University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
A DASH OF SENTIMENT AS PREPARATIVE FOR SUPPER.

The farther pursuit of the outlaws was unsuccessful. Night
had fallen, however, ere the bugles of St. Julien recalled the
pursuing party. The search had sufficed, at all events, to
expel the robbers from the immediate neighborhood: and this
was all that could be done under the circumstances. Had the
troop of St. Julien not been utterly fagged out by a long day's
hard riding, they would probably have destroyed the whole of
the banditti. They were all well mounted, on fleet horses;
and in this particular arm of the service the Americans had
greatly the advantage of the British. There was no finer cavalry
in the world than that of the partisans. Their preponderating
strength, in this respect, was the secret of all their
successes.

It was at the bottom of the garden of the Barony, that the
officers held their rendezvous, and that the several reports of
their lieutenants were made. Here they found the bodies of
two of the outlaws who had been slain, one by the pistol of
Benny Bowlegs behind the kitchen, the other by Willie Sinclair's
buckshot, from the dwelling. The two victims were
Zeke Rodgers and Bill Toland. They were both quite dead
when the troopers came up, and were hastily buried by the
negroes, in the neighboring woods. The robbers had thus lost
three of their gang slain outright — no small assessment upon
their small capital of strength. Besides the scorchings, self-bestowed,
of Dick of Tophet, Jack Halliday had been sorely
wounded, and Ben Nelson was still missing. Whether wounded
or not, he had escaped the search of the dragoons.

“We can do nothing more to-night, Peyre,” said the major,
“and the rest of these rascals will be beyond pursuit by morning.

At all events, they have had a taste of trouble which will
make them somewhat more cautious. Let us now go to the
house, and see after some supper. I suppose your fellows have
an appetite.”

“Are all well, Sinclair?”

“All but my father; and his gout leaves him never wholly
well. The excitement of this affair has rather helped him. He
actually took post with sword and pistol at one of the entrances,
with all the eagerness of a young soldier on his first campaign.”

“I take for granted, Sinclair, that his love for me has not
undergone any great increase.”

“No, Peyre,” answered the other, with a laugh — “he still
holds both of us as rebels to his sovereign. This one objection
waived, and, I fancy, there is no other more serious offence in
either of us. And, for our objects, we must wait events, and
bear ourselves patiently. You may find him querulous and
cold, Peyre, but for my sake, do not notice anything of the
sort. He is old, remember, a bigoted loyalist, and—”

“Nay, Sinclair, it needs not! I am quite well aware of
what is due to him, by way of allowance; and for her sake, if
not yours and my own, I shall be even submissive. You know
I am very meek of temper.”

“Of manner, at all events, Peyre, and that is all that is
needed in this case. But give your orders. Let your men
bivouac along the avenue, or, if you please, on the edge of the
wood.”

We need not note the disposition of the troop, but will accompany
the two officers to the dwelling. Here they found every
room alight. The parlor was ready for the reception of company,
and the servants were busy in spreading a double table
in the supper-room. Colonel Sinclair had had himself wheeled
into the parlor, and sat in state fronting the entrance, with his
favorite leg resting upon a cushioned stool. Lottie was playing
in the piazza, and eagerly looking out for the approach of the
dragoons, their returning bugles having been heard some time
before. Carrie, meanwhile, was in her chamber, making certain
preparations which showed her not more unmindful than
any other of her sex, in respect to the appearance which she
should make before her guests, one of whom, we are to remember,

was her lover. Though one of the least affected, least
coquettish, least vain, of all the damsels of our acquaintance —
and at no time very solicitous about personal display — yet, on
this occasion, Carry was somewhat hard to please in the adjustment
of her toilet. When she did appear, it was in very simple
fashion, it is true: in a light robe of blue, suitable for midsummer,
her hair arranged, as was then the style, in tresses terminating
in ringlets on her shoulder, and a single white flower
resting upon her bosom. She was very lovely in this simple
habit, which suited her style of beauty exactly — a fair, well-formed
Saxon face, with soft brown hair, a complexion of brilliant
white and red, large, deep blue eyes, and an eager buoyant
expression of countenance showing a frank nature, and a
generous, impulsive soul.

The old man was impatient of her delay. He conjectured
what engaged her in her chamber so long, and was divided in
his humors in respect to her supposed employment. No one
had more pride in his daughter than Colonel Sinclair — no one
could more have desired that she should appear to advantage
— and had the expected guests been Lord Rawdon and his
suite, the imperious baron would have insisted upon all proper
feminine preparations. But he was not so well pleased to think
that all her painstaking was to be wasted on the eyes of a rebel-captain
and his troop — that captain being, as he phrased it, the
son of one of “those frog-eating Frenchmen of Craven county!”
Knowing that St. Julien had a penchant for his daughter — for
there is a past history of their intimacy which we must leave
our readers to gather from the context — and half-fearing and
suspecting that Carrie rather favored than discouraged the addresses
of the young man, and that Willie Sinclair had been his
fast friend always, any preparation of his daughter, for the reception
of the unwelcome guest, would have been thought too
great an expenditure of consideration upon him. Not that old
Sinclair knew anything unfavorable of Peyre St. Julien. On
the contrary, he had every reason to believe that he was a man
of honor, as he was known to be a gentleman. But he was a
rebel; and that was a sufficient reason at a moment, certainly,
when rebellion was supposed not to be a thriving enterprise;
and the old man entertained, besides, a hearty old English

prejudice, then not uncommon in this country, against all of
Gallic origin. Willie Sinclair had more than once battled this
prejudice in behalf of his friend; but not, indeed, with any reference
to the desires of the latter for the hand of his sister.
He well knew that the time was not yet come for the discussion
of this object, and that nothing certainly could be effected in
behalf of his friend's suit while the event of the war was doubtful.

