 | CHAPTER XI.
THE BARON. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
THE BARON.
BLODGIT entered the presence with a manner studiously apologetic;
the humility of which, however, was quite unaffected.
He could not shake off the sense of that habitual awe, of the
lordly superior, in which he had been reared; and he now
stood, cap in hand, shoulders bent, foot awkwardly scraping, and
a half-silly, half-smiling visage, which was designed to be very
conciliatory.
Col. Sinclair was one of the despots of the old school; a gentleman
no doubt among gentlemen; but a lord to all others;
—a man capable of generosity in high degree, and condescension;
but one who expected that you should understand his
condescension, and feel his generosity. He was, really, a person
of a century even older than his own; and though he fully
believed in Adam and Eve, as the parents of that prolific family
vulgarly recognised as the human, yet no priesthood in the
world could have persuaded him that there were not a great
many varieties of clay employed in the moulding of those
myriad varieties which constitute the sum total of the races
of men! He had swayed as a superior so long, and as a natural
superior, that it was not possible with him to question his own
legitimacy, or to acknowledge the claims of that fungus multitude,
which it needed another hundred years to raise, in any
degree, to a fairly human position. He really meant no scorn,
or contempt, when, without turning his head, or answering the
reverence of the overseer, he said:—
“Well, what is it you want, Blodgit? What brings you
here without being sent for?”
These words, uttered by stentorian lungs—for in that day
empressment in voice and manner was by no means held to be
vulgar among the Carolina aristocracy—sustained by a lordly
cheeks, and a face originally nobly handsome,—to say nothing
of a fine physique, broad shoulders, massy form, and the loftiest
stature—these words, so uttered, and from such a person, had
the effect of additionally staggering the doubtful confidence of
the overseer; who twirled his cap, and slightly receded, and
muttered something unintelligibly.
“Speak out like a man, fellow! What the devil scares you?
You have something to say? Out with it, and no long talk!”
Thus urged, Blodgit made an effort.
“Well, colonel, you see, I come about the major.”
“The major! and who's the major, I pray?”
“Why, Major Willie Sinclair, sir, your son—”
“And who authorized you, sirrah, to speak to me about that
young man? and who told you that I was prepared to hear of
him, and to recognise him in any military authority which was
not recognised by his sovereign and mine? Do you suppose,
sir, that I am the man to tolerate his or your impertinence? I
know you to be one of his rapscallion followers; but sirrah, it
will be time enough to thrust him, or them, upon my presence,
when I am prepared to summon them. If you have nothing
better to speak of, depart! I desire to hear nothing of my son,
or of his elegant companions.”
Listeners are said to hear but little good of themselves at any
time. Willie Sinclair was not in a situation to render the proverb
an erring one in his case. He was in the adjoining room with
his sister; not there, as a listener to his father, by any means,
but only of what should fall from the lips of Master Pete Blodgit.
He smiled, grimly enough, as he heard the complimentary
tenor of the old man's speech.
Blodgit was nearly reduced to desperation at the determined
rejection of his only topic, by the person whom he sought;
and, in his despair, as is usual in such cases, he resorted to exaggeration
in order to compel attention :—
“Don't want to make you angry, Col——”
“Then don't make me angry!”
“That's it, colonel!—I don't want to make you angry—
but you see, last night—”
“Well, what of last night?”
“Why, sir, you see—”
“Stop sir — a moment! — what do you mean by lingering
here, Benny? are you wanted in the house? Is n't your proper
place in the fields, old fellow?”
Benny, it must be remembered, had assigned him the special
duty of keeping Blodgit constantly in sight. He had suffered
himself to appear more than once in his master's presence, unnecessarily,
it would seem, in the performance of this duty. But
he had no such reasons as Blodgit for showing himself abashed.
He answered the inquiry steadily, with the confident freedom
of one who not only knows his own honesty of purpose, but who
feels sure of its general recognition.
