University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Blazeaway was interrupted in the midst of his remark,
by the appearance of Mr. Finn, the editor of
the Perryville Champion, who entered in a great
heat, and mounting one of the chairs, said—

“Gentlemen—Mr. Coil, my respects to you, I
will drink presently. My fellow citizens, there is an
act of injustice about to be perpetrated here, against
which I know every citizen of this town will put his
face, and lift his arm, whether he is a slaveholder
or not.”

“What's the matter?” interrupted several voices,
while all became anxious to hear.

“To be short, gentlemen,” continued Finn, “you
know that when our fellow citizen, Mr. Jackson,
died, he made a will, disinheriting his son Tom, for
his dissipation, and ordering that his farm and slaves
should be sold at auction, and the amount portioned
out among his daughters. The sale is now being
held. Nat, Mr. Jackson's body servant, is just to be
put up, and his brother, a fre man, is here from
Louisville, where Nat's wife lives, and he wants to
buy him, and let him open a shop for himself there,
and live with his wife and family. Nat's a good

barber, we all know, and a worthy negro; he will
soon in this way be able to pay his brother for himself,
and be a free man. Would you believe it, gentlemen,
Nat's young master, Tom Jackson, hating
him because he was a favourite with his father, has
sworn that Nat shall not be free, and that if it costs
him all he's worth he will buy Nat and keep him a
slave. We all know what kind of a master Tom
Jackson will make under such circumstances, and
we are bound as men, and as Kentuckians to prevent
it.”

“That's a fact!” shouted a dozen voices, and
Finn, discovering he had produced the desired
effect, leaped from the chair and hurried to the place
of sale, followed by Blazeaway and every person
present except Mr. Bongarden, who observed it was
a very long walk to where the auction was held, and
that he had been exercising over much through the
day. He, therefore, sans cérémonie, replenished his
mug with beer, took a handful of crackers and
cheese from the table, and leisurely seated himself
for a chat with Hearty, who was in the act of following
the crowd, notwithstanding, when Mrs. Coil
called him back, and after telling him in no gentle
terms that it was outrageous that he should attempt
to leave the bar, she drew him aside into the back
room, and narrated to him what Mrs. Bongarden had
told her concerning the origin of the slander against
Ruth. Hearty at first was restive beneath the connubial
hand that held his coat, but when he came to

hear that Henry Beckford was the originator of the
slander, he swore a deep oath, and stood some moments
motionless, though Mrs. Coil had dropped her
hold. At last he exclaimed:

“By Thunder! I'll put an end to his stopping at the
Boon House, and hang me if I don't disgrace him
into the bargain.”

Mrs. Coil whispered to her spouse not to drink too
much, and Hearty, after assuring her, with the
soberest face he could assume, that she might be
entirely easy on that score, re-entered the bar-room.

After silently arranging matters and things in his
bar for a few minutes, Hearty looked towards Mr.
Bongarden, like one whose thoughts had taken another
turn, and asked:

“An' Mr. Bongarden, tell me now, will ye, why
do they call this remarkable-looking person with the
dray-pin—I never saw such a dray-pin in my life
before, in —, where I'm last from, they use iron
ones not half so long as this—why, tell me now, do
they call this person Blazeaway? if it's a fair question.”

“Entirely fair, Capting, entirely fair,” answered
the postmaster, with a dignified move of the head.
“This beer is good,” smacking his lips. “Blazeaway,
you may truly observe, Capting Coil, is a remarkable
person. He has been a flatboat-man, a
pilot, a farmer, and almost everything else—I don't
know what his politics are—and he is neither afraid
of man nor devil. If you were to meet him on at

the east in your city, Capting Coil, you would find
him a well-dressed, well-looking man. He made
folks stare in Washington City the winter before
last, they tell me. Capting Coil, I assure you I am
informed that he took the President by the hand, and
held a talk with him, and he was no more abashed
and put back than I would have been myself. It is
not every man could do that, Capting, men in public
stations—holding public offices, sir, are expected to
do it—and it's republican that it should be done—it's
democratic, but it takes the leaders, sir, Capting, to
act out the thing. I wish you, Capting Coil, to mark
my prophecy, we shall have news, I mean public
news—I received it privately, myself, sometime
since, but that's neither here nor there—mark my
words, we shall have public news from Washington
City before long!”

