 | CHAPTER XV.
THE FAMILY GROUP AT THE BARONY. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
THE FAMILY GROUP AT THE BARONY.
The whole affair was over in a moment. It had passed so
rapidly that the colonel had not recovered himself quite — not
enough for comment — when he beheld the stranger, to whose
timely blow he owed his life, stoop down to the stunned and
bleeding ruffian, and proceed to strip him of knife and pistols.
“Who is it,” he cried, “to whom I owe this help? Ha!
ha! my good fellow, whoever you are, you have taken lessons
in a first-rate British school! That buffet was delivered with
proper science; well aimed to rake the ear upward! The arm
duly shortened for delivery, the whole body working upon a
pivot; and the whole weight thrown into right arm and shoulder!
I have tried — I have taught — that blow, a thousand
times myself! Where did you learn it, my brave fellow?
Who are you?”
“What! don't you know me, father?”
“Ha! Willie! Willie, my son! Is it you? God be praised
— you are safe!”
Then, with entirely changed voice:—
“But how the devil should I know you in that villanous
dress? Is that a costume fit for a gentleman, or a gentleman's
son? Is that the uniform which your rebel authorities provide?
At least, they have some idea of propriety. The dress suits
the rabble.”
“I'll answer you directly, sir,” said Willie Sinclair, “as
soon as this rogue is properly roped.”
By this time both Carrie and Lottie had rushed down stairs.
They stood with their arms about the neck of the veteran. But
Willie Sinclair, speaking in the voice of authority, sent them
off.
“Back, Carrie; take Lottie with you! Back to your perch,
and keep a sharp lookout! We may have the rest of the outlaws
upon us before we know where we are. Back! Lose not
a moment; I will sound for Benny and Peter!
Thus speaking, Willie Sinclair winded his horn merrily,
while stooping over the prostrate ruffian whom he had entirely
disarmed. He did not forego his vigilance a moment. The
fellow was still insensible. At least, he made no motion, lying
upon his side, with the blood still trickling from his ear. In
truth, it was a formidable blow — scarcely to be conceived by
those who are ignorant of the degree of power, which one versed
in “the science” can throw into a muscular right arm. But the
rogue might be “playing possum” nevertheless. Such fellows
are tough, and capable of enduring many such buffets.
“Have you killed him?” asked the old man.
“No! His fate saves him from that! The gallows is not to
be defrauded of its prey! He is only stunned.”
“A good blow, Willie — well delivered! I taught you the
stroke myself. I remember all our practice.”
“Yes, indeed! and I thank you for the lesson, sir. It has
served a good purpose!”
“Ay, sir; and it is such as you, thus daily receiving proofs
of their admirable excellence, who would be for abandoning
all our best British institutions!”
The young man laughed merrily at the solemn imputation,
as he answered:—
“It seems not, sir. You see that I keep some of them in full
practice.”
At this moment Benny and Little Peter both appeared.
“A plough-line, Benny!” cried the major.
“You kill de blackguard, Mass Willie?”
“No! He is recovering! A plough-line!”
Benny was already prepared, and, with Peter's assistance, the
outlaw was roped tightly, hands and feet, and turned upon his
back, quiet as a turtle in like predicament.
“The bloody scoundrel!” — quoth the old man. “He had
me in a hitch, as he phrased it! But his present one seems
rather of the tightest fashion!”
“He no guine get out ob dis hitch, mass kurnel, wha' I put
complacency, putting his foot irreverently into the sides of the
outlaw.
Dick of Tophet now opened his eyes, which were very glassy,
and one of them bloodshot. They did not exhibit much intelligence,
but took in the surrounding aspects slowly, and with a
stupid sort of stare. Gradually, he seemed to be recovering his
senses. He endeavored to draw up his legs and stretch out his
arms; and thus acquired a full knowledge of his bonds. His
constraints brought back his consciousness. He felt his “sitivation”
evidently; but he was too old a ruffian — of a nature
quite too hard — to show any fear or feeling. He stared steadliy
into the faces about him, with a sort of scowling unconcern.
