University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

I saw no more of James that evening, nor did
poor Mary appear at supper. Late at night he
came into my room, where he lay, and went to
bed, but not to sleep. By daylight our horses were
at the door, and James made his appearance.
Something had put it into my head to take my
pistols, and I asked James if he was armed. He
only replied by grasping the handle of his dirk
with one hand, and pointing with the other to his
pistols under his coat. These were all the same
weapons of which Balcombe had been robbed. He
had given them to James, saying,

“Here, my boy, are a dirk and a pair of pistols
that never failed their master. I hope you may
never have cause to use them; but if you do, that
they may serve you as well as they have me.”

“I am afraid,” said James, “they may lose their
virtue in my hands.”

“Never fear,” said Balcombe. “Be always
sure that your cause is good, and learn to use them

with deliberate promptitude, and they'll not fail
you.”

James had not forgotten this, and as he turned
I heard him mutter,

“A good cause, and deliberate promptitude.”

In these words I was sure I heard the doom of
Montague. It was in vain to think of saying anything
to calm his excited feelings, so we mounted
our horses and rode away in silence.

At Tapahannock we stopped for breakfast, and
there found the knight of the roan horse, who
breakfasted with us, and immediately rode off. I
was pleased at this, for it gave me a favourable
opinion of my own address and dignity. Having
no desire for his company, and remembering the
wish he had expressed, I took care to meet all his
advances towards my acquaintance with a cold
and stately courtesy which was intended to repel
without offending. Seeing him, then, ride off
without having proposed to travel with me, I had
little doubt that I had acquitted myself well of this
delicate task, and perhaps made him feel that there
was some difference between us, which forbade
his intended overture. This was fifteen years ago,
reader, and I was then a boy; and though the
fortunes of my family were fallen, I had not yet
lost a vague notion of some peculiar merit belonging
to the blood of Raby and Napier which flowed
in my veins. Such notions had indeed been exploded
long before, but I did not know that. In
the progress of events and manners, I am not sure

that the ancient order has not been reversed. It
is perhaps a disadvantage now to be what was
once called “well born.” It is considered merely
as affording prima facie evidence that a man is
arrogant, self-important, and satisfied to be a fool,
because he does not know it. I mention this error
of my youth, only that I may proclaim my repentance
of it. Having had occasion to allude frequently
to my family, I feel that it may be necessary
to bespeak your favour, and, perhaps, forbearance,
by disclaiming that foolish family pride which
I then cherished. I did cherish it. Notwithstanding
my professions to Balcombe, I had more of it
than he would have approved. Indeed I did not
pride myself on the individual merit of any ancestor;
for I am not aware that, since the old baron
whose name I bear, there was any such merit to
be proud of. The name alone, as that of a family,
which, through several generations of uninterrupted
prosperity, had been looked up to by the less
wealthy, was the source of my self-complacency.
I had been aware of my relation to the noble patriot,
of whose magnanimous devotion of life and
fortune to his country Balcombe had spoken; but
the idea of being proud of him had not occurred
to me. My habit of thinking on the subject had
been, that all the honour of the alliance was the
other way. Why? If I could have found any
rational answer to the question, I should have
cherished this pride. As it was, I made haste to
get rid of it, as soon as I discovered, that, in those
who still retain it, it is commonly in the inverse
ratio to the respect of others.

We stopped again at a house between Tapahannock
and Port Royal, and there again found the
gentleman of the roan horse. Having now, as I
supposed, taught him his distance, I thought I
might condescend so far as to speak of the merits
of his noble horse. The theme proved a grateful
one. He expatiated on the performance of the
animal and his own care for him.

“He could travel,” said he, “as far again in a
day as any common horse; and he travels so fast
and so easy, that I should impose on him if I did
not make short stages and long stops. I have
been here an hour, and shall stay an hour longer,
and pass you again before you get to Port Royal.”

He now took advantage of the opening I had
made, and ran on with a great deal of horse language.
Being, like all young fellows of my standing
in Virginia, a mighty foxhunter, I was of
course an enthusiast in regard to horses; and
found myself disposed to recognise a sort of equality
in a man who conversed as learnedly, and with
as much unction as any of my highborn companions,
on this their favourite topic.

At length we went on, and left him taking his
rest. We had not gone far before he swept past
us at a rapid pace, and then, reining up his horse,
said, as he would get to Port Royal some time
before us, he would, if we thought proper, order
dinner for us with himself, and await our arrival;

unless we proposed to spend the night there, and
to wait for supper. I told him it was uncertain
whether we should stop or go on, but that the
dinner would be by no means unacceptable. He
then said he would do as he had proposed, and
pushed on.

On our arrival we found that he had been as
good as his word, and that an excellent dinner was
waiting for us. We dined heartily, and with the
help of a good glass of wine, I found myself so
much refreshed, that the distance to Fredericksburg
seemed much less formidable than before.
The stranger now called for his horse, and said,

“I now find the benefit of my mode of travelling.
I have half an hour start of you; my horse
is quite refreshed, and I shall reach Fredericksburg
by dark, while you will have to spend the
night here.”

