University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
NIGHT-RIDE TO KIAWAH.

We shall say nothing of the supper. It was clean, of course,
and simple; the Jamaica was employed, and its virtues acknowledged
— though neither Calvert nor the hunter professed to be
bottle-holders. While they ate, they talked; that is to say, Gowdey
talked: and when did you ever meet old hunter yet, or old
fisherman, that was not fond of his own music, except when on
duty? At such a time, the hunter and fisherman are as sacredly
silent as if in waiting for the delivery of an oracle. They revenge
themselves, subsequently, for this reverential abstinence,
when, having no game, they only seek a victim!

But, now, Calvert encourages Gowdey to speak. He wiles
him, gently and gradually, to the subject of Colonel Berkeley,
the cassique, who, by-the-way, is something of a curiosity to our
hunter. He admires his energy, his courage, the boldness of his
projects, the dignity of his bearing, and, so far as he knows it, the
worth of his character. His manliness and unaffected simplicity
are especially themes for his admiration. He has no vulgar
pride.

“He will sit, jest as you do, captain, for hours, with an old
hunter like myself, and ask questions, and listen quietly, and
never take pains, every now and then, to let you see that he
thinks himself the better man! And, though I think he 's quite
wild in some of his calculations, and rather more likely to do

harm than good — as when he thinks to tame these red savages,
and convart these marshes into grand pasturages, and make wine
out of these grapes to beat all France — yet he 's so manful and
courageous in it all, that I can 't help liking him. And, another
reason, he 's all the time trying to do! It is n't to make money.
Ef you believe me, your honor, I do n't think this cassique, as
they call him, cares a copper whether he gits anything out of all
his workings for himself. But he looks out upon the marsh, and
says, `If I could conquer it from the sea, and make it green with
grass!' And he says, `Think of all these forests, Gowdey, supporting
their thousands of sheep!' And then he looks at the
grapevines everywhere, and cries out, `All Europe shall drink of
the wine of Carolina!' Them 's grand idees, your honor, and
them 's the idees of Colonel Berkeley. He 's got no sort of little
meanness in all his nature. He 's for taking the rough world,
jest as you see it, and making it smooth for man! He 's a-blundering,
it 's true; for you see he comes to Carolina, not knowing
much about it, with all his grand English idees; and he kain't git
quite right till he l'arns all about the actual sarcumstances of the
country. But give him time, and he 'll do. Now, what do you
think? Here he 's imported thousands of English brick, to build
his houses and chimneys, and his tiles of clay, into a clay-country,
where there 's the best clay in the world, and more firewood, so
I 've hearn himself say, in this single county, than in all Great
Britain! When he 'd seen the Injun clay pans and pots, he
kicked the piles of brick at the landing with his feet, and said,
`What a fool I was to bring these things here!' He 'll l'arn, but
what 's the expense? I 'm afraid it 'll be no less than his scalp.”

“But have you not warned him of the treachery of the Indians?”

“Till I 'm tired; but he 'll have to l'arn them, jest as he l'arned
the clay and bricks. And they 'll soon teach him. Nothing but
downright war with the redskins will save him. And who knows
but they may begin on him? They 're jest as apt to begin with
the man they feed on, as on any other person.”

“He is making a great place of his barony, then?”

“Give him five years, and it 'll be famous.”

“Have you seen his family?”

“Yes, sir — his wife, and one child. They 've had but one.

But her mother 's a-living with him, and there 's a girl about
thirteen—”

“Her sister — I suppose.”

“I reckon; but I do n't know. They call her Grace.”

Calvert involuntarily nodded his head in the affirmative. And
here, for awhile, the conversation flagged. It was resumed, somewhat
abruptly, by the hunter:—

“You 're asking me, your honor, 'bout the cassique. Now,
there 's one thing that 's struck me ever sence I first sot eyes on
him; and that is, that he looks mighty much like you. I thought
of you the moment I seed him. He 's not so tall as you, and I
reckon he 's five years older; but you 've got the same complexion,
the same sort of eyes and face generally; and you 're both
quick as a breeze, and always a-doing! And when you walk,
there 's the same sort of lift in the shoulders; but it 's mostly when
you 're a-setting that I sees the likeness. You sort o' square off
broadly when you set; and your hands rest on your thighs; and
you set your head pra'd; and your eyes look through the man
you 're a-talking to; and your mouth is shut close — pressed tight,
I may say, as if you was a-thinking, `I may have to fight this
man yet;' and you are apt to speak sudden, quick, onexpectedly;
and then the speech comes short, and the voice is deep, as if it
come from the chest, deep down, and it sounds like a bell!
There 's a great deal, mighty like, that you 've got atween you;
and ef he 's got the heart that you 've got, then, ef ever you git
into a quarrel, I would n't want to be the looker-on, for I loves
you and I likes him: for, as sure as a gun, there 'd be one death,
and prehaps two, from the fight. He 'll fight like blazes, I reckon,
for he gathers himself up all the time, as ef he was going into
battle. Everything 's in airnest that he does. I reckon ef he
was to go into push-pin, he 'd made a real life-sort of business out
of it.”

