University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
NEW CAUSES OF APPREHENSION.

The operations of Dick of Tophet, however mysterious the
proceeding might appear to those who know nothing of the resource
and hardihood which were acquirable in such a civil war
as that which raged in the Carolinas and Georgia during the
last three years of the Revolution, were yet exceedingly simple.
One would think that, tied hand and foot, his arms laced together
behind his back, it would be impossible for the outlaw to
make his escape without succor from another party. But the
fire once accorded him by the slave, the rest was easy. Dick
could easily simulate the sufferings of one seized with “the
shaking agy.” His “shibbering” imposed upon the sympathies
and unquestioning simplicity of Congaree Polly; and a negro,
even in midsummer, never needs an argument to establish the
advantages of a blazing fire. Polly never hesitated to light the
brands for Dick just as he required. He had no other service
to seek at her hands; and, the moment she disappeared, the
hardy ruffian thrust his feet over the blazing lightwood, and endured
the scorching flame without shudder or retreat, until the
cords snapped in twain which bound his legs together. He was
greatly scorched and burnt, but he was tough, and however
deficient in other virtues, he had that of endurance in perfection.
He was now able to stand upon his feet, and to walk.
Could he escape? Was he watched? Where were his guards?
To answer these questions satisfactorily required some little
time, and he proceeded to look into his situation with the greatest
precaution. He occupied one of four rooms in a brick basement.
These rooms were appropriated to inferior purposes.
One was a lumber-room, the door of which was locked. This
was opposite his own. Another was a “wash-room,” and he

could hear the blanchisseuse at her operations within. The door
was open. A common passage led to all, and by a stair-flight
to the upper apartments. To these he had no desire to ascend,
now that he was weaponless, and knew what sort of customer
he should probably have to encounter in his attempt. It was
quite clear that he was able to escape from the dwelling, but
was it equally certain that he should succeed, unseen, in crossing
the court, and getting into the cover of the woods? At all
events these offered him the only chance of refuge. The effort
must be made. Any peril which might follow him in flight was
preferable to the certain doom which awaited him in his present
bonds. He knew Willie Sinclair well. He knew what he
had to expect in the camp of Marion to which he concluded
himself to be destined. There was not a moment's hesitation
in his adoption of the resolve to fly.

But in what manner was the question? He had made his
observations, stealing from door to door of the several apartments
of the basement, listening at each, peeping into them
through crack and keyhole, and, out of the house, through door
and window. The employment, by Sinclair, of most of the
house-servants along the edge of the wood below — a fact which
our outlaw now readily conceived—afforded him comparative freedom
from detection while making his reconnoissance. The kitchen
was some thirty yards from the house. Half-a-dozen little negroes
were playing in front of it. Congaree Polly could be
seen occasionally going to and fro. It required but five minutes
to pass from the dwelling to a little copse on the right which
gradually stretched away till it mingled with the trees of the
avenue along the public road. This was the route which the
outlaw proposed to take, as likely to afford the best shelter, and
as, most probably, left unwatched by the scouting negroes.

But should he be encountered — his arms bound — no weapon
in his grasp? The meanest negro of the plantation could, in
such case — and he well knew, would — despatch him with a
billet. The fierce outlaw shuddered at the thought of his defencelessness
in such a danger. To die fighting was scarcely a
subject of his fears at any time; but to be incapable of a blow;
to see it descending, and from a negro's hand, and offer no resistance;—
this was a fear which the ruffian could not contemplate

without a shudder. If free to fly, he must be free to fight!
He must be able to lift his hands unmanacled, and to grasp a
weapon in them.

It is surprising how soon one finds means and resources where
the will and courage are not wanting. How thought meets necessity,
and ingenuity extricates strength from shackles. Will
and courage are the true gods of circumstance, and supply the
tools as well as the opportunity. Now, base, bloody, brutal as he
was, Dick of Tophet had these qualities in large degree. With
one or more other virtues he might have been a great man.
Had his education trained his sensibilities and tastes, equally
with his nerves and muscles, he might have substituted the
name of hero for that of outlaw. As it was, he was capable
of great things in the latter character. He conceived the process
by which to release his arms from the rope; he had but to exercise
the same firmness in the process that he had shown while
his ankles had been held above the flame of the blazing light-wood
and he could be free! The performance was a more
tedious as well as trying one, but if his endurance held, it was
as certain in its results.