“Take him off to the lower story, boys,” said Willie, “and
give him a taste of rum or brandy. Soak a cloth with the
liquor, and put a bandage about his head. Then be off, on your
watch again!”
The negroes swung the outlaw up, by arms and feet, and he
was carried down into the brick basement of the dwelling. His
head was bandaged, and he eagerly swallowed the liquor that
was poured down his throat. Willie Sinclair, having seen him
safely shut up, returned to the dining-room. Carrie and Lottie
were also now permitted to come down to the reünion of the
family, as soon as the two negroes had resumed their places of
watch. Was that reunion now to be a grateful one? We
shall see.
Once more the baron sate with all his children around him.
He had resumed his composure. His cushions were restored;
his game leg was again put at ease — and the two girls safe
beside him. Willie Sinclair took a seat as composedly as
the outlaw had done, occupying nearly the same situation, directly
in front of his father; and the two surveyed each other
for a while, without speaking. At length the old man broke
silence:—
“So, sir — you think you have done great things by your performances
to-day!”
“Not great, sir. If I think about the matter at all, with any
gratification, it is only because I have been able to be of some
love.”
“Little service, sir! You saved my life!”
“Very likely, sir. I think so!”
“You came in the nick of time, Willie Sinclair: — in the very
nick of time; — but why were you absent at any time? That
is the question, sir?”
“It is one, sir, that we need not reargue.”
“Well, sir, as you please,” said the other stiffly. “To
shrink from arguing one's own cause is, perhaps, the best evidence
of its worthlessness!—and I am willing to admit, sir,
that you delivered an admirable buffet; — not only well-timed,
but well delivered! But who taught you that buffet, sir? Who
was it that had you carefully lessoned by the best boxer in old
England? Shame on you, sir; shame on you— to fly in the
face of your teacher, and strike at the very bosom from which
you drew your nurture!”
“My dear father — let us talk of something more pleasant to
both parties. It is not often that we meet, and you know that we
shall never agree upon this subject. Let us think of more grateful
topics. And, to begin, pray, let me ask — have you none of
that old Madeira left, sir — Hopson's brand — that famous pale
old Madeira? I confess my mouth waters for a smack of that
gentle creature. She was always a favorite of mine, and after
the rough work of the last half hour, I feel as if she would be
particularly grateful to my palate!”
“What! do the tastes of a gentleman still survive in the
bosom of a rapscallion rebel? They should be encouraged.
Get us a bottle, Carrie, my dear, out of the garret. You know
the brand. Don't shake. Decant it carefully. The fellow
deserves a drink — the best reward, perhaps, of a prize-fighter.”
And the veteran laughed — with a merry twinkle in his great
blue eye — arched as it was with bushy brows — and a pleasant
twist of his still rosy lips. Who could fancy beneath that
countenance a hard and relentless nature? Who could fail to
see, in that genial smile, that his son was the apple of his eye?
Nature was declaring herself at this moment, at every hazard.
The old man was by no means so tough as at forty-five. The
excitements of the day — his gout — all had unsettled him; and
was in temporary suspension. The blood, the heart, were comparatively
at liberty to argue as they pleased, and they took
advantage of the opportunity.
But not for long! Willie Sinclair had outraged all the old
man's notions of propriety — his faith, his loyalty — the prescriptive
pride of numerous generations — his own individual
sentiments and feelings, which a social aristocracy had long
nourished into absolute laws. Besides, our veteran was of pure
Saxon — sanguine temperament. He was off in a flash! never
long at one point, constantly veering with every impulse,
and no more to be fixed than the well-oiled vane upon the
house-top. Don't suppose, by this, that we mean to describe
him as capricious of principle — only of emotion. Never was
man more honorable, or more steadfast to the polar star of truth
and justice, than the elder Willie Sinclair. We have seen, that,
with death staring him in the face, without help or remedy, he
yet scorned to make a single concession, for safety, to the brutal
and exacting insolence of the outlaw whose knife threatened
his throat. Death, by any process, was preferable to this!
