wrought and inlaid
with bits of embossed plate, of gold and silver; carvings
and decorations, which took the shapes of bird, beast,
and flower, according to the caprice or fancy of their
owner; or, it may be, the artist himself. The more serious
and stern outlaw met this display with a look of
scorn which he did not seek to suppress, but which the
fortunate self-complaisance of the other did not suffer him
to see.

“You don't seem, Mr. Hillhouse,” he observed, as
they met, “to anticipate much trouble or danger in this
morning's work.”

“Ah sir! and why do you think so?” demanded the
other with some curiosity.

“Your garments seem better adapted for the ballroom
and the dance, than for a field of blood and battle. You
may be shot, and scalped, or hung, sir, in the course of
the morning.”

“True, sir, and for that reason, I have dressed myself
in this fashion. The idea of this extreme danger, alone,
sir, prompted me to this display. For this reason I
made my toilet with extreme care. I consumed, in my
ablutions, an entire section of my famous Chinese soap.
You perceive, sir, in the language of the divine Shakspeare”—stroking
his chin complacently as he spoke,—
“`I have reaped the stubble field'—also my chin was
never smoother; and, in the conviction, sir, that I might

be called upon this day, to make my last public appearance,
I have been at special pains to prepare my body,
to the best advantage, for the inspection of the fortunate
persons who will make the final disposition of it. To
die with dignity, and to appear after death with grace,
has been the reflection which has occupied my mind
this morning, as I made my toilet. If these rogues are
to inherit my wardrobe, let me make as much use of it
as I can. I may probably secure this suit to myself by
dying in it like a man.”

The outlaw scarcely heard these forcible reasons—
certainly he did not listen to them. He was already
busy in disposing, to the best advantage, of his half
score of muskets. The house was one of comparatively
great strength. It was of brick, built for service, and
had been more than once defended against the assaults
of the Congarees. With an adequate force it might
have been held against any assailants, unless they
brought artillery. But the little squad of Edward Morton
was wretchedly inadequate to its defence, even
against the small force of Stockton. It required all of
his skill, courage and ingenuity to make it tolerably
secure. He now more than ever felt the absence of
Watson Gray. The readiness of resource which that
wily ruffian possessed, would, no doubt, have been
productive of very important assistance. Even if the
garrison could hold out against assault, they could not
hope to do so against famine. The provisions of the
plantation were already at the mercy of the Black
Riders.

The outlaw surveyed his prospects with sufficient
misgivings. They were deplorable and discouraging
enough. But he never once thought of faltering. His
soul felt nothing but defiance. His words breathed
nothing but confidence and strength. He laughed—he
even laughed with scorn—when Hillhouse said something
of a capitulation and terms.

“Terms, sir! ay, we'll give and take terms—such
terms as lie at the point of these bayonets, and can be
understood from the muzzle of gun and pistol. Terms,

indeed! Why do you talk of terms, sir, when we can
beat and slay the whole gang of them in twenty minutes!
Let them approach and give us a mark at all,
and what chance can they have, with their pistols only,
against these muskets? Really, Mr. Hillhouse, for a
gentleman of high rank in his majesty's army, I am surprised
that you should hold such language. If you
dread the result, sir,—you are at liberty to leave the
house this very moment. Go, sir, to a place of safety,
if you can find it; or make your own terms with our
enemies, as you or they please. Try it, and you'll find
that your fine clothes will be one of the best arguments
for hanging you to the first tree;—the Black Riders
have long since learned that the finest bird is to be
first plucked. We shall remain where we are, and
probably inherit your wardrobe after all.”

The surgeon was abashed and confounded for the
moment. He had not often been compelled to listen to
such language; nor did the outlaw intend it so much
for the ears of the person whom he addressed as for
those who listened around him. He knew the value of
big words and bluster, in a time of doubt and danger,
to the uninformed and vulgar mind. He felt that nothing
could be hoped for, at the hands of his small
party, if any of them were suffered to flinch or falter.
He knew the importance of all that he himself said; but
the surgeon did not once suspect it. He recovered
from his astonishment, and, after a brief delay, his
wounded pride found utterance.

“Really, sir,—Mr. Conway, your language is exceedingly
objectionable. I shall be constrained to notice it,
sir; and to look for redress at your hands at the earliest
opportunity.”

“Any time, sir—now,—when you please—only don't
afflict me with your apprehensions. If you cannot see,
what is clear enough to the blindest mule that ever
ploughed up a plain field, that these scoundrels stand
no sort of chance against us, in open assault,—no
words of mine, or of any man, can make you wiser.
Like Rugely, you would surrender, I suppose, at the
enforcement of a pine log.”