Conceive now the awkwardness of this proceeding, as we
watch his operations. His arms are fast tethered together behind
his back, the wrists secured by the ropes with a space of
a few inches between them. It was as Benny Bowlegs boasted,
“a powerful hitch”— such as it would have been impossible for
any physical strength to rend asunder. The knot was crossed just
beneath the small of the outlaw's back. He calculated all his
difficulties nicely; then, with his feet, drew one of the blazing
brands from the fireplace out upon the hearth. This done he
deliberately let himself down upon the floor, in a half-sitting,
half-lying posture, with the cord directly over the blaze. In
this position he could see nothing of the operation — only feel!
His clothes took fire. He rolled himself over upon the floor
and thus extinguished it; rolled himself back over the flame,
and was again in a blaze! He had recourse to the same expedient
as before, of rolling upon his back, until the flame was
subdued. Thrice did he require to save himself in this manner,
and terrible was the suffering which he endured. His back was
in a blister — his neck — his very hair was seized by the flame!

But such was his coolness and resolution that he persevered
until the cords snapped apart that bound him, and his arms were
free; then he leaped to his feet, and in the joy which he felt, in
spite of all his pain, he could scarce forbear whooping aloud his
triumph. Let the prisoner, in a similar “hitch” take note of
the process by which it may be undone, and if he has the courage
to endure, he has in his own hands the means of his escape.

The mind's conscious triumph almost subdues the body's sufferings.
Our Dick of Tophet suffered truly, but not so much at
this moment, as he was destined to suffer a few hours later.
His anxiety helped somewhat to subdue the intensity of his
pains. He had trembled while his experiment was in progress,
not because of the pain, but lest he should be interrupted. But
our major of dragoons was too busy with the family above stairs
— the outlaw could hear the subdued tones of their voices, while
he stole through the passage;— and Congaree Polly was engaged
in the solemn duty of spreading the table for dinner.
She had passed up-stairs and down, and from the house to the
kitchen, twice, while the prisoner was undergoing his self-imposed
infliction of fire. He had heard her progress, and then
it was that his heart swelled, and his frame trembled with apprehension.
It was over! His limbs were free, and he must
be prompt if he would escape. He had no time to think of
burnt clothes, shrivelled hair, and blistered back and arms.
His sleeves were burnt, his arms scorched and blackened from
wrist to elbow;— but he was free. His hands were free — his
feet! He allowed them no delay. He gave himself a moment
only to draw the brands from the hearth and lay them down
together on the floor. He cursed the bare chamber in which he
had been lodged that it contained no fuel, no furniture, no bed-clothes,
no stuffs of any kind which could be made to contribute
to the rapid spread of the fire. Should the house suddenly
break out into flame, his chances of escape would be increased;
and then what a fine turn of vengeance would he have done
the class of “harrystocrats” that he so much hated!

He did what he could, in the brief moment allowed him to
effect his vindictive and destructive object. He piled the blazing
lightwood upon the floor, and left it to do its pleasure, even
as Willie Sinclair found it.

The latter fortunately came in season to stifle the flame which
had already communicated to the floor. It required but a few
moments to draw the brands apart, and cast water upon the
burning fragments.

“Fool that I was!” he muttered, as he was thus employed,
“to suffer a negro — and a woman too — to approach the scoundrel!”
and thus muttering and feeling, he made his way up-stairs
and sounded his bugle thrice to summon to the house his
two scouting negro-fellows, and such others as they might have
gathered about them.

“But where is the dog — where is Tiger all this time? I had
thought to ask after him before. Had he been about the dwelling
this villain never would have ventured nigh. At all events
we should have had warning of every one of the rascal's movements.”

“Little Peter been tek' Tiger wid 'em to de wood,” answered
Congaree Polly.