“Proper place sometime in de fields, maussa; sometime
in de house! Proper place whar de officer ob de day puts me;
and when he don' know 'bout de position ob de inimy, den
proper place whay I puts myself, to do sarbice!”
“You are a vain old rascal, Benny; and will fancy yourself
a soldier. Beware how you come within reach of my cane, old
fellow.”
“Hah! Mass Kurnel; der's pussons in dis wurl, and a many
ob am too, dat ought to taste dat cane long 'fore he reach de
shoulders of dis nigger! I hab business yer, Mass Kurnel; —
I hab inquisitions for Misser Pete Blodgit, whenebber you done
wid 'em; der's some cattle business atwixt us.”
“Very well! You can wait with your `inquisitions.' It is
Mister Pete Blodgit that has to do with me. Go on now, sir.
You will perceive that I have no claim upon your attention,
while my servant has.”
“Blodgit's desperation — and vexation too — had increased
duly, during this little episode; and with the air of a man resigned
to his fate, he blurted out: —
“Well, kurnel, all I've got to say is jest this, that ef your
son, the major, aint got safely here last night, or maybe by daylight
this morning, then it's a mighty hard thing to say that
he'll ever get here at all again! It's a despret likely chance
that they've cotched and murdered him along the road!”
“Caught! Murdered! — Willie murdered!” And the old
man caught up his staff, and made a desperate effort to rise, but
fell back in the fruitless attempt, while a sharp cry attested the
that moment. In an instant, Carrie Sinclair rushed in from
the interior, where she had remained perdu with her brother,
and unloosed the old man's cravat, while she cried —
“Oh! don't believe it! It's all false. Willie's in no danger,
father! He's not murdered!”
“Then he got here, safe, ma'am?” inquired Blodgit eagerly,
his eye straining upon hers.
The ready wit of the maiden came to her rescue. The eager
inquiry taught her of the near approach which she had made to
the revelation of her secret.
“Got here!” she exclaimed, turning to the spy. “Then
where is he? Why do we not see him? Go, good Blodgit,
and bring him to us at once.”
“Jes' you tell me, whay for fin' 'em, Pete Blodgit. I kin go
fetch 'em ef you tell me whay for look?” So spoke brave
Benny Bowlegs.
“That's jest what I kaint do, now; for I came here, you see,
to look a'ter him, and see ef he was safe. I know'd them bloody
chaps wor' a'ter him last night; fur I heard 'em a-screaming up
the road jest a'ter the major pushed off; and ef they cotched
him, with the heap of guineas he had about him, I reckon they'd
make no bones of putting a bullet into him, or a knife.”
“And who dem people bin?” demanded Benny, with an air
of the most perfect sincerity.
“Who, but the most savagest of all the tories in these parts
— Hell-fire Dick, and Skin-the-Sarpent, and Rafe Brunson, and
Joe Best, and, I reckon, thar' was others too, and they had
dogs.”
The old man groaned convulsively; then seemed to recover,
and, feebly speaking, though with quite a determined effort at
composure, he said —
“And so you know nothing more, Mr. Blodgit?”
“Not the weight of a feather, colonel. I pushed off at peep
o' day to see a'ter him; but there was nothing and nobody to
be seed anywhar. Thar' wor' hoof-marks enough 'long the
road, so thar' war' no telling. I reckon, the major hadn't time
to stop, and pushed on above, and they a'ter him. Ef he ain't
here, he's may be gone above.”
The faintest possible smile turned the corner of Benny
Bowlegs' mouth, like a little errant sunbeam through the woods
peeping into a country smithy; but he soon heaped over it all
the charcoal in his complexion, and it totally escaped Blodgit's
vision. His faculty was in the discovery of material matters
only. By this time, the redoubtable colonel had begun to recover
some of his strength and soldiership.