“I shall be curious to see and know him, Gowdey; but that 's
impossible, just now, when he 's of the council, and I am under
ban of law as a pirate.”

“Does they give you that name, captain? And only for licking
the Spaniards! Blast 'em, for the bloodiest fools! as ef every
Spanish ship that we blowed out of water was n't a help to us in
these poor colonies.

“A nation only goes to ruin, Gowdey, under the management
of cowardice, ignorance, and treachery; and when a king himself
betrays his own people, Gowdey, to say nothing of his own dignity,
then the disaster enures to the whole race, and to the most
distant times.”

“And is it the king, your honor?”

“Ay, the king! who, corrupt himself, corrupts justice, corrupts
his chief men, corrupts the people; makes office a fraud; makes
nobility a shame; makes a people bankrupt of honor as of fortune.
But England is too much the care of Heaven to suffer this rule
of imbecility very long; and, I tell you, this king will be removed
— will die by the hands of God or the hands of man, or there will
be another bloody revolution, such as brought his father to the
block, to relieve his people from the dangers of his misrule. God
will interpose before it be too late! I am sure of this as if I had
seen it; for England is too important to the world's safety and
progress, not to find a special Providence interposing for her behalf,
in a condition of so much doubt and danger. I could feel
tempted to prophesy that the hand of Fate is upon him even
now!”

“And I 'm sure I sha' n't care how soon! The fact is, captain,
when a man gits to rambling over a great forest-country like this,
he begins to think, `How 's it that we 're to have a furrin sovereign?'
and then he gits a step further, and axes, `What 's the use
of having a king at all?' It 's mighty sartain that a king of England,
living cl'ar away over that great breadth of ocean, ain't of
no sort of use to us here; and the use of a king, I reckon, or of
any sort of officer, is jest about the first question that a reasonable
white man ought to ax anywhere. It 's the question that we puts,
you know, when we ax after the man: `What 's he good for —
what kin he do? Kin he fight, or counsel, or plan, or build, or
work, or trap, hunt, fish — work in some way — doing for himself
and other people?' Oh, a new country, like ours, is jest the sort
of school where we gits rid of ridiculous notions about governors
and men. It 's not what the man wears, but what he does. And
no crown upon his head, and no gold stick in his hand, no epaulette
on his shoulder or star upon his breast, or beautiful ribands
and buttons, can save a poor skunk of a fellow from disgrace, that
ain't got the right sort of stuff of manhood in him. But I 'm a

poor old fellow, that ain't nobody but a hunter and fisherman —
that prehaps ought not to talk about such mighty idees.”

“Mighty ideas you may well call them, Gowdey, and such as
are destined to shake the world some day. But the time is not
yet. They are ideas which will grow here, in this wild country;
are the natural ideas of such a country, and can hardly take root
anywhere else. — But, is it not almost time for a start? I would
have you conduct me within sight of this cassique's barony, and
then leave me. I shall find the way back to-morrow night, and
shall expect you to carry me over to the town in your boat. Of
course, everything must be secret — to ourselves.”

“I know, sir — all right! Say the word, and I will git the
horses. But ef you are to be out there all day, lying close, and
seeing nobody, how will you git provision?”

The cruiser showed a snug wallet which he carried under his
hunting-shirt. His costume, by-the-way, had been changed to that
of the American woodsman.

“All right, your honor! I see you do n't forgit the commissariat.”

Gowdey went out, and, soon returning, reported the horses to
be in readiness. A stoup of Jamaica concluded the session, after
the usage of the country; and some three hours before the dawn,
the two were upon the road. You are to understand, however,
that, letting out Calvert first, then bolting securely the massive
oaken door upon him, Gowdey, with rope and tackle, let himself
down from the upper story. By a mysterious process, the secret
of which he never suffered out of his own keeping, the rope was
concealed from sight immediately after, and not available to any
one who might wish for it in his absence. Gowdey prided himself
very much upon his machinery.

And thus making his house secure, he mounted his marsh
tackey, and led the way through the forests. The trail was a
blind one, affording “a short cut” to a point which might have
been reached by a more open but more circuitous route. The
one chosen was at once shorter and more secret. They rode in
silence; policy dictating forbearance to the inveterate tongue of
the old hunter, while our cruiser preferred to indulge in meditations
of a nature too delicate to share even with the most trustworthy
comrade.