“Ah! that accounts for it! I can not blame him, for Tiger
would be quite as serviceable on the scout as here. But we
must now have them all back, Benny, Peter, Tiger — all that
we can gather together. We must contract our forces if we
would make them answer any good purpose. To encounter
these rascals properly, we must draw them out of the wood.
We are quite a match for them, I think, if they venture to attack
the house.”

And Willie Sinclair again sounded the bugle for the return
of the negroes.

“What a determined rascal!” exclaimed the veteran, meditating
the outlaw's escape. “Who could have thought it? And
how the scoundrel must have suffered! What hardihood and
endurance. By Jove, sir, if that fellow could have been caught
young, and trained properly, he would have become famous.”

“Yes, indeed! We know him of old. He is capable of the
most desperate things. Let me tell you, sir, his scorchings must
have been a few degrees severer than your twinges of gout!”

“And then the resource!”

“Yes, it reminds me of an affair that took place at the capture
of Orangeburg, when Fisher held the garrison by Sumter.
Among the prisoners were two notorious outlaws, Cooper and Pendarvis.

They were intrusted to the care of two whigs, Travis and
Duesto; Travis, by the way, being a cousin of the Captain Travis,
of Edisto, of whom we have spoken. No doubt that the
persons would have been tried and hung when they had reached
Belleville; but the two men having charge of them, were impatient
of any such tedious process of getting rid of them. They
were personal enemies of the prisoners, and the latter gave
them some trouble along the road, requiring, every now and
then, to be pricked forward with the bayonet. They were both
handcuffed together, the left arm of Cooper being riveted to the
right of Pendarvis. As the evening approached, Travis proposed
to Duesto, to shoot the prisoners, and thus relieve themselves
from the trouble in respect to them. The measure was
agreed on, and both fired at the same moment. The two
handcuffed men fell together, Pendarvis sprawling completely
over the body of Cooper. The former was slain outright, the
latter only wounded slightly. But he pretended to be dead and
lay quiet. The murderers ascertained that Pendarvis was dead,
and they presumed that Cooper was also. But to make sure,
Travis run his bayonet through Cooper's neck, the wounded
man feeling and hearing the steel as it grated in the sand below
him. Yet he was cool and hardy enough still to remain quite.
and so they were left on the roadside, not a mile from the village.
When they were gone, Cooper recovered, and threw off
the body of Pendarvis. But, handcuffed to the dead man, with
the use of his own right only, how was he to extricate himself?
The hitch seems to have been more sure than that of our Dick of
Tophet. But he had similar resources. He dragged the body
of Pendarvis, who was a very large and portly person, to the
woods, there he found a couple of lightwood knots; he laid the
fettered hand of the dead man upon one of these knots, and
with the other he beat it to a jelly, then withdrew it from the
shackle; and, wounded in the body, with a bayonet thrust through
the neck, feeble from loss of blood, the stubborn scoundrel
made off, carrying with him the handcuffs, till he got down to
Fletcher's blacksmith shop, where he had the fetters stricken
off, and made his way finally in safety to his home in the Forks
of Edisto. He is living yet, and, I am sorry to say, is as great
a rogue and tory as ever.”

“The fellow was a hero, sir — and I rejoice that such hardy
courage is engaged on the right side.”

“The right side with him, and most of the same kidney, is
that which promises most plunder. In less than three months,
he will probably find his way to Marion's camp, imploring to be
received to mercy, and professing the greatest penitence for his
evil deeds. Courage and endurance are no doubt admirable
virtues in a soldier, but they are such as we are just as apt to
find in the bosom of a sturdy ruffian. All of these rascals with
whom we are now threatened are in the service of his Britannic
majesty.”

“D—n 'em! I don't care in whose service they profess to
be, if I can only get a shot at them. But, for this infernal
gout, Willie, I should answer confidently against a score of the
scamps; but wheel me up to yonder window, and let me have
my pistols. By the Lord Harry, but I long to have a crack or
two at a scoundrel before I cease to kick. I feel that a little
excitement in my head will lessen the infernal twitchings in my
foot. Oh! for ten years that I have lost — I may say in doing
nothing.”