“What a d—d condition it is to be in! This cursed foot!”
and he looked down upon the member — so much more sinned
against than sinning — with some such look as the axe might be
supposed to have worn when it bit down through the purple arteries
of fair Anne Boleyn's neck. He continued — no doubt
perceiving how very idle it would be to waste his epithets of
anger on his own foot — turning to Boldgit —
“And you, a man grown, with gun and rifle in your hands —
you allowed the wretched boy to be shot down and butchered
in your sight, without so much as lifting weapon?”
“Lord bless you, kurnel, I didn't see it, nor them. I jest
hearn them and their dogs, as they went by, full speed, a'ter
the major, and he with all that money!”
“The rebel to his king! He deserves his fate; but you! —
you could wait till daylight, before you came to give the alarm,
instead of dashing after them!—”
“Why, Lord, kurnel, what was I to do, and a lame man too,
ag'in the most powerful, strong fighting-men of all the tories—”
“Loyalists, sirrah! loyalists! Though, by the way, these
fellows of whom you speak are mere outlaws—”
“I reckon, you're right thar!”
“Le' me ax you, Misser Pete Blodgit, whay Mass Willie bin
git all dem guineas?”
“Well, he got a smart chaince of them from me. I reckon,
going on to a hundred; and, I reckon, he had as many more
besides from other people.”
“And where did you get a hundred guineas?” demanded the
colonel.
“Why, kurnel, from the corn and fodder, you see, and the
kaives, and other things. The bettermost part b'longed to
Miss Carrie here, that I had killected for her from sales.”
“And tell me, Missir Pete Blodgit, how dem blackguard gemplemen
asked Benny, with a grave slyness and squint of eye.
“How they know'd? Well, I reckon they had a suspicion
of it: they reckon'd he wan't a travelling about with nothing to
go upon. But I don't know that they know'd at all!”
We must suppose a good many other questions asked and answered
after a fashion; but, it will be readily understood, that,
during the whole investigation, there was a certain constraint
over all the parties, with the exception of the colonel. The
daughter and Benny Bowlegs could not reveal their secret;
and Blodgit, from policy, kept his. The task before the daughter
was a severe one: to see her father suffer — to hear his involuntary
groan of anguish — to witness the struggle between
his pride, and the deep-seated but suppressed affections in his
heart — and to remain silent, when it was in her power, by a
single word, to relieve him of all his mental suffering at least!
“What is to be done?” moaned, rather than spoke the father,
forgetting all his Roman resolutions. “Would to God, I were
able to take the saddle!”
He looked inquiringly at Blodgit, but turned away with a
sickening gesture.
“Nothing from him!” he murmured despondingly. Suddenly
his eye caught that of Benny Bowlegs. “Ha! what's to
prevent you? You are able to mount horse, and use sabre, if
needs be; and there is Little Peter, who will fight for Willie
too! How is it, Ben, that I have to say to you — `Go and find
Willie Sinclair, living or dead, and bring him to his father?”
“De Lawd in heabben be praise, maussa! I gone! Come,
Misser Pete Blodgit; we kin go togedder; me, you, and Little
Peter. We kin all go togedder — by differen' roads. You ride
down, Misser Pete Blodgit; and little Peter and me, one, will
ride up. When you gits in de tick [thick] woods you scatter
you men; and me and Peter will scatter we two, and s'arch
ebbrywhare!”
This very definite arrangement chimed in with Blodgit's desires.
He had no wish that the negro, whom he somewhat
feared, should accompany him below. He was satisfied that
Willie Sinclair was not at the Barony. The old man's agony
could not have been Simulated. He had fulfilled his task sufficiently
in the eye of Colonel Sinclair, or that of his daughter, which
encouraged him to remain. Of course, he bowed himself out as
reverently as he came, the colonel scarcely heeding his expressions
of devotion and adieu; and Benny Bowlegs was particularly
careful to escort the overseer to his nag, and see him on
his way. He had ordered horses, in the hearing of Blodgit, for
himself and little Peter; and when the former rode off, he repeated
his instructions for that “s'arch below” in which Blodgit
was to scatter himself abroad, for the thorough exploration
of the `thick' forests. The spy, once out of sight, Benny had
his horses quietly put back into the stables.
