University of Virginia Library

55. CHAPTER LV.
THE SHADOW PASSES — THE MOON RISES.

Thus ended the battle of Kiawah; a conflict for which the red
men were entirely unprepared, and which, but for the fortunate
presence of our rover upon the scene, must have ended, as did
many other similar attempts, in the massacre of the whole settlement.
With the fall of their chief, Cussoboe, and of the Iawa,
whom they held to be invulnerable to the weapons of the white
man, the savages fled incontinently; but only to encounter the
reserve of marines under Ligon, whose unexpected fire, as they
rushed confusedly to the forests, took bloody toll at every passage.

Harry Calvert forbade pursuit. He had done, with his men,
all that could be expected at their hands; and, once on the alert,
and well armed, the cassique and his English workmen were now
fully able of themselves to defend the barony, in the event of any
renewal of the assault. He did not find it so easy to restrain Ligon,
however, whose passion for scalps would have rendered the
pursuit of the fugitives an unrelenting one. He reluctantly forebore,
at the imperative command of the rover; and, thus disappointed,
abruptly declared his desire to leave the barony. He had
served the purpose for which he had been employed — had safely
guided the party; which could now easily find its way back to
the ship: and he was anxious to attach himself to some body

of men less scrupulous in hunting down the savages to their
ruin.

Ligon was an old scout, and knew in what lay the profits of
the business. He could gratify his passion for scalpus, in those of
the warriors; and appease his cupidity by selling captives to the
English, who needed their labor, as slaves, in the West-India
colonies. This business was an old one, practised pretty generally
from the Plymouth rock to the capes of Florida; by the Pilgrim
Fathers as by the Cavaliers; and, indeed, the example of
setting the red men at loggerheads, slaughtering the warriors, and
selling their wives and children into slavery, was set by the virtuous
people of Massachusetts Bay, who justified it from Scripture,
in numerous delectable texts, at the cost of the heathen.

This old Indian-fighter knew the warfare well; knew that, now
the war was broken out, the rangers would be called into service;
and, among these, an old scout, like himself, could carry on a
very profitable business. He no sooner declared his desire to
leave the party, than Calvert paid him the twenty pounds sterling,
which was the reward of his services. Without word of
farewell, pocketing his money, Ligon braced his belt about his
waist, primed his weapons, adjusted his knife, grasped his tomahawk,
and darted into the thickets, taking the direction for Gowdey's
castle and Charleston. We shall dismiss him from our
future regards, assured that he will be in at the death, wherever
the vultures shall be gathered to the prey!

We are to assume, from what we know of Calvert, that he did
not suffer any time to be wasted, or any military necessity to be
neglected. The force at the barony was immediately arrayed,
counted, and stationed about the settlement, in proper positions
to discover the approaches of an enemy, and to co-operate against
assault. His own force of marines and sailors he gathered in
hand, with orders to prepare for instant marching, if necessary.
Of course, they were fed and refreshed. The cassique, just so
soon as the red men were dispersed, had sent out provisions for
them — not forgetting a certain keg, of formidable size, containing
a potent supply of Jamaica.

Having seen his marines gathered and counted; ascertained
his losses (and some had been slain, and others wounded); having
done all that might be done to secure equally the party and

the barony, Calvert once more turned his eyes and footsteps upon
the dwelling where lay the objects of his solicitude. What was
he to learn on reaching that dwelling? What could he learn?
The condition in which he had left Olive Berkeley, at the beginning
of the conflict, led him to but one conclusion. She was
dead! That morning star of his youthful fancy — that light still
shining upon his soul, and casting a wan but precious moonlight
over its darkest recesses — that light was now dimmed for ever
to his eyes! The delicious voice of his heart was hushed! It
was an echo in memory only. He should never more hear its
music!