“I would to Heaven, sir, that you had twenty back, and
were fighting on the right side.”

“Oh! d—n the side!” cried the old man, now thoroughly
roused and excited. “Devil take the side when a fight's going
for'a'd! That's not the time to discuss the rights of the question.
Wheel me to the window I say, Willie, and let me have
a hand in the game. The pistols, Carrie, the old dogs! I will
refresh their memories with a good feed.”

“Here they are, papa,” cried Lottie, running up. “Here
they are! Shall I load 'em for you, papa?”

“Load 'em for me! Hear that, Willie! What think you of
my putting Lottie in small-clothes, and making her my henchman?
Ha! ha! And who taught you to load pistols, hussy?”

“Oh! I can load them, papa: I've seen brother Willie load
'em often, and I watched him. First you put in the powder,
you know — there's the little charger — then the wadding, and
then the bullet — and you wad that too, papa.”

“By the Lord Harry she does seem to know all about it!
Well, you shall load one of them, Lottie, while I load the other.

Now, let us see how you put your education to use. Right!
That is the measure.”

And, really, the little creature showed that she had watched
the process closely; she proceeded to her task with equal
promptness and propriety.

“That will do for ramming the powder down, Lottie.
There's a rule in rhyme for ramming, Lottie, which you will
remember:—

Good! I see you know all about it, my girl. You shall be a
soldier's wife, Lottie.”

“Yes, papa: I shall be Lord Edward's, papa; he's such a
nice, handsome, brave cavalier!”

“What! so ambitious, little Lottie! But that can't be.
Lord Edward is for Carrie, and you must not think to rival
your sister, Lottie.”

“Oh! she shall have all my rights, papa,” cried Carrie, with
a slight suffusion of the cheek, as she was employed parading
swords and pistols for her brother; “I relinquish in Lottie's
favor.”

“Yes, papa, sis don't want Lord Edward. She's for another
sort of cavalier. Don't you remember the song she made:—

“Hush, Lottie, hush, child!” said Carrie, unnecessarily flushed
in the face.

“Let her speak, Carrie,” said the old man. “She is evidently
far advanced in a damsel's peculiar education. She is
preparing herself to be a soldier's bride.”

“It must be Lord Edward, papa.”

“Well, if you will be your sister's rival, it is at your own
peril: but where's Willie gone?”

The major of dragoons had left the house, and the veteran
now for the first time heard the distant baying of bloodhounds
in the woods below, significant of a hunt in progress. It was
these sounds which had called him off from the party; and,
whispering to Carrie to keep a sharp look-out from the upper
story, he stole out, well armed, to join the negroes, who had
thus far failed to answer the requisitions of his bugle.

He found Benny on the alert — Peter was scouting with the
dog Tiger.

“He must come in,” said the major. “These fellows will
capture him.”

“Nebber fear for Little Peter, Mass Willie; dem blackguard
nebber guine catch 'em.”

“But we want him here, Benny. We shall need him and
many others, I fear. That rascal Hell-fire Dick has got off.”

“Git off! Hell-fire Dick git off! How he git off, out o' dat
hitch I put on 'em?” demanded the negro in consternation.

Briefly, the major told the story of the good services of Congaree
Polly.

“Dat gal will be de deat' of me yit!” cried Benny Bowlegs.
“And wha for done now?”

“Fall back and protect the house. We may look for an attack
from these scoundrels. It is evident that Dick has not yet
joined them, or he would stop their trailing. He now knows
where I am. He knows that I have no support.”

“Wha'! and whay's Benny Bowlegs? Enty he's yer!”
And he dropped the butt of the shot-gun of his master, with
which he had armed himself, heavily upon the ground, with the
air of an old soldier who knew his strength. “And whay's
Little Peter? Little Peter guine fight like de debbil, Willie
Sinclair, when de scratch come!”

“I hope so, Benny; so we'll have Little Peter in as soon as
possible.” And he prepared to sound for him.