And while Gowdey rode on before, as guide, Calvert discussed
in his own mind the subjects of their recent conversation. His
thought naturally reverted to the account given of his brother.

“This was not the wont,” he mused, “of Edward Berkeley!
His habit was wont to be calm, quiet, subdued; grave rather than
earnest; thoughtful rather than intense; fond of revery rather than
action. How could this change be wrought in him so suddenly,
in the short space of three years? Can he be the same person?
Can it be my brother whom all these men describe to me? — so
like, yet so unlike? I can not doubt that it is he! But how
unlike the man he was, ere this dark cloud passed between us;
ere we were separated by this terrible chasm which we may not
leap, even in eternity! Just so long are we separated. For, if
the affections are to survive the grave; if the precious sentiments
— those which bring life and verdure to the soul — pass with it
into the spheres of the future; if, there, the beloved ones remain
to us, still loving and beloved — what must be the future to us —
to him, to me — but separation for ever? And she! — shall I
behold her in other worlds, nor claim her as my own, even as in
this? Shall the wrongs done us here, not be righted there? Shall
he there find a law, and exercise a power, which shall still work
for us denial and bitterness, as here? — the forfeiture of all that
precious hope on which both of us fed so fondly? — that hope
which was never to bear its fruit! Shall there be no atonement,
no redress, for this wrong, this robbery, this wo?”

And the strong man groaned aloud unconsciously, as the bitter
flood of memory and thought rolled its deep waters over his soul.

“Anything the matter, captain?”

Calvert roused himself at the question, and shook himself free
of his revery.

“No, Gowdey — only such matter as makes a sad thought too
strong for a sad heart!”

“Ah! well, your honor, there 's no medicine in one's pocket for
the heart of another. It 's only to be a man, and that means one
who knows how to carry a camel's load on a poor pair of human
shoulders. A great secret, I reckon, ef one could l'arn it! But
— psho! psho!” — lowering his voice — “I see a light yonder
in the woods. It looks like a camp-fire. Ef you 'll let me, captain,
I 'll jest git down, hitch `Hop-o'-my-Thumb' to this sapling,

and take a peep at that fire. You know I 'm a sort of scout of the
garrison when I 'm on this kind of night-riding.”

He had alighted and hitched his nag ere he had done speaking.

“Ef you 'll jest wait a bit here, captain, I won't keep you long;
but it 's needful to you as well as me that we should see about
this 'campment here. We may have to lead our horses for a bit,
or turn out of the track into the bushes t' other side, so as not to
make the ears of bad-tempered outliers open too big as we go.”

The consent of the rover was anticipated by his guide, who
soon disappeared in the bushes; and, while he “scouted,” gradually
nearing the fire which had excited his curiosity, if not alarm,
the thoughts of Calvert carried him back to the subject upon
which he had been musing a few minutes before.

“What has caused this change in Edward Berkeley? What
but guilt! It is the demon that has fastened upon his soul. It
is conscience which is busy. He knows that he has done me
wrong. He has basely taken advantage of my absence, to usurp
my rights. His passions have got the better of his truth, of brotherly
love, of justice and honor; and, these gratified, he begins to
feel the stings and arrows which are to avenge my wrongs! Hence
these labors, these wild speculations, this incessant, restless excitement,
which make the wonder of all who see! He shall feel
more, ere his experience ends. He shall feel life pall upon him,
and excitement wear away, and hope lost, and love a fiend, and
passion finally a hell!”

Something correct, but not all correct, Calvert. It may be that
Edward Berkeley shall thus suffer, but not so much from the goad
of conscience. At present, his true tormentor is the demon of
unrest — born, certainly, of hopes unsatisfied; of torments felt;
of doubts and anxieties; of a dream unrealized; but not of the
sense of a wrong done to a brother! No! no! — he knows not
that yet. Let us acquit him of that! He is not so much sinning
as sinned against; he has been deceived; is not willingly a deceiver.
But let us not anticipate.