Such were his melancholy meditations as he slowly approached
the house. It was now bright sunrise. The sun was rising upon
the closing scene of the conflict, when the reserve, under Ligon,
was pouring in its unexpected fires upon the scattering parties of
the red men. The light of day had never dawned more cloudlessly,
never looked brighter or more peaceful; as if there were
no bloody strife, no wild, inhuman passions horridly at work, and
heedless of its bright, stern, penetrating glances!

From the eyes of Calvert had gone the wild and savage fires
of battle. His face was now wan, his eyes and form were drooping.
The passion of the Hun had given place to the saddest expression
of a lost hope; the weary, wo-begone look of a humanity
which could tremble, and could no longer strive!

His brother met him at the entrance, and silently led him into
the parlor. They both sat in silence. But that silence was full
of speech.

That last wretched midnight in the chamber of Olive, when the
conflict was raging around, and the sharp shot of the marines and
the wild whoop of the red men were making the welkin ring!
The Death, so busy without, wore no such touching aspect as that
within, where he was doing his work in music!

Yes, music! For such is the low, sweet, broken chanting,
from those dying lips, through which the soul is about to escape
for ever. Hers are so many sweet, throbbing tones of the soul,
as string by string is broken, of the beautiful instrument of life!

“Those are strange sounds which I hear,” said Olive in a broken
whisper to Zulieme. “They almost drown the song! But

I hear the song too, in spite of the clamor. Its music is very
close to me. It sounds within my very ears, and seems to thrill
through my brain. It comes and goes. It is like a rill in the
forest — a low, sweet murmur, as if among green leaves and sunny
flowers. If I could only shut out the noise of that shouting, I
should hear it all. Where is Harry? He will quiet the noise.
He is a charmer, Harry, and speaks the very seas into calm.”

And she seemed earnestly to listen.

“I think I know it now! Yes — yes!” with a low sigh. “I
know it. There is no pain now! But I do not see you all well,
and — I do not now see Harry! Where 's Harry — and — Sir
Edward? They ought not to leave me now!”

The mother said something in a whisper.

“I know that these are angels. `I believe in God, the Father
Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, his' —
ah! call him — call Harry! — and Sir Edward — my husband.”

This was spoken somewhat wildly, and she made a feeble effort
to lift her head from the pillow, Zulieme composed her — adjusted
the pillow, and tenderly clasped her wan fingers in her
own.

“The old willows at Feltham — the old Feltham willows! Ah!
I knew that I should see them again. How cool is the shadow,
and there are the swans in the lake; all looking so sweet and
peaceful! It is time for peace. We shall never have the pain
and trouble more! There shall be no storm. Ah! now I see
Harry, where he crosses the stile. He is bringing me flowers;
and we shall have a sail on the lake. My brave and noble
Harry!”

“Olive, my child!—” interposed the mother, in tones of expostulation.

“Yes, my mother, we will come in soon. Harry will spend
the evening with us. He says he will not go to sea again. So
we shall hear no more about storms and shipwreck. I hear you
— yes, I hear!... But — where is he gone? Come back, Harry;
oh, be not so impatient, Harry! I did but jest. It was a child's
jest; it should not make you angry. Yes, you shall go to sea, if
you wish, and I will go with you. I know there is a beauty in
the sea. I know all about the Bermoothes, and those isles of the
South, where there are grottoes and caves, with bright, sparry

walls — stalactites, you know — and the coral-groves, with the dolphins,
like so many living rainbows, gliding in between the walls,
so deep down in the clear sea! You may see the very floor of
the ocean; and the glistening sand-beds; and the bright gems
and jewels — the spoils of the ship — and the beautiful forms of
men — `these are pearls that were his eyes!'—”

So rhapsodizing, in frequent breaks and pauses, with a brain
wandering off to all the fancies of her childhood, she suddenly
cried out, gasping, as with sudden fright:—

“No, no! Harry! Harry! Where are you? Come back to
me, my Harry! Oh, come back! I will not think that you can
drown! You are too strong a swimmer! Yes, O Harry, come
back to me at once, my Harry — at once, or I shall die with
terror!”