“Le' me gee 'um a call, Mass Willie; Little Peter comprehen's
my music better dan your'n.”

And the fellow blew three peculiar notes on his hunting-horn
— an instrument with which all southern negroes are pretty
familiar, and which the cowdriver and the hog-minder employ
as much as the deer-hunter. Soon they heard Peter's response;
and before many minutes the fellow made his appearance, followed
by Tiger. The dog was lively, keen, wistful, and impatient
— eager, apparently, to retrace his steps to the woods,
where still, at moments, the deep, distant baying of his own
species was to be heard.

“See how he bristle up!” said Little Peter, pointing to the
dog.

“I sooner hab Tige dan half ob dem foot-sodgers!” quoth
Benny, rubbing down the dog's bristles.

The major did not seem to heed what was said. He mused
a while, then remarked:—

“We have men enough for our weapons, Benny, if not enough
for these outlaws.”

“Hab 'nough for dem too, maussa.”

“I hope so! I trust we shall have more in another hour.
Meantime, it might be well to gather up a dozen of the field
hands. They will fight at a pinch.”

“Some o' dem, maussa. But it must be a hard pinch, I tell
you. Let me stand behind Bullhead Dabe, Slick Sam, and
Snubnose Martin, an' I mek' 'em fight. Ef you say so, I kin
sen' off, and bring up tree, seben, fibe ob de boys.”

“Do so; send Peter at once. Where's the indigo-field, this
year?”

“Jest a mile off, back ob de settlement.”

“It's 'most time for first cutting, Benny.”

“Two week off, at furdest, maussa. Ha! you ain't forgit
how to mek' a crop!”

“The hands are not there?”

“No, sah! dey're working in de corn jest now; and dat's
only tree quarters ob a mile. Set off, you, Little Peter, and
bring up Bullhead Dabe, and Slick Sam, and Snubnose Martin;
and don't you say noting 'bout de sawt ob work we hab for 'em;
and don't you stop for talk wid any ob dem woman. Woman
is always sure for spile de sport ob sodger gemplemans. As for
you' gal, Congaree Polly, 'member I owe 'em a licking, and
ef you no 'habe [behave] yourself decent an' orderly, I hab for
gee um. Wha' you tink, tis him let dat d—d polecat, Debbil
Dick, out ob de hitch I mek.”

“You no tell me so, Uncle Benny! I lick 'em mese'f!” exclaimed
Little Peter indignantly. “Wha' he hab for do wid
Debbil Dick?” and he looked fiercely inquisitive; and, as he
said afterward, he felt “sassy like a wild-cat.”

“Nebber min' dat!” quoth Benny. “Be off on you trotters.
Lef de dog. We's maybe want 'em yer.”

Par parenthese, we may mention, that a nickname, derived
from an event or a characteristic, sticks wonderfully to a plantation-negro.

Bullhead Daby, and Slick Sam, had their epithets
from characteristic qualities; Snubnose Martin was distinguished
by the most contemptible of his features, one of the
meanest and “onnaterallest leetle bits of noses,” according to
Benny, that ever dared to stand out from a broad lake of face;
a sort of petty islet in the sea of Acheron. Congaree Polly
was so named in contradistinction to Wassamasaw Polly — another
woman on the same plantation. The prefixes, in both
cases, were derived from their places of birth. We may add
that it was no uncommon thing to find the whites similarly discriminated
by the common people. There were the Savannah
river and the Edisto Huttos for example; the Santee and
Ashepoo and Edisto Baltezegars, &c.; and, in all these and
many other instances, the families were found on opposite sides
in the war.

Little Peter was off in a moment to bring up his recruits.
Meanwhile, the sounds of the hunt from below seemed to approach.
The baying of the beagles could be heard distinctly,
and the cries of the hunters cheering them on, were now distinguished.

“We must put ourselves under cover, and in readiness. We
may have to stand a siege, Benny.”

“God be praise, Mass Willie, we kin all fight like de debbil.”

Benny, you will perceive, was piously inclined.

“If we can keep them off, for a single hour, Benny, we shall
ask no odds.”