“By the Powers! I believe you, Mr. Bongarden,”
exclaimed Hearty, impatient to know more about a
person called by such a singular nickname as Blazeaway,
“but as you were remarking on this Mr.
Blazeaway?”

“Ay, as I was remarking, Capting, he is a remarkable
person. He got the name of Blazeaway
in this way. He now farms it, or rather has large
wooding places down in the lower country, to which
he attends occasionally, acting as pilot, and often
roving up and down the Ohio and Mississippi, partly
for pleasure, and partly for business. Mr. Davidson,
a great planter, and he live near each other, and

Mr. Davidson has helped him to make a great deal
of money—they live near the town of —.
Staylor, Capting, is well known there, and stands
high. Being a pilot and a river character, he has
many friends among such folks, and is of course
friendly to them—as you know is quite natural—for
I speak from a judgment of myself, I feel friendly towards
every man holding, for instance, a highly responsible
office. Staylor being friendly, as I have
observed, to river characters, and having a particular
friend, the capting of the Kenton, he felt bound
to stand by him. It so happened that the capting of
the Kenton did something to offend the people of
—. What the real offence was, is hard to get
at—some say one thing, some say another. However,
the people got offended, and they swore that
when the capting of the Kenton stopped there on
his way up, they would lynch him.

“Staylor knew all this, for he was at the place—
and he knew how horn mad the people were—and
he determined to save his friend, if he could, and at
every venture. So, as the Kenton drew near the
wharf, he hurried on board and told the capting of
the fuss. The capting was frightened, you may be
sure, and he started steam again and away he went.
The towns-people were so mad that they chartered
another boat and put directly after. They do say
that they had a devil of a chase. Sometimes the
pursuers were so near that they could almost jump
on board the Kenton—and many shots were fired,

and one killed on the Kenton, and one on the other
boat, and several were badly wounded. But they
had, after all, to give over the chace, and you may
depend they returned mortal mad to home. By the
time they got there, it was suspected who had
advised the capting of the Kenton off. The man
killed was a soldier of a regular company in that
place, and they resolved to bury him with military
honours. Just as the company were leaving the
killed man's house with his corpse some one called
out and said—and every one had heard it before
you know—that Staylor had advised the capting
of the Kenton off, and he was the cause of the
death, and it ought to be revenged on him. Some
one called out, there was Staylor now: for it seems
that he was coming down the hill behind the town,
right into the street where they all were with the
corpse. You know he is a man easily known. One
fellow who had some bullets in his pockets, handed
them out to the company, and proposed that they
should drop them in their guns, and as they passed
by Staylor, let him have them. The capting of the
company and others said, no—fair play—that they
would call on him first to vindicate himself: and
it was agreed on that they should. Sure enough,
when they got up to Staylor they halted, and the
capting stepped out—told him what the report was
—what they had resolved to do if it was true—and
then asked him whether it was true or not—and
what he had to say in his defence. They say that
Staylor never looked the least daunted. He got
upon the hill side, while the soldiers stood in the
road, facing him, on either side of the corpse, and
he told them what a friend the capting of the Kenton
had been to him—that he had saved his life once
at the risk of his own, when he was beset by an
awful odds. `I've got,' said he, `as sincere a tear
for the man in that coffin as the best of you; he
never did me any harm, and I am sorry for him:
but the capting of the Kenton was my friend;
he saved my life; and I did advise him to leave.'
`And,' said he, throwing his arms wide open, and
facing the soldiers face to face, `if you seek my life
on that account, blaze away!' That's the way he
got the nickname,” continued the postmaster, drawing
a long breath, and taking a deep draught, “but
not a man pretended to fire. Staylor, by their own
invitation, went with them to the funeral; and, when
it was over, they placed him in among them and
escorted him home.”