Meanwhile, the old warrior, the stoical philosopher, the Roman
father, relieved of the presence of the stranger, buried his
face in his hands with a terrible burst of anguish, exclaiming in
the very words of the minstrel monarch —
“My son! my son! would God that I had died for thee, my
son!”
The tears gushed from Willie Sinclair's eyes in his place of
hiding, where he had heard every syllable. He could scarce
contain himself; and it required a prodigious effort to avoid
rushing forth and throwing himself at his father's feet. But
Carrie Sinclair, twining her arms about the old man's neck,
exclaimed—
“Oh! father, do not fear! There is nothing to fear! It is
not true that brother is in any danger! Willie has escaped the
outlaws!”
“Ha! ha! escaped, has he? Escaped! are you sure of it?
How do you come to know?”
“Benny is sure of it, father! He knows! He is certain!”
“If Benny is certain, I am satisfied! Escaped the bloodhounds,
has he? Ah!—” A long deep moan of relief. This
over, he looked up angrily — “And why did neither of you tell
me this before? Why did you suffer me to expose myself before
that reptile?”
“It was because Benny had reasons, father, for keeping that
very person in ignorance of our knowledge.”
“Benny is becoming too strategical by half! Why the
mystery? Is not this fellow, Blodgit, in the employ of Willie
fact in which he is naturally interested. Did he not show his
interest, in the very act of coming here in search of him?”
Benny reappeared at this very moment, and heard and
understood the remark.
“Shet up, maussa,” he said coolly, “and no bodder yourself
wid dis transaction. You hab 'nough to bodder you. 'Tis
'nough, I tell you now, dat dem d—n skunk, dat run Mass
Willie last night, no hab de nose for follow! He git shet ob
dem! I know! I see! I bin talk wid 'em myself dis morning,
by times, so help me God!”
“You did! You spoke with Willie this morning?”
“Jes' so! A good hour 'fo' daylight.”
“And Willie talked with you?”
“Jes' so! I yerry 'em talk.”
“And you spoke with him?”
“Zackly! I tell 'em heap o' tings.”
“You saw him, too, with your eyes open?”
“Jes' so, maussa! and feel 'em wid my open han!”
“Ah! to feel his wounds! He was hurt?”
“He no hab hu't [hurt] anywhar! I shake he han's, like
one gempleman shake han' wid 'noder gempleman; and I feed
'em! I gi' 'em someting for eat.”
“And he ate! — did he? — you saw him eat?”
“Like a mighty 'trong [strong] man, wid a mighty sharp
'tomach, maussa.”
“Ha! ha! ha! He had an appetite, had he?”
This was said with a convulsive chuckle. In a moment after,
with changed voice —
“And why, you d—d rascal, do you tell me these things?
What is it to me whether the rebel you speak of has an appetite
or not? Do you suppose I care a straw whether he can
speak with you or not; can see you or not? or whether you
see or speak with him? I wish to hear nothing of this sort in
future! Carrie, my child, you will please remember my wishes.
As for you, you sooty rascal, begone from my sight! Do not
come within reach of my stick! Do not let me see you again
to-day!”
Benny Bowlegs walked out very composedly, a grin mantling
up to her father; but he repulsed her gently. His eyes were
moist, and his face was in an instant covered in his hands.
Willie Sinclair peeped through the half-opened door at him,
while he sate in this position; but he did not venture to approach.
The son's eyes were very full of tears, when his sister
rejoined him, and in her chamber they retired to weep together
for awhile; in which performance, we may add, that Willie
Sinclair was soon very fast asleep.
| CHAPTER XI.
THE BARON. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days | |