“Wha' you speck in dat single hour, maussa?”

“Peyre St. Julien, with a company of my battalion, Benny.”

“Ha! I lub to hear 'bout battalion. Battalions is better dan
rigiments.”

“Rather! I wish these scoundrels to besiege us, Benny, and
would have them come on with confidence.”

“Da's right; for ef Cappin St. Julien is a-coming, den we
hab de blackguards in a trap.”

“Exactly! There were only four of them last night, but
there may be more this morning. I suspect they have been
joined by others of the gang.”

“De more de better! Den de buzzard will hab better chance
at picking, and moutbe, won't nose up so many of my sheep.”

Benny, like most drivers on a plantation, usually spoke of it,
with all its chattels, as his own. So, discussing the prospects
before them, the two took their way to the house, the dog following
them, but with some reluctance.

Here, Willie Sinclair made all his dispositions for defence.
Benny brought into requisition certain little negroes, who were
set to watch from housetop, tree, and kitchen. Congaree Polly,
rather in disgrace, and terribly humbled, was sent up to the
roof, and her head, looking pilloried and very black in the
face, was thrust through the scuttle; and, with watches set, and
weapons loaded, 'Willie Sinclair bade the cook bring in the dinner
as she could — his father showing himself quite impatient at
the prospect of having his roast lamb and boiled mutton, upon
which he prided himself, overdone. The orders of his son propitiated
him.

“A cook that does her dishes to rags, Willie,” quoth he, “is
an emissary of the devil.”

“An opinion,” replied the other, “for which my friend Captain
Porgy would embrace you, sir, across the table.”

“Porgy — Captain Porgy, sir? Is it possible, Willie Sinclair,
that your miserable service requires you to associate with persons
having such detestable names? Why, sir, among gentlemen,
even the fish of that name is only held fit for negroes.”

“Sir, I believe, with Shakespere, that `a rose by any other
name would smell as sweet.'”

“And I don't believe in any such doctrine. Names are not
only things, sir, but they are significant of virtues. Call a rose
a radish and it bites the tongue. And that any respectable
service should accord a commission to a man named Porgy is
absolutely monstrous.”

“Wait, sir, till you know my friend Porgy.”

“God forbid, sir, that I ever should.”

“When you do, sir — as I am now sworn that you shall know
him — I will wager a wagon-load of continental money against
a Jacobus, that you offer him not only a perpetual seat at your
table, but the entire management of your cook. Captain
Porgy, sir, is the only wit and buffoon, sir, that I ever met, or
heard of, who never suffered you once to forget that he was all
the while a gentleman.”

And the party sat down to dinner.

“Now,” said the veteran, “if these rascals will only hold off
till we have swallowed dinner, I shall be in better mood for the
conflict.”

“Thought like an Englishman!” said the major of dragoons.

“And how should I think but as an Englishman, and where
do you think the American or any other race, would think differently?
Your rascally French allies are not to be quoted at
all in such matters.”

“And yet they are held to be perfect masters in such matters.”

“Ay, sir, as cooks, to dress and prepare the food, sir, but not
to eat it. Give them what credit you please, as cooks, but the
grace, taste, and general ability, with which an Englishman
eats, is unequalled, sir, by any people.”

“The subject is one of endless ramifications, sir, and would
require for its discussion more practical experience than I have
yet had in such matters; but we may safely assume, I think,
that a people who know so well how to prepare the dishes, is
hardly wanting in the ability to do them proper justice.”

“Well, sir, is that mutton to your liking?”

“Exactly, sir; and you see I am proving my ability after
our poor American fashion. In respect, however, to the effect
which a good dinner, not stinted, has upon the fighting man,
you should hear my friend Porgy. He says, that an American
should never be forced into battle with a full stomach. He admits
the British to be differently constituted, but thinks that,
even with them, the appetite should never be fully pacified before
fighting. With all classes, he is of opinion, that the better
course is to put the dinner before them — a good one — as good
and tempting as possible — let them see it, till their eyes become
fascinated — nay, let them taste it, but only taste — and
then, let the drums beat and the bugles sound to quarters.
Soldiers, thus tantalized, he asserts to be the most dangerous
customers in the world — absolutely wolfish — who will then
tear and rend their foes, having no fear; each man having, as
it were, a personal feeling of revenge to gratify, as if robbed
by his enemy of the choicest blessing of his life.”