A hearty laugh of the soldiers attested the inspiriting
which they had imbibed from the confident bearing and
words of Morton, and their familiarity with an anecdote
which, but a little time before, had provoked much
mirth in both parties at the expense of a provincial
officer, in the British army.[1] It may be supposed that
this burst of merriment did not diminish the anger of
Hillhouse; but he contented himself with saying that
he should “bide his time.”

“You are right, sir, in this respect;” said Morton—
“we have neither of us any time for private squabbles.
Do your duty manfully to-day, Mr. Hillhouse, and if we
survive it, I shall be ready to apologize to you to-morrow,
or give you whatever satisfaction will please you
best. But now to work. These shutters must be
closed in and secured.”

The lower story was completely closed up by this
proceeding. The shutters, of solid oak, were fastened
within, and, ascending to the upper story, Morton disposed
his men in the different apartments, with strict
warning to preserve the closest watch from the windows,
at every point of approach. Having completed
his disposition of the defences, he requested an interview
with the ladies of the house, which was readily
granted. The outlaw and surgeon were accordingly
ushered into an antechamber in which, amidst the stir
and bustle of the events going on below, they had taken
refuge. The gentlemen were received with kindness
At such moments—moments of sudden peril and unexpected
alarm—the human ties assert their superiority,

over the forms of society and the peculiar habits of education,
through the medium of our fears; and even the
suspicions which the ladies might have had, touching
the character of Edward Morton—whom they knew
only as Edward Conway—and the contempt which
they felt for the fopperies of Hillhouse, gave way entirely
before the pressing and mutual necessities which
prevailed to the probable danger of the whole. But, in
truth, the appearance of the outlaw, at that moment of
his own superior peril, was well calculated to command
the admiration even of those who loved him not. Man
never looks so noble as when he contends calmly with
the obvious danger—when, aware of all its worst
characteristics, he yet goes forth to the encounter with
a stern deliberate purpose, which sustains him unshrinking
to the last, and suffers him, at no moment, to
seem palsied, weak or indecisive. Edward Morton
wore the aspect of this firmness, in the presence of the
ladies. They knew that he was the destined victim
whom the Black Riders professed to seek, and seek
only;—they knew not exactly why—but their conjecture,
naturally enough, in the absence of more certain
reasons,—assumed it to be in consequence of his Americanism.
Whatever might be the cause, to be the foe
of the Black Riders was, in all likelihood, to be the
friend of virtue and the right; and as he stood before
them, erect for the first time after weeks of painful sickness
and prostration,—more erect than ever—with a
demeanour that did not presume in consequence of his
situation,—nor challenge, by doubtful looks and tremulous
tones, that sympathy which might well be asked
for, but never by, “the brave man struggling with the
storms of fate;”—he insensibly rose in the estimation
of both, as his person seemed to rise nobly and commandingly
in their sight. His voice was gentle and
mournful—in this, perhaps, he did not forbear the exercise
of some of his habitual hypocrisy. He did not forget
for a moment that the keen glances of Flora Middleton
were upon him; and like most men of the world, he
never forgot that policy which casts about it those
seeds which, as they ripen into fruit,—whatever the degree
of probability,—the same hand may gather which
has sown.

“Ladies, I am sorry to tell you that my presence has
brought danger to your house.”

The venerable lady replied promptly,—

“I trust, Mr. Conway, that with the assistance of
your followers you will be able to keep the danger
from it.”

“Alas, madam! I must not disguise from you the
truth—we are as one to ten only;—we may slay many
of the assailants, but if they are led by ordinary courage,
they may eat through these walls in our despite.
I have one hope that Watson Gray, who left the house
last night, will return in season, with a sufficient force
to baffle them in their attempts. All that can be done
now will be to keep off the moment of danger—to parry
for awhile, and protract as long as we can, the storm
which will come at last.”

“Mr. Conway,—I would not disparage your judgment
or your valour,—but, the late General Middleton,
when scarcely at your years, beat off three hundred
Congarees from the very threshold of this dwelling.”

The outlaw replied modestly with a bow of the
head,—

“We will do what we can do, Mrs. Middleton, but
we have a poor squad of ten men in all, not including
Mr. Hillhouse and myself. I have no doubt Mr. Hillhouse
will do his duty as becomes him—”

“As becomes a gentleman fighting in the presence of
the fairest lady—”

Morton continued his speech in season to interrupt
some stiltish common-place of the surgeon, which could
only have been digusting to the ladies.

“As for myself, you know my condition. I can die
—I need not, I trust, say, that no man could feel it
hard to do so, under such circumstances as prevail over
us at present—but I have little strength to make my
death expensive to our enemies. There is one thing,

Mrs. Middleton, that I have deferred speaking to the
last.”

He hesitated, and his eyes were fixed sadly for a
moment upon the face of Flora, then, as he met her
glance, they were instantly averted.