A convulsion followed — exhaustion! The pulse flickered wildly
— feebly; now here — now there. It is gone — the eyes closing
slowly, even while the fingers of the mother are gliding up the
arm, as if to follow and arrest the flight of that fluttering, birdlike
thing which, at length, afforded the only evidence of still-remaining
life. The eyes continued shut; the lips silent, though parted
as for speech; and the mother eagerly fastened her ears to them,
while her fingers still followed the slight pulsation in wrist and
temple.

“It is gone! — no! it is here!”

“It is gone!” said Zulieme.

And the mother threw herself upon the floor, sobbing violently.
Zulieme, whose tears fell fast, bowed her head down upon the pillow,
beside the silent Olive, conscious of a grief and growing
sympathies and sensibilities which had seldom stirred in her little
heart before.

The cassique heard the cries of the mother, and came from below
into the room. He could now leave his post: the savages
were fled! He looked silently — looked — with what eyes of
deepest self-reproach and tenderness! — on the pale, sad, highly-spiritualized
face, which seemed to smile from its lips; then
clasped his hands in mute prayer, but did not venture to approach.
He would have kissed her, but he dared not. How
many thoughts and sorrows, at that moment, combined to make
her lips sacred!

“They are not for me!” he thought to himself. “They belong
to Harry now! My poor, poor Olive!”

And, to conceal the burst of tenderness which he felt rising in
his bosom, he hurried below, threw wide the entrance, and stood
looking forth upon the scene of blood; and here he waited for his
brother, whose bugles were sounding on the edge of the wood.
It was thus waiting that Harry met him on his return.

For a few moments they sat silent together in the parlor. Suddenly
the cassique lifted his hand, and, without looking at his
brother, waved it toward the chamber of death. Harry rose and
left the room, then quietly passed into the chamber. The mother
still lay sobbing upon the floor. Zulieme kept her position beside
Olive on the bed. The rover approached and gazed for a moment
on the inanimate figure. And this was the sad close of his
earliest and sweetest passion!

“How beautiful,” he murmured to himself — “how beautiful is
death!”

And, even as he thought, he bent over Zulieme, and kissed
Olive's parted lips — glued his own to them, as if the right to do so
had come to him from Death; and, even as he pressed them, the
eyes of the supposed corse opened beneath his own! He started
back, his whole frame quivering with excitement.

She spoke — Olive spoke:—

“Harry!” was the single word from the lips, and then they
were sealed for ever. The mother started up with a shriek. Zulieme
fell back, terrified. But there was no other sound. The
eyes were again closed as before — the lips silent, though still
parted, with a smile of innocent and childlike sweetness.

“Who spoke? Who called `Harry'?” demanded the mother.
Calvert pointed silently to the corse.

“My child! my child! speak to me once more — but once, my
Olive! Tell me — oh, tell me! Let me hear you but once
more!”

But there was no response. The face was sweet, very sweet;
there was a happier expression upon it now, as if a last want had
been gratefully satisfied; and life, it would seem, had lingered
only for that last look and word of tender farewell to the beloved
one; and, that won, it had detached itself from the mortal dwelling,

with as little effort as makes the leaf when detached from
the tree in the gusts of the sere November.

The cassique had fixed a place of family sepulture, almost at
the first moment of settling the barony. He had certainly chosen
the site among his first performances. About a quarter of a mile
from the house, on a slight crest of earth, small and nearly circular,
his eye had distinguished a noble group of patriarchal oaks,
each of which was probably a thousand years old. Their limbs
were of the thickness of ordinary forest-trees. The sacred misletoe
was imbedded and green in numerous boughs, a strange but
not unnatural or unseemly grafting; and the gray moss streamed
from the gigantic arms, waving in the wind like the great gray
beard of the Druid bard, as described by Gray, when he thundered
down, from his heights, his prophetic imprecations upon the
march and barons of the imperious Edward! Each of these
great oaks of the cassique stood up mightily, with outstretched
arms, as giving benediction as well as shelter. And around these
a circular line had been drawn; and the axe and hoe had been at
work upon the underwood; and the spot had been consecrated to
its sacred purpose, though no walls had yet circumscribed it, and
no vault had yet been built. A few years later, and the place
was duly cultivated and consecrated; and the old vault of the
Berkeleys — beginning with the cassique of Kiawah — may even
now be seen by the antiquary, looking ancient as Death himself.
It is now a venerable ruin! Yet here sleeps, peacefully, all that
earth holds of the beautiful but unhappy Olive.