Though our colonel was obedient to his impulses, yet these impulses
were all tuned and regulated by his habitual recognition
of moral and social law. All his instincts — and there are moral
as well as animal instincts — pity that we study them so little,
or so seldom allow for them — were those of justice, faith, loyalty!
He was a good sample of the best English squirearchy,
when the squirearchy of England was legitimate — in the days
of Falkland and Hampden — frank, hearty, honest — stubborn,
it may be, for stubbornness is somewhat necessary to virtue
itself — but no simulacrum—no mere sham, the miserable mockery,
not the semblance, of what was an honored and a living
thing.
The wine was brought, bright, clear, amber-like, and smiling
through the crystal glass like evening sunshine in the eyes of
beauty.
“Shall I fill for you, sir?” quoth the major, taking up the
decanter.
“It is scarce possible to deny myself,” answered the veteran,
“yet” — with a grunt — “I shall pay the penalty if I drink
gentleman.”
“His privileges rather,” answered the son. “But one glass
will hardly trouble you, and I doubt if this bright liquor is a bit
more unfriendly to the gout than your tea and coffee.”
“What do you know about the matter, sir? — but fill — fill!
I will venture upon a single glass only, and shall hope for immunity
in sinning, as,from necessity, I forbear the full extent
of my desires. There was a time, Willie, when I could no more
have paused, the taste once taken, till the bottle was empty,
than I could have flown. Sir — the king's health! Will you
drink that?”
“Ay, sir, why not! You do not object to my additional wish
that he may soon attain his proper senses and temper, as well
as his health.”
“D—n your amendment, sir, and drink as you please!
There will never be an increase of sense in your case, I fear.”
“Well, sir, that should trouble neither of us, so long as what
I have suffices for the preservation of my tastes. You see, I
have by no means lost my relish for this goodly spirit,” and he
refilled his glass as he spoke.
“What do they give you to drink in camp?”
“Oh! I shall puzzle you! We have a beverage in camp,
sir — that is when we have any, that is probably very much
like the nectar of the ancients — born of the sun and of the dew;
— of night and noonday in equal proportions; — which at once
fires and subdues; — wings you to the stars, yet puts you comfortably
to sleep on a bed of earth that does not need to be
spread with moss.”
“You are not speaking of Jamaica?”
“No, sir: I rather prefer the Jamaica when I can get it, to
this potent liquor. The Jamaica is not without other qualities
which I somewhat affect. But our opportunities of judging
of the one are too infrequent to prevent us from a very warm
appreciation of the other—”
“It is Hollands!”
“No! It's birthplace is much more picturesque. There is
a beautiful river, sir, of our sister state, Virginia—”
“Colony, sir—”
“As you please — state or colony — the political position of
the region has no sort of effect upon the qualities of this goodly
beverage, which derives its popular name from a beautiful river
of Virginia, which rises among the Laurel mountains — famous
birthplace — runs north for three hundred miles, and loses
itself at last in the Ohio, which it infuses with new virtues.
Its waters are not waters, but virtues, or they fable greatly
who tell us that this beverage either oozes from its banks,
or is borne onward undiluted by its currents. It is scooped
up—”
“What nonsense! What is the name of this river?”
With profound gravity the other replied to the question:—
“Monongahela!”
“Pshaw! and you have been prating all the time of whiskey!
— the most infernal of all drinks that burn up human vitals!
No wonder you smack your lips with new life at the taste of
Madeira.”
“You are right, sir. Monongahela, though quite popular in
camp, is by no means a favorite of mine. In spite of its divine
origin and pretty name, I prefer Madeira. Sir, I do myself the
honor to drink the health of my father in a bumper.”
And the action seconded the word.