“What is that, sir?” demanded the old lady.

“It is this, madam:—there is one proceeding by
which it is yet possible to avert from your dwelling
the strife which will shortly threaten it.”

“In God's name, sir, let it be resorted to—”

“If it be right,—if it be proper, only, mother;” cried
Flora earnestly, putting her hand upon the wrist of her
grandmother.

“Certainly—surely, my child;” was the reply. “Peace
and safety are to be purchased only by just conduct.
Speak, Mr. Conway, what is the alternative?”

“Professedly, madam, these ruffians seek me, alone,
of all this household. I am the sole object of their hate
—the victim whom they have singled out for their
special vengeance. Were I in their hands—”

“Surely, Mr. Conway, you would not think so meanly
of my mother and myself,” was the hasty interruption
of Flora Middleton, “as to fancy that we could be
pleased at your giving up any security, however partial,
such as our house affords you, because of the possible
annoyance to which we might be subjected on
account of this banditti. I trust that you will be able
to defend the house, and I hope that you will do so to
the last.”

The outlaw seemed to catch fire at the manner of the
generous girl. Her own flashing eyes were full of a
flame to impart enthusiasm to the dullest spirit; and he
exclaimed with a more genuine feeling of zeal than
was usual with him—

“And, by heavens! I will! You have stifled the
only doubts which I had of the propriety of making
your house my castle. I need not say to you that the
hostility of these scoundrels to me, is, perhaps, little
more than a pretence. Even were I given up to them,
and in their hands, they would probably sack your
dwelling. They are, just now, I suspect, released from

nearly all restraint and subjection, and about to fly
the country. Lord Rawdon has gone, or is on his way
below, by another route, with all his forces; and the
men of Sumter, Lee, and Marion, are pressing at the
heels of his lordship. Perhaps, I speak with literal
accuracy when I say that your safety depends on mine.
If I fail to make good the house against these Black
Riders—you already know their character—I tremble
for you! Your safety shall be no less in my thoughts
during this conflict, than my own; and I repeat, once
more, my readiness to die before outrage and violence
shall cross your threshold.”

“We thank you, sir,—from the bottom of our hearts,
we thank you, Mr. Conway—”

Morton bowed, as he interrupted the strain of feminine
acknowledgment:

“Let me now beg you to seek the garret—there you
will be in tolerable safety. If we do not again meet,
do me the justice to believe that I spared neither limb
nor life, in your behalf. I may fall, but I will not falter.”

“God be with you, Mr. Conway!” was the ejaculation
of both ladies. A blush tinged the cheek of the outlaw,
a tremulous emotion passed through his veins. When
before had the pure of the purer sex, uttered such an
invocation in his behalf? “Can it be an omen of ill,”—
such was his reflection—“that it is spoken, as it would
seem, in the last moment of my career?”

“I thank you, Mrs. Middleton—I thank you,”—to
Flora, but he did not speak her name. The direction
of his eye indicated the person to whom he spoke. His
look and air were not unadroit. He still remembered
his policy; and Flora Middleton fancied, as she turned
away, that she had not often seen a nobler-looking
personage. The contrast between himself and Mr.
Hillhouse, perhaps, helped to strengthen this impression.
A grave monkey is of all objects the most lugubrious,
and the plain statements of the outlaw had suddenly
made the surgeon very grave. He really did not
imagine that things were in so deplorable a condition.
Thinking over them rendered him forgetful of his fine
sayings, and the attempt which he made to throw some

pathos into his parting address to the ladies, was ridiculous,
without being easy, and elaborate and strained
without being flowing or graceful. When they had
gone, Mr. Hillhouse found a more ready tongue, and
once more began to intimate the propriety of terms and
a flag of truce.

“In India once, an affair of the Sepoys,—very much
like the present—a sort of meeting and insurrection—”

“No more of this nonsense,” said Morton, with the
old habit of command which belonged to the captain of
the fierce banditti by which he was now threatened.
“It's time, Mr. Hillhouse, to be a man, if you ever hope
to be like one. Do you hear that trumpet, sir? It is a
summons! It opens the business! You talk of terms
and overtures! How do you like the idea of making
them from the balcony of yonder porch? What?—it
does not please you? Yet it must be done. Musketeers,
to the windows! Cover the approach to the
porch, and shoot as I bid—see that no man comes
within pistol-shot. I, myself, will parley with those
scoundrels.”

The door of the great passage way which divided
the dwelling centrally, was thrown open, and the outlaw
presented himself in the balcony to the eyes of the
Black Riders, who had assembled, some thirty or forty
in number, in detached groups, about fifty yards from
the building. A yell of ferocious exultation hailed his
appearance from below, and attested the excited feelings
of malicious hate with which they had been
wrought upon to regard their ancient leader.