I was not in the humour to have my horse, or
my skill in his management disparaged, and replied
that, though I had ridden farther than he, I should
still be in Fredericksburg by bedtime, which, as
the weather was good, and the moon would give
some light, would answer just as well as an earlier
hour.

He now rode off, and the landlord, looking after
him, said to me,

“You are a young traveller.”

“I am young,” said I; “but having travelled in
the western settlements beyond the Missouri, I

think that, young as I am, I might pass for a pretty
old traveller.”

“There must be less danger travelling in that
wild country,” said he, “than I had thought.”

“Why so?” asked I, with some pique.

“Because if you were as free of travelling in the
night there as you are here, and of telling strangers
about it, I should think you might have lost your
money, or maybe your scalp.”

“Do you know anything of that fellow?” I
asked.

“I do not,” said he; “but he has travelled up
and down this road frequently of late, as if he had
some business, and I cannot find out what it is. I
should take him for a gambler, but he don't play;
or a horse jockey, but he will neither buy, nor sell,
nor swap. Altogether I don't like his ways, though
I cannot well say why; but I have a notion I have
seen honester men. If you'll take my advice,
gentlemen, you'll stay where you are to-night, and
go into town in the morning.”

“We are both well armed,” said I.

“And if you took notice,” said the landlord, “he
is armed too. Didn't you see his pistols under his
coat?”

I had not observed them.

“There is a gang of them, I'm thinking,” continued
our host. “I have seen three or four fellows
dodging about here for a day or two. They
all seem to know one another, though they are

strangers to everybody here; and I see they all
ride fine horses, and all carry pistols.”

“Do you know none of them?” asked I.

“I have seen one of them, I think, a month or
two ago,” said the landlord, “but he don't seem to
be just the same kind of a man with the rest. I
have a notion he is a sort of head man among
them.”

“Is he a tall, stout, middle-aged, handsome
man,” said I, “with a dark complexion?”

“I dare say he may be good-looking enough
when he is in health,” said the landlord; “but he
looks badly, and carries his arm in a sling.”

As I described Montague, James, who understood
me, looked eagerly on the landlord for his
answer, and, as soon as he heard this last particular,
insisted that we should go on. I reproved his
too manifest impatience by a significant look, and
he, taking the hint, contented himself with speaking
contemptuously of the supposed danger. I had
not at any time been inclined to evade it; and I
was now conscious of something like the desire
manifested by James, to meet and even court
it. We accordingly mounted our horses, and
moved on.

I was now struck with the change in James's
appearance and manner. He had been not only
silent, but gloomy and dejected all day. Now his
countenance beamed with suppressed excitement;
his movements were full of energy and alacrity,
and the spirit which animated him seemed to extend

to his horse, which moved off fresh and cheerful
as in the morning. As soon as we were out of
sight he took out his pistols, examined the flints
and freshened the priming, with an air of grim
satisfaction, and a sort of half smile in which there
was a fearful meaning. I said nothing, but used
the same precautions, and then betook myself to
the more important task of thinking. From Port
Royal to Fredericksburg the road runs for the
most part through the valley of the Rapahannock,
sometimes skirting the foot of the hill. About halfway
between the two places the Richmond road
comes down from the hills. Along this road Balcombe
was to travel, and, leaving Craiganet after
breakfast, would probably reach the point of intersection
a little before us. I mentioned this to
James, and he at once concurred with me in thinking
that we should push on, and try to meet him
there.

On reaching the fork of the road we made a short
halt, and listened for the sound of horses' feet on
the frozen ground. It was now night; but the
moon, though low in the west, gave some light.
The road was wide and the country open. We
now reflected, that if there was danger it was before
us; that it threatened us and not Balcombe;
and that our only chance for his aid was that he
might yet be behind. On reconsidering my calculation,
I found that our late rapid ride had probably
placed us ahead of him; and we determined
to move on slowly and warily. We accordingly

reined in our horses to a walk, and each drawing
a pistol, we kept our eyes on the road before us.
The moon at length sank behind the hills on our
left, the sky became overcast, and we could no
longer see distinctly any object more than a few
feet off.

The road here runs between deep ditches, for
the most part dry, the banks of which, with slight
hedges on the top, form the enclosure of the adjoining
fields. Across these ditches are small flat
bridges at the gate of every farm. A few miles
below Fredericksburg are two such gates and
bridges directly opposite to each other. Just as
we were passing these, two men sprang out from
behind the bridges on either hand, and seized our
horses. I instantly fired my pistol at the head of
him who held mine. The shot would have been
fatal, but at the same moment my left hand was
seized by some one from behind, and I was jerked
from my horse. The action threw my right arm
up, and the bullet passed harmless over the villain's
head. Both men then seized and held me fast.
In the mean time I saw that James, who had not
fired, was treated in the same way by two others.
A fifth now appeared, who seemed to advance from
a distance.