“He's no fool, that fish! There's sense in the notion.”

“They tell a good story,” continued the major, “of the mode
which he employed to convert a timid fellow into a desperado.
Just before the beginning of our Revolution —”

“Rebellion, sir.”

“Well, sir, rebellion be it! I care very little now, for the
distinction.”

The father growled, and pushed the Madeira toward the son.

“Drink, sir, and imbibe more sensible notions at once of
names and things.”

“Long life and a good appetite for all good things, sir, to
the end of the chapter! Carrie, my dear, wet your lips with
us —”

“Well, sir, to your story.”

“Porgy, sir, who, before the war, was a rice-planter on the
Ashepoo, a bon vivant, and fast liver, though a great reader,
and philosophical humorist, was employed by one of the Fenwickes
to answer for him as a friend, in an interview with a gentleman
who bore the challenge of one Major Pritchard. Porgy
would have declined, as Fenwicke was supposed to be constitutionally
timid; but the young fellow appealed to him with a
good deal of pathos. He was, in fact, almost friendless on the
occasion; had quarrelled with his family and associates, and
was rather in Coventry, in consequence of some gaming transactions.
Porgy's good nature made him yield; but he felt the
awkwardness of going out with a person who might show the
white feather. How was he to prevent such a discreditable
exhibition? As I have said, Porgy is something of a philosopher,
and entertains peculiar notions of the effect of food, and
the various sorts of it, upon the moral as well as physical
nature. Red pepper, for example, he avers to be an article,
which, taken in quantity, will irritate the temper, but lessen
the nerve. He has similar opinions of other condiments, spices,
and even drinks, in lessening the courage. Whiskey, he holds
to be decidedly hurtful to valor; —”

“Gad, there's something reasonable in the fellow's philosophy.
I have that notion myself.”

“He says that when our militia-men run —”

“As they are monstrous apt to do!”

“It is due to the fact that they drink whiskey, and not Jamaica,

which he values much more as a good moral stimulus. But,
like you, sir, he has a better faith in Madeira, than in any other
known beverage.”

“I fancy I shall like that fellow, Porgy.”

“You will, sir; but to my story. The arrangements made
for the affair between Fenwicke and Pritchard, the time fixed,
and all adjusted, Porgy took his principal home to his house the
morning before the affair was to take place. This, he did,
under the pretext of avoiding the sheriff's officers. He kept
him locked up in an upper chamber, and left him to himself for
twelve hours, on a slender supply of biscuit and Madeira.
Before noon the supply was exhausted, and the housekeeper
had no keys, and but three cold-boiled Irish potatoes — which
Porgy esteems fine food for soldiers — were to be found in an
open cupboard. These Fenwicke devoured without salt or
butter. At midnight Porgy made his appearance and made a
thousand apologies. Fenwicke was compelled to look satisfied;
but when he asked for supper, there was no satisfactory answer.
Porgy pleaded some singular disappointments in his supplies.
But he got out fresh biscuit and over a bottle of Madeira, he
succeeded in putting Fenwicke into tolerable humor. They
retired and both slept late; but descended finally to an admirable
breakfast in which everything that could excite appetite
was displayed. Fenwicke's eyes glistened. He rubbed his
hands. He was as hungry, by this time, as a dragoon's horse
on a long scout. He sat down, but was allowed to swallow only
two or three mouthfuls, when Porgy pulled out his watch and
started up in alarm. `Good Heavens, Mr. Fenwicke,' said he,
`we shall be too late unless we go at a gallop. It is within
forty minutes of the time, and we have three miles to get to
the place of meeting.' Fenwicke looked at him like a hyena.
`Heavens, sir, I am famished!' `Never mind,' quoth Porgy,
`we shall only have a better appetite after the affair is over.
Everything shall be kept warm. See to it, Tom — on your life,
see to it!' he cried to his cook — a famous fellow, by the way,
sir, the best cook in the army — and thus speaking, he hurried
Fenwicke off to the horses which had previously been got in
readiness. They had scarcely mounted when Porgy called for
a bottle of porter, which he divided between himself and his

companion. `This will stay your stomach, sir,' he said, and
this was all he allowed him, except a single biscuit, which
Fenwicke snatched up from the table.”