To this spot the solemn procession of the dead bore her pale
and delicate form. It was a solemn service, though there were
no sacred rites, no stoled priest to officiate in the ceremonial.
The war was in progress; communication with the city was cut
off, unless under an escort of armed men. Even the burial, so
near the fortress of the cassique, required the presence of a military
force for its protection. At least, it was a proper precaution
to provide one. The workmen of the cassique, the marines of
Calvert, were all under arms, and present. They were grouped
in order about the grave. The mother of Olive, Grace her sister,
the servants, all clung close to the coffin, which was of cypress,
without ornament or decoration, if we except a few pale roses,

and some wild flowers, which had been gathered by the hands of
loving servants. The cassique read the burial-service, standing
above the coffin and beside the open grave. He read with subdued
but unfaltering voice, his whole soul schooled to the degree
of strength necessary for the performance of so sad and unwonted
a duty. Calvert, with his face pressed close to one of the great
oaks, sought in this way to conceal the show of emotion which he
could not well subdue. The strife over, and no call upon his will
and courage, he was weak as any woman.

But when his brother's voice no longer reached his ears; when
he knew that the last painful duty was at hand, of hiding from
human eyes the form of the beloved one — then he turned, made
his way through the group, and stood for a single moment gazing
down upon the lidded coffin. His eye seemed to pierce the cover.
He shuddered with a sharp convulsion, and, with a groan which
he could not suppress — which, indeed, escaped him unconsciously
— he wheeled around, and was about to make his way into the
forest, when a savage cry was heard, a bustle, a rush from without,
and, darting through the circle with a succession of bounds,
the Indian hunter-boy, Iswattee, dashed in among the group, even
as a tiger leaps from the jungle among the brooding or browsing
herds.

Never was there a more striking picture of mixed famine, misery,
and insanity, than he presented to the gaze. He was meager
with long starvation; his eye was full of idiotic fury; his hair
was long, wild, and floating black from his shoulders. His shoulders
were bare — his arms; the clothes seemed to have been torn
from him in desperate struggle with wolf or wildcat. In his hand
he brandished a tomahawk; and, with shriek and yell, heralding
his descent among the party, his appearance was well calculated
to strike terror into every breast. For a moment, all seemed paralyzed.
Not a soldier put forth his hand; not a weapon was uplifted;
not a word spoken; not a foot advanced to meet the intruder,
so sudden was the surprise, so formidable the spectre! In
another moment, he had seized upon the form of Grace Masterton,
grasped her fiercely with his left arm about her waist, while
his right waved his tomahawk, as he cried in his own dialect:—

“Annegar! I come for thee. Annegar — pretty white bird —
Cussoboe, the great chief, says, `Come!'”

It was a grand scene for the dramatic painter. The young
savage dragged the damsel with him, heedless of her screams and
struggles, his tomahawk waving all the while in the faces of the
party. The cassique sprang toward him, across the grave; but,
ere he could reach the spot, the hand of our rover, with a single
buffet, had felled the wild assailant to the earth, and rescued the
girl from his clutches. The boy was taken into custody, and fast
fettered. With the one effort he had no power for further struggle;
he was exhausted. He was a madman. His constant narcotic
potations, his frenzied dreams, his wild and hopeless passion,
the misery occasioned by his own consciousness of treachery to
his people, and the stunning blow of his father's tomahawk upon
his head, had utterly wrecked an intellect which, under other circumstances,
might have made him the bard or prophet, the orator
or statesman, of his people. As soon as his condition was
ascertained, he was treated with constant care and indulgence, but
closely watched. In a week he was dead, his last words being a
call to the “Annegar” — the little white bird — which had been
to him the bird of destiny!