At this instant the loud talk of persons excited
and the sound of approaching footsteps arrested the
attention of the landlord and his guest; and, in a moment
more, Finn, Blazeaway, and the persons who
had left the Boon House, with many others, entered
it. Blazeaway walked up to the bar, exclaiming—

“The thing was well done and justly. Capting
Coil you have been treating: now we must treat.
Come up, gentlemen, and call for what you want.
“Consider yourselves touched,” said he, making a

salutation with his glass to the company ere he
drank its contents. “Here, boy, take this,” he continued,
as he offered a stiff glass of the raw material
to a black man, who stood with his hat off just
within the door, “you looked so frightened that I
thought you were going to turn to a white man or
a ghost. Well, you are a free man now, Nat, and
take care of yourself.”

“I will try to, master,” replied the black in a
grateful tone.

“How was it managed?” asked Hearty of Mr.
Finn, who was in the act of taking a glass—“did
the fellow's brother buy him?”

“It was well done, as Mr. Staylor says,” replied
the editor of the Champion—“and I'll maintain it to
be right by press, pen, or pistol, any where. After
I made those few hurried remarks, to your guests,
Capting, stating Nat's case to them—I hope you will
not think anything of my taking your guests from
you, seeing I have returned with them and with
a great accession to their numbers—after I had
briefly stated Nat's case, we all hurried to the place
of auction. There was poor Nat, the black fellow,
frightened to death, and Tom Jackson standing near
him, half drunk and swearing he would buy him,
and nobody else should. He was threatening Nat's
brother with every kind of punishment, if he should
dare to bid for him. The crowd looked on indignantly,
but they had not yet said anything. At last
Nat was put up, and Tom Jackson bid three hundred

for him. Nat's brother wanted to bid, but he was
afraid of Tom. Mr. Staylor and myself, both at the
same instant, told him to bid and fear nothing; that
he should be protected. At this, Tom Jackson swore
he would kill Nat, if he dared to do it; and went on
in such ruffianly style, that the crowd got round
him, hissing and hooting, and hustled him off. Then
Nat's brother bid four hundred dollars, and Nat
was knocked down to him; as there was nobody
under the circumstances would bid against him.
That the estate might not be the loser by the low
price, the sum of three hundred dollars was raised on
the ground—William Bennington and Mr. Moore,
who can afford it, giving the most; so that a fair
value (seven hundred dollars) was paid for Nat, at
last. Tom Jackson has almost run out his rope; it's
time for him to quit this place, or it will be made too
hot for him.”

“That's a fact; there's no mistake in that,” exclaimed
the bystanders, and they pressed towards
the bar to drink on the invitation of Staylor.

It was not until long after dark on this day, memorable
in the history of Hearty Coil, that the guests
departed. They dropped off lingeringly; in squads
at first, and latterly—those who love good cheer
most, remaining to the last—one by one, till Hearty
and his spouse were left the only remaining occupants
of the bar-room in which they were seated
talking over the events of the day. The landlord

was desirous of retiring, but though he had full possession
of his tongue, he felt that his limbs would not
do their office without betraying to his spouse how
entirely he had enacted the character of Boniface.
He, therefore, still kept his seat, wishing that Mrs.
Coil would leave the room first, and then he intended
to strengthen himself with another glass, and steal
off to bed. He had, therefore, in profound silence,
(hoping that if the ball of conversation was not kept
up, Mrs. Coil would the sooner depart,) listened to
his lady expatiate upon the sayings and doings of
the day. While the matters stood thus, the door of
the Boon House opened, and Henry Beckford entered
from a gunning excursion, which had occupied him
all day and caused him to encroach upon the night,
in consequence of having stopped at the house of a
farmer, whom he had met in the woods, and who
had invited him to his farm, to take some refreshment.

Hearty, a little testy from the curb which he had
put upon his inclinations, and not certainly more
peaceably disposed from the potations of the day,
glanced at Henry with an angry eye, as he called
up to his mind his own injuries in the affair of the
ride, and those of Ruth Lorman, which were fresh
upon his memory, as Mrs. Coil had narrated them
to him but a few hours before.