“But why the porter, sir?”

“To produce a more morbid condition of the stomach. To
divert the impression as much as possible from the brain. Such
was his theory at least. His philosophy is a curious one, and
he insists greatly upon the important uses of porter in the case
of nervous men, with an active imagination.”

“Well, sir, what was the result?”

“Why, that Fenwicke was sufficiently angry, on the gallop,
to quarrel with his second, goaded, it may be, by the provocative
sort of conversation in which Porgy indulged by the way.
He reached the ground in this humor, was impatient of all
control, impatient for the fight — came up to the ring in handsome
style, rushed desperately in upon his antagonist, got a
flesh wound on breast and arm, but succeeded in running
Pritchard through the body.”

Carrie Sinclair shuddered as she said:—

“But he did not kill kim, Willie?”

“On the spot! Yet, the moment the deed was done, he
nearly fainted, and could scarcely mount his horse. He staggered
off like one mortally hurt himself.”

“The fellow was no coward,” said the old man, “only tenderhearted.”

“Porgy asserts that no man is absolutely a coward or absolutely
brave; that all depends on training; that we are all,
more or less, the creatures of circumstance; and that, in particular
conditions of mind, or body, or situation, we are audacious
or timid; — that every man, the most brave, has moments
of fear,[1] and that the most timid, under particular training, or
accidental influences, will show the most audacious valor; that
the stomach has more to do with it than the brain or heart;
and that the greatest secret in the training of the soldier, is
proper food, of the proper kind, at the proper time, and properly
cooked. He professes to believe that his cook Tom has
done more toward teaching his men how to fight, than all the
training of all the officers.”

“I shall like that fellow Porgy, I fancy. You may bring
him here, Willie, should a chance offer, as soon as your insurrection
is over. But I do not believe in all Mr. Porgy's doctrines.
For my part, I may safely say that I never knew the
sentiment of fear in my life.”

The major laughed — then suddenly exclaimed, as if in consternation:—

“Take care, Lottie, you are about to tread on papa's
foot!”

The old man screamed — throwing up both hands:—

“For God's sake, my child!”

The child had never moved — was sitting quietly at the table
— not near the gouty member! Such was the power of the
imagination, that the old man had never exercised a single
sense, before he screamed. The major of dragoons laughed
merrily. The veteran was fairly caught. He stormed out at
the commentary upon his confident self-applause, which was
the natural result of the apprehensions which could so easily
be awakened, and so completely revealed.

“Zounds, sir! Do you make me a subject of your merriment!”

But the laughter of the son, and even of the girls, could not
be suppressed; and, in a moment after, the veteran himself
joined in it.

“Ah! Willie, we are but poor devils, the best of us, with all
our pretension! Pass the bottle, sir; the gout will make any
man a coward!”

At this moment the sounds of a horn were heard within the
enclosure, and Congaree Polly made her appearance, to report,
that the famous Pete Blodgit was advancing from the foot of
the garden, bearing a white flag.

“The scoundrel! Shoot him down, Willie.”

“No, sir, it would only be a bullet wasted upon a buzzard.
Let us see what the fellow has to report, and to demand. Our
policy is to gain time. We want but an hour, if that! But
one hour!”

Thus speaking, he rose from the table, and prepared for the
reception of the embassador.

“What is that hour to bring forth! Why does he say an

hour?” muttered the old man. His self query had suddenly
set him to think.

“Yes,” said he solemnly. “Oh! God, what may not an
hour bring forth!” and he caught up his pistols, and bade
them wheel him to the window which he had undertaken to
defend.