In another day, the cassique and our rover had a final conference.
The former had been pleading with his brother to remain
with him.

“I pledge myself for your safety. I have power, as you know.
Your pardon shall be procured—”

“Pardon!” cried the other, with indignation. “I sue to no
man, to no king, for pardon! As for him who sits upon the
throne of Britain, he should rather sue to me! He has betrayed,
has dishonored me! He should sue to me, were he but half conscious
of the true virtue that lies in manhood! No, Edward, I
can suffer neither myself nor you to descend to the meanness of
prayer or petition in such a case, or to such a sovereign!”

“But, Harry, unless you receive this pardon — which is really
a mere form — you can never return to Britain.”

“Unless, like Raleigh, to be sacrificed by a coward to a national
enemy! But, my brother, I shall never return to Britain. I have
been too long a freeman with Nature, in America, to endure willingly
the caprices of any European despotism, whether of government
or society. No, that Old World, with all its rotten conventions,

is no longer world of mine! Wretched as I have been,
am, and may be still, the sense of my present freedom is still my
acutest and most precious sense of life. Here, manhood, if it so
wills, can live in every vein and muscle, in every beat of heart
and brain. And here I can maintain my manhood — the noblest
of all mortal conditions; though I may not be able to escape pain
and privation; though I may never more hope as I have done, or
realize those passions which made the glory of my youth. Still,
I shall be free; still I shall enjoy the sense of manhood; and this
will arm me to endure pain without a murmur, and privation
without impatience, and the denial of my best hope without seeking
any vain substitute in the vices or frivolities of society. No,
no, Edward! No more Europe for me. Were I to receive an
unsolicited pardon for offences which were once thought virtues,
I should still no more return to England.”

“But, Harry, my brother, your people — your followers — are
you prepared to lead them into outlawry, or keep them in it?”

“No! There you touch me nearly. But I am safe from your
reproach. I shall provide for their safety, and their return to
the securities of society. I have, in some degree, provided already.
The documents are prepared, addressed to our uncle, and
to others, which will no doubt secure their safety from the operations
of that decree which puts their leader under ban. You, too,
can assist in obtaining their pardon; and I have referred my lieutenants
and Belcher to you, in the event of anything happening
to me. The ship herself I shall formally convey to the crown of
Britain.”

“And whither will you go, my brother?”

“You shall hear from me on this head hereafter. Nay, when I am
once fixed, as I expect to be somewhere upon the Spanish main,
looking down from noble mountains upon the broad Pacific, you
will come and seek me.”

“Perhaps — perhaps! But I have much to do here at Kiawah.”

“You are right! Make it a world to itself, and your world.
You can transplant civilization to the wilderness, and so train it
as that refinement and art shall be triumphant without excess or
sensualism. That is the nice point for the study of the philosopher
— how to secure the blessings of the higher moral of society,

involving the full development of the best human powers, without
endangering or degrading the essential manhood of the race.
But you must abandon all your wild notions of philanthropy. You
will never reform or refine the savage. You must subdue him.
The colonial government will need to follow up this war to the
extermination or utter expulsion of these miserable tribes.”

“I fear so! But—”

“Yes, Edward, enough of this! One thing: what will you do
with your boy — Olive's boy?”

“He shall go to England.”

“What! will you trust his infancy to this old woman?”

“No! He shall be consigned to our aunt Craven.”

Abruptly — “Give him to me, Edward! Let him share my
fortunes! I will make a man of him. I have wealth. He shall
be my son as well as yours.”