Not observing, or indifferent to the state of Hearty's
feelings, Henry said, “he would take a glass of

brandy and retire;” when Mrs. Coil jumped up in a
flurry, exclaiming:

“Now, I declare, your bed's not made, Mr. Beckford.
Rest a moment till I make it, sir; you know,
under circumstances, we can't get everything right
at first.” And she hastily withdrew to perform the
office.

“Mrs. Coil,” exclaimed Hearty, as his wife shut
the door, “you needn't trouble yourself,” saying
which, Hearty endeavoured to brace himself up
with an air of dignity.

Without noticing Hearty's remark, which did not
reach the ears of Mrs. Coil, Henry said, in a tone of
command, “A glass of brandy and water!”

“By the Powers!” exclaimed Hearty, striking his
fist against his knee, with emphasis, “I'll speak right
out to you, Mr. Beckford, and tell you at once that
you can neither have bed, board, nor lodging, in the
Boon House. I can't stand you. You have played
the rascal at home, and now, by Thunder, you have
come here to play the rascal again; and damn me
if I countenance you. Don't say that I am not a
plain man—I say plumply, damn me if I countenance—”

“You countenance me, you poor, drunken devil!
What do you mean?” And as he spoke, Henry advanced
to the bar to help himself.

“Drunken devil!” repeated Hearty, in a great
passion, jumping up and staggering between Henry
and the bar. “Don't you, by Thunder, attempt to

take my liquor without my leave. There's a punishment
for theft here, as well as elsewhere; and I'll
let you know, if you go to add stealing to your
low-lived slanders, I'll have you in the penitentiary,
and that won't feel like the Boon House to you, I
can tell you.”

Enraged beyond self-control, Henry caught up
the chair, from which Hearty had just arisen, and
with it struck him to the floor. Notwithstanding
Hearty made no resistance, Henry repeated the
blow, several times, and violently kicked him, as he
lay so insensible from the assault and intoxication
together, that he did not utter a word.

While Henry was thus engaged, the front door of
the bar-room opened, and Blazeaway entered. Advancing
into the room before Henry perceived him,
he caught that worthy by the shoulder with the
gripe of a giant, and jerking him violently away, exclaimed,

“What are you after? You have killed him—
he's dead!”

“Dead drunk!” said Henry, in vain endeavouring
to shake off Blazeaway's hold. “The rascal has
grossly insulted me. Unhand me, sir!”

“We are in a slave state, stranger,” replied Blazeaway,
tightening his hold, “but I'm not a nigger;
and though I am rather a rough man myself, I have
a way of teaching some people manners—so speak
a little softer.”

So saying, Blazeaway pushed Henry aside, and
lifted up the prostrate landlord. As he did so, Mrs.
Coil re-entered the room.

“I wonder what's the matter with Hearty—with
Mr. Coil?” ejaculated Mrs. Coil.

“Just show me the way to his bed, madam,” replied
Blazeaway; “liquor and this stranger have
been too much for him, I expect. Show us the way,
Madam. Look here, stranger, (to Henry,) you are
not for making off, are you?”

“I am for making off to my room,” replied Henry,
as he lifted the light which Mrs. Coil had placed on
the table.

Supposing the only enemy that Hearty had encountered
was that which the great poet says “men
put in their mouths to steal away their brains,”
Mrs. Coil determined, though with much difficulty
keeping the determination, to hold in her curtain
lecture until returning sobriety should enable her
husband to appreciate its eloquence; yet wishing to
apologise for the aberrations in public which she
did not intend lightly to forgive in private, she remarked,

“Mr. Coil, sir, being as we opened house on this
day, has had to drink with so many of his acquaintances
and friends, that it is no wonder, as he can't
stand a very great deal, that he should be overtaken.
This way, if you please, sir,” and so speaking, Mrs.
Coil held the light, while Blazeaway bore the landlord

in his arms as easily as Hearty would have
borne one of his children.

Henry lingered sullenly till they had left the room,
and then quickly quaffing another deep draught, he
repaired to his chamber.