Harry Calvert sat moodily upon his horse, waiting the return
of Gowdey, but hardly conscious that he waited. His chin rested
upon his breast; his eyes were closed; his thoughts striving in
chaotic provinces in which he could as yet find no light. He was
roused by the voice of Gowdey:—

“As I thought, captain! Injuns — a few Sewees, or Cussoboes
— a small party. I made 'em all out, and they never guessed
it. Ha! ha! Give me a white man, after all, for good scouting.
It 's curious, captain, one of this party is the chief of the Kiawahs
— old Cussoboe; and ef anybody had a raal, natural right to be
called `Cassique of Kiawah,' it 's him; for he 's been, to my knowledge,
high chief of all the river, and this part of the country, which
is the Kiawah country, for a matter of ten years, and it may be
twenty. Well, here 's Colonel Berkeley, that comes here under
English authority, and buys the land from under the red king's
foot, and takes away his very title! The two chiefs will meet to-morrow,
I reckon, on a sort of treaty, and I know something about
it. Old Micco Cussoboe — that is, King Cussoboe — is on his
way to the barony now, I reckon. He 's jest stopped, like a cunning
savage as he is, to eat and drink up all he 's got, and get a
new supply out of the white men. They 're all sound asleep now,
but you 'll find 'em all wide awake by daylight, painting themselves
up, and putting on their bravest coats, and hats, and feathers,
to make a show when they come before the white chief.
'T would be a fine thing ef you could see it all; and maybe you
will, for it 's jest as like as not that the white cassique will receive
his red brother in the open air; though that 's not the court way
among the Injuns, as long as they 've got a house to hold council
in. And now, your honor, if you say so, we 'll make another start
to be jogging.”

“Go on, Gowdey.”

And they rode as before, Gowdey now silent, and Calvert meditative,
and still on the same subject:—

“Yes, we are alike — and Heaven spare us the meeting as
enemies! It is as this keen-sighted hunter says: such a meeting
will be the death of one or both! Let us not think of it. No,
Edward Berkeley, though you have done me this wrong — though
you have made me, as yourself, the victim of a never-ceasing agony
of unrest — let there be no strife between us! I, at least,
must grow madder than I feel now, before I lift fratricidal hand
at your bosom!”

We sum up thus a long, wandering train of thought and feeling,
in which our rover's fancy conjured up nothing but spectres of
wo and evil.

The precinets of the barony of Kiawah were at length reached.
There were the openings of the forest; there the settlements —
there the forest, black in its density and depth of green. Gowdey
pointed out the several localities in detail, as far as they could be
noted in the imperfect starlight. Some twelve or fifteen acres had
been cleared, an occasional group of oaks alone excepted. At
right angles stood four block-houses, cornering the clearing. These
were to be points of defence, made of squared logs, pierced for
musketry, yet designed as lodgings for the workmen. In the centre
was the mansion, a framed house on brick pillars, with wings
of logs, in which the family resided. The rest was rapidly advancing
to completion. The whole square was to be picketed;
the outhouses and offices, occupying a line between the several
corners, to be pierced in like manner for musketry, yet susceptible
of use for ordinary domestic purposes; the doors and windows
looking into the court, which was a sort of place de la garde, a
plaza d'armas, but answering for the purposes of court, and
grounds, and garden. Here and there a very fine old oak, or
pine, or cedar, sometimes clumps of each, had been suffered to
remain. Everything as yet was rude, and in a perfectly chaotic
state. Log-heaps, piles of brush, remained unburnt; piles of
brick and lumber obstructed the pathways. Everything denoted
progress and performance, but in just that state when the eye
looks dissatisfied over the whole disordered spectacle. The region
chosen for the settlement was a long, narrow ridge, running down
to the river, where it terminated, some three miles distant, in a
bluff. The front of the estate, upon the river, occupied little more
than a mile; but it gradually stretched on either hand, as the survey
ran inland — as may be supposed, when we know that the
barony comprised twenty-four thousand acres.

“Enough, now, Gowdey. I see the ground, and know where I
shall harbor. To-morrow night, if nothing happens, look to see
me some two hours after nightfall, when I shall expect you to
paddle me across the river. You need remain no longer. Good-night!”

“Rather, good-morning, your honor, for the day will soon be
upon us. Well, sir, as you say so, I 'll leave you. I 'll look for
you, and be ready. You 've got a good hiding-place, and I know
that you 've the experience to make use of it. I do n't fear that

anything will happen. As for me, I mean to j'ine that Injun
camp. I know 'em all, and I reckon the cassique here will want
my help to-morrow as an intarpreter. I 'm good at their lingo;
and I 'm a leetle curious to know what 's going on. I reckon it 's
about an Injun hunter. The cassique wanted me to do his hunting,
but I 've got too old to follow any man's whistle. This old
chief, Cussoboe, wants his son to l'arn English ways; and he
agreed, some time ago, that, when they came back from the hills,
the boy should hunt for the cassique. It 's gitting quite common
for the big men to have Injun hunters. But the idee 's not a good
one. I see trouble in it. But that 's not my lookout. After I 've
given good warning, a shut mouth is the sensible notion. And so,
your honor, I leave you; and God prosper your s'arch, whatever
it may be!”

And so they parted — Calvert seeking the forest, where he hid
his horse, and Gowdey the camp of Cussoboe.