“Faith, Willie, at this rate, you will need no help of mine in
finishing the bottle. But you are welcome. It will help to
show you what you forfeit by your insane politics. By the
way, talking of your camp — have you any camp left anywhere?
— any foothold, swamp or highland, in which you keep
your ground? If I err not, Lord Rawdon, at last advices, had
driven your Yankee general wholly out of sight. And these
garments in which you now appear! Tell me, my son, are you
not a fugitive?”
This was said with great concern. Meanwhile, our major of
dragoons had taken little Lottie into his arms, and she was
perched upon his knee, with her head nestling lovingly on his
shoulder.
“A fugitive!”
“Ay, sir, a fugitive — flying from danger — pursued by superior
forces — your own forces utterly dispersed — a rebel in
danger of the rope — a fugitive from justice!”
The major put down the child, and rubbed his hands merrily.
“Well, sir, you will give me shelter?”
“I know not that I do not make myself criminal in doing so;
but I trust, sir, that I am not without influence in his majesty's
army — my known loyalty — my past services — will enable
me, I trust, to secure your safety — your pardon. But only on
condition, Willie, that you are truly repentant — that you renounce
your rascally associates—”
“It does not need, my dear father. I trust that I shall never
seek to purchase mere safety by the sacrifice of honor; trust
still more earnestly that my father will never descend to the
necessity of proposing or encouraging such sacrifice.”
The father absolutely groaned, whether from gout or reflection
it is not needful that we inquire. The major of dragoons
continued:—
“No, sir; I am in no sort of danger. The only representatives
of his Britannic majesty in these precincts at present are
of a class that is much more apt to endanger you than me. You
have had a taste of the quality to-day.”
“What, sir, you do not pretend to say that this atrocious outlaw
serves under the standard of my sovereign?”
“You heard his own boast to that effect.”
“But he lied, sir — lied in his throat. He is a scoundrel, an
outlaw, a miserable marauder and plunderer.”
“Very true; but it is not the less true that he has been, and
is still, I believe, in the service of the British general. He is
absolutely a sort of officer, and was, to my knowledge, at one
time, a sergeant of that efficient corps of rangers to which his
lordship of Rawdon and Moira gave the title of Congaree foragers.”
“Lord Rawdon employ such rascals — never!”
“Nay, his lordship is not in a situation to scruple at any
qualities in his levies. He is only too well pleased to fill the
gaps in his regiments with any sort of cattle. His lordship
thinks with Falstaff, that, if good for nothing else, they are at
least excellent food for powder.”
“Do you mean to say, sir, that there is a lack of troops in the
British army?”
“A most alarming one.”
“Since when? He has a force, I am sure, quite adequate to
all his purposes.”
“Yes — if they be retreat, flight, and the loss of the country
— adequate to nothing else, sir.”
“What! and when he has just driven your Yankee blacksmith
general out of sight — out of the colony!”
“You get intelligence slowly here, my dear father, or it is
manufactured at the wrong mint. Are you not aware that Lord
Rawdon has abandoned Ninety-Six, almost as soon as he relieved
it?”
“The devil he has! I don't — I won't believe a word of it.”
“Very well! You will see in sufficient season for yourself.
Why, sir, he is even now in full retreat; and now, Colonel
Cruger is only lingering at Ninety-Six to collect the loyalists
and all their families, and bring them off from a region which
has grown quite too hot to hold them. We are soon about to
witness the melancholy spectacle of the exodus from their homes
of an entire colony, men, women, and children, numbering
thousands, who, committed to the fortunes of the British army,
are destined to share and anticipate their fate.”
“Pooh! pooh! all this is simply ridiculous.”
“Why, sir, have you not seen the fall, one by one, of every
British post in the interior. Rawdon abandons and burns
Camden — Forts Watson, Motte — the posts at Granby, Augusta,
and Silver Bluff, all succumb; — by a prodigious effort, employing
almost all his force, leaving Charleston to a guard
rather than a garrison, he relieves Ninety-Six, and that he is
obliged to abandon also. In a few days he will reach the
Congarees in full retreat; and you may look to see him making
a post of rest, before long, of Orangeburg, or possibly, the Sinclair
Barony, on his flight to the seaboard.”