“Ask me not, Harry. Were he twelve or fourteen years of
age — but now — an infant—”

“You forget, I have a wife — who will most probably never
bear me a child. She is not wise, but she is virtuous; not
thoughtful, but faithful; and with some really noble traits. She
will be very happy to have your boy; and I —”

“You would make him yours, I know! But this is the very
thing I would avert! Harry, my brother, I am selfish: I would
have him wholly mine. I would rather keep him from you than
from any other, since I should feel sure that you would wean him
from me.”

“Enough! All is said between us, Edward, except that love
which no words can ever say or show. Let us part!”

And, after a fond, repeated embrace, Harry Calvert tore himself
away. They were brothers now, in every sympathy, as in
blood. Zulieme, of course, accompanied her husband, the marines
forming a sufficient escort; though the forest-march, from the
barony to the Stono, was performed with as great a degree of caution
as when pursued before. They met no enemies, and gained
the ship without interruption.

“All's well!” was the cry on board the Happy-go-Lucky.

Soon the anchor was weighed, and all sheets spread to the favoring
breeze which bore them south; soon the white sails of the

gallant cruiser were perceptible from the shores only as a speck
— the wing of a curlew dipping the far crests of ocean. She will
never, in her present keeping, revisit these shores.

Once more alone together in their little cabin, Zulieme caught
her husband by the arm — got her arm about his neck, drawing
him down to her.

“O Harry, stoop down! I have a secret to tell you!” And
she clung to him till he bowed, and his head bent to her mouth,
which she fondly kissed; then, beginning her sentence with a
whisper, she ended it with a scream:—

“Harry, you dear brute Harry, I have something to tell you —
to make you love me!”

“I do love you, Zulieme.”

“Ah! but not as you loved poor Olive.”

He was silent. She continued:—

“But when I tell you this, you will love me as you loved her.”

“Well, well! But do not speak of her, Zulieme. What is
your secret?”

“I am going to have a baby, Harry! There! I 've told it to
you the first person!”

“You!” he exclaimed, looking at her almost incredulously, but
with an expression of tenderest interest — “you!”

“Yes! why not? Now you will love me, Harry! You great,
big, brute English Harry! you will love me! You will call me
a child no longer. I am a woman now. I sha' n 't dance again
for months.”

“No! you will always be a child, little one, though you had a
dozen children! You a woman, indeed! You are only a pet —
a plaything!”

“But your pet, Harry. You will make me your pet, won't
you?”

“Perhaps!” And he stooped to her, and kissed her mouth
tenderly, and drew her up to his bosom with a degree of fondness
such as his stern course of life, for a long season, had not suffered
him to show.

“And now, my child, that you are delivered of your secret,
get your guitar, and let us go on deck. The moon shines softly,
and the breeze is fresh and sweet. You shall sing me one of your

Spanish ballads — `The Loves of Fatima and Reduan' — `The
Moor who lost Valencia' — something — anything.”

He unbuckled the sword from his side, put away his pistols,
and, with something of a sigh, murmured:—

“My wars are over now! I must lose myself, if I can, in
dream and moonlight.”

And in the delicious moonlight of the South, while the good
ship sped on her course like a wingéd creature, and the breeze
fanned her sails lovingly, our rover, half reclined upon the deck,
hearkened to his child-wife, as with exquisite effect she sang those
wild, romantic ballads of the Moors of Granada, which appeal so
sweetly to the heart and fancy.

And the breezes grew stronger; and more swiftly the vessel
sped; and still the music rose and fell upon the delighted air —
Calvert yielding himself to those seductions with which Love subdues
War, and makes even Ambition forgetful of his aim! And
thus, with fair breezes and a grateful sky, the Happy-go-Lucky
passed out of the precincts where she had made herself felt in
storm and thunder, and gradually disappeared, coasting along
other yet sunnier shores, which she was destined no longer to
disturb with violence; but going with swanlike aspect and motion,
a harbinger, as it were, of halcyon seas and skies, and of a more
genial and loving Humanity. Peace be upon her course, and
upon the fortunes of those who have so long beguiled our interest!
Their world has put on a brighter aspect; and Saturn and
Mars no longer rule in the house of Venus!