He approached James, and proceeded to search
him. I saw him eagerly thrust his hand into the
breast pocket of James's greatcoat; when the
trampling of horses at a gallop was heard in our
rear. A shot was fired, and the ball whistled over

our heads. My hands were free in an instant, and
the men who had held me took to their heels. At
the same moment I heard the report of James's
pistol, and he exclaimed, “Die, villain!” The man
who was searching him staggered back, and James,
springing at him, bore him to the ground. Instantly
I saw the gleam of his dirk as he lifted his
hand.

“This for Mary Scott!” cried he; “and this!
and this!”

And with every word down came the dirk. I
sprang to him, caught his hand, and raised him
from his prostrate enemy. In the same moment
the horsemen from behind coming up, threw themselves
from their horses, and proved to be no other
than Balcombe and John.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried Balcombe.
“Robbers?”

“Montague's work,” said I.

“Montague!” exclaimed Balcombe; “where is
he?”

“There he lies,” said James, in the low grating
tone of bitter exultation.

“But are you sure that is he?” asked I. “You
could not distinguish him in the dark.”

“I am not mistaken,” said James. “I would
not fire at the paltry tool he thrust upon the first
danger. I knew that was not himself. Besides,
the man was too low to be mistaken for him. But
instead of searching for money, he betrayed himself
by his impatience to get the packet. I remember

now that his confederate saw where I carried
it. His first action was to feel my pocket on the
outside, and having ascertained what was there,
he seized the packet with an eagerness not to be
mistaken. I observed, too, that he used the left
hand, which put the matter past doubt. But how
could I mistake him?” continued he. “Is there no
instinct in the sense of wrong like mine, to mark
the villain for his punishment even in the darkest
night? Laid beside him in the tomb, I would have
known him, grappled with him, and torn his heart
from his bosom.”

I now inquired whether James still had the
packet, to which he replied that Montague had
taken it from him. John immediately approached
the body, (for I shrank from the task,) and felt in
his hands for the packet. The right arm was in a
sling, as we expected. The left, as I afterward
learned, lay extended at right angles to the body,
but the hand was empty. While John was making
this examination, a deep gurgling groan announced
to us that the unfortunate wretch still breathed.
We all immediately approached—for, with that
groan, the horror with which we look upon the
victims of violent death had vanished—and endeavoured
to administer such relief as we might.
It was to little purpose. He revived enough to
utter a few words, which showed that he was conscious
of the presence of all he most hated; and
died, howling forth a strain of mingled execration
and prayer—his last words displaying the same

selfishness, malignity, and slavish fear, that had
characterized his whole life.

About this time a negro appeared on the scene
of action, driving a wain of some sort, and we
easily engaged his services to take the body into
town. This being arranged, my thoughts recurred
to the packet. I determined not to leave the spot
without it. James was equally resolute in the
same purpose, conceiving himself bound, as he
said, to recover that which had been committed to
his care. It was altogether probable that it would
remain where it was until morning; but the bare
possibility that it might be removed was greater
than I chose to hazard. If I should remain, it was
not merely possible, but probable, that I should
find it; and James said, that to permit me to do
so when he was aware of the object of my stay,
would be a breach of trust. I admired and Balcombe
praised his scrupulous fidelity, to which I
had nothing to object, as the event must be the
same whether he or I found it. We agreed
therefore, to remain together, while Balcombe and
John should go on to Fredericksburg with the body.
To this John objected, saying it was no new thing
to him to camp out, and he could be of service
to us.

Balcombe, accordingly, moved on, and John
betook himself to the task of making a fire. This,
with the help of his rifle and powder, he soon accomplished,
at the expense of the neighbouring
fences; and having made ourselves somewhat

comfortable, we debated what should be done.
The night was pitchy dark; we had already felt
every inch of ground near where the body lay, and
we both concluded that it was vain to extend the
search any farther until morning. What was to
be done in the mean time? We had our saddle
blankets; Balcombe, with his usual thoughtfulness
and generosity, had added his and his greatcoat;
and we were tired enough to feel the want of
sleep. But the possibility that the enemy might
return forbade that, until John, who was never
tired, remarking that he had not rode so far as we
had, proposed to watch while we slept. There
was something selfish in our assent to this proposal;
but really the fellow seemed to have so few of the
infirmities of humanity, that I had long ceased to
regard anything as a hardship to him. Accordingly,
with his aid, we arranged our bed and were
soon fast asleep. Poor James, who had spent the
preceding night tossing with passion, now slept as
calmly as a child. His spirit seemed completely
tranquillized by the death of Montague; and his
whole manner was that of a man who had just
accomplished a pleasant duty. He was asleep
before I was, but not long.