“Spite of all disaster, sir, Lord Rawdon shall be welcome to
Sinclair Barony, and if need be, to avert the event which you
threaten, its master and all his slaves shall arm for the crown.
It is not in a moment of peril that I will abandon that standard
under which I have grown to manhood.”
“I should be the last person in the world, my father, to wish
to see you do so. God forbid that in any exigency a man
should abandon his principles. You see things with other eyes
through a false medium. But you are to adhere to what you
recognise as true. You, sir, must also feel that I am required
by the laws of conscience to obey a similar necessity. It is a
melancholy necessity, my dear father, which divides us in this
war, but it is not the less a necessity with both — one which
duly results from the very exercise of the best virtues. Believe
me, sir, you can not have endured more mortification than
I have pain, in the choice which renders me heedless of your
sympathies and desires.”
“Ah! Willie, Willie!” murmured the veteran tenderly —
”it is a cruel, cruel dispensation. Why my son could you not
feel with me, think with me, follow the course which I have
taken, sustain the banner which I have borne.”
“It could not be, sir! What was right with you, and in your
day, would be wrong in mine.”
“How is that possible, sir? What is right yesterday, is
right to-morrow — right for a thousand years — right for eternity.”
“Yes, sir, in simple morals that would be quite true, but not
in respect to the policy of nations. With these, right changes
aspect according to political necessities, and the altered conditions
of states. There is one truth, sir, which always eludes the
class to which you belong.”
“What is that, sir?”
“That the American colonies have passed through their
minority. A people who are able to maintain themselves
against foreign pressure, have survived the necessity of foreign
rule. The mental and social developments which enable them
to defend themselves by arms, are in proof of resources which
revolt at foreign dominion. If the American mind is equal to
its own necessities, it is adequate to its own rule. If we no
longer need English armies for our protection, we no longer
need English mind for our government.”
“But this, sir, is the argument of ingratitude. You forget the
past, sir — the immense debt, arms, men, money, all means and
appliances, for strength and safety, which we owe to the mother-country.”
“No, sir, it is Britain that forgets. We have forgotten nothing.
sacrifice of our liberties. That you should lend me money —
nay, give it — protect me in weakness — help and cherish me in
sickness — gives you no right to enslave me for ever for these
services.”
“Don't talk of slavery, sir, taxation is not slavery.”
“The denial of our right, sir, is the worst slavery, and this
was the error and offence of Britain. It proved her to be neither
just nor wise. But do not let us glide into the renewal of old
discussions. They can not serve us now. They can not change
your habit, nor unsettle my principles. Let us talk of other
things — of home, sir, of yourself, of the girls — of any subject
but this which divides us.”
The veteran sighed deeply.
“Willie Sinclair, my son, I sometimes feel that I could curse
you, so bitterly do I suffer from the choice you have made
against my sovereign.”
“Do not that, my dear father — do not that!” answered the
major tenderly, as he took the old man's hand, and carried it to
his lips. The eyes of both were filled with tears. Carrie Sinclair
stole round and passed her arm about the veteran's neck;
little Lottie encircled that of her brother, intuitively, in the
same manner. The father audibly sobbed as he replied:—
“But that I know you to be honest, Willie, I could have cursed
you, and driven you for ever from my sight. But you have
always been truthful, and spoken the truth; and I honor you,
sir — honor you, though your course has sometimes maddened
me; — and I rejoice in your valor and good name, Willie
Sinclair, as a gentleman and a soldier, though your sword is
raised for the defeat and dishonor of my sovereign.”
After this there was silence for a space. When the dialogue
was resumed, the subject was changed. For the present there
were no more reproaches.
| CHAPTER XV.
THE FAMILY GROUP AT THE BARONY. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days | |