“But,” as he said to St. Julien, “as marriage just now would
be totally out of the question, there is no need that we should
be precipitate. We must both wait, Peyre, for a calmer season.
War leaves no opportunity, and but little time for love!”

And, to this suggestion, Peyre St. Julien assented. He was
a lover, and a fond one; but he was one of those men whose
resolves are only strengthened by delay; whom opposition
only arms with determination, and who never suffer themselves
to lose a game, by the precipitate desire for its profits. Besides,
he had his securities, and in these lay a certain amount of consolation.
Carrie Sinclair's eyes had answered to his own sufficiently;
and he knew enough of her nature to know that she
was as firm and tenacious of character, as she was frank and
generous of soul. His confidence in her faith, though declared
only by her eyes, left him in no apprehension of any capricious
change in her sympathies.

At length, the troop filing into the avenue made their appearance.

“Here they come, papa! Here they come!” cried Lottie.
“Look what handsome horses! See how they ride! And
here comes Bubber Willie and Captain Peyre!”

And the little girl danced and clapped her hands, and ran to
and fro, between parlor and piazza, until the two officers were
seen ascending the steps. Then she darted out, and soon
shared in the caresses of both alternately, St. Julien bringing
her into the parlor on his shoulder. He set her down gently
with a kiss, approached the colonel, and, bowing respectfully,
he offered him his hand in silence.

The other took it civilly, not cordially, as he said:—

“Glad to see you, sir; glad to see you. You came seasonably
to our relief; many thanks, sir, many thanks; though, I

fancy, these rascals of banditti had already received a sufficient
dressing at our hands to make them sheer off. In fact they
were gone — in full retreat, sir — before you made your appearance.”

“They had certainly no motive to remain, sir,” was the quiet
and gentlemanly reply of St. Julien.

“Ay,” cried Willie Sinclair, “they got more than they came
for; two men slain outright, and others no doubt wounded, they
paid heavily for their enterprise. But their very losses were
calculated to stimulate their ferocity. What I dreaded was the
approach of night, when they could have made a rush upon us
from all the points of the compass at the same moment, and
when our fire could have had but little effect in preventing their
approach.”

“But what had we to fear from a hand-to-hand contest, with
fifty negroes in the house?”

“Oh! I do not doubt, sir, that we should have beaten the
rascals off — butchered them all, perhaps — nay, I'm pretty sure
we should have done so — but I confess that the mere victory
over such rapscallions, at the expense of any precious lives —
nay, at the cost of one poor negro in the conflict — held forth
but little temptation in my eyes. I rejoice that the coming of
St. Julien has given us security against this danger.”

“So it has!” exclaimed Colonel Sinclair — his sense of justice
prevailing — “so it has, Mr. St. Julien” — he could not bring
himself to accord the military title to a rebel captain — “and I
thank you, sir, for your presence. I am glad to see you here, sir.”

This was said rather stiffly; but it was honestly said. Our
baron was a man of prejudices, but, give him breathing-time,
and his conscientiousness always prevailed over his prejudices.

At this moment Carrie Sinclair appeared. The guest rose to
meet her. Their hands met. In those days, the lady of the
house always gave her hand to the visiter when he was of the
same rank. In all other cases she simply bowed, and in such a
way as to discourage any closer approach. The case is somewhat
altered now, and the discrimination between the two
classes, though still, in most respects, observed in the cities, is
apt to be overlooked in the country. We are sorry for it. The
distinction is a proper one, where ladies are concerned. The

failure to observe it, is apt to encourage the inferior to aspirations
which end only in his mortification.

Colonel Sinclair's eye watched the meeting of the parties
with some interest. But he saw nothing to offend him. The
manner of St. Julien was calm and respectful — nay, seemingly
cold. That of Carrie was easy, self-possessed, and quiet, and
she seated herself near her brother. One word in respect to
the personal appearance of St. Julien. He was of middle size
for our country — some five feet eight inches high, well made,
but slender, of good muscle, of lithe frame, and vigorous muscle.
His face was pale, his eye black, large, and vigilant, his hair
of the same color, worn long, probably as much because of the
want of a barber, as his own taste. It hung down upon his
back, and was soft and fine; his nose was aquiline, his mouth
well formed, and showing very white teeth. His brow was
lofty and full, the eyebrows black and thick. His air was that
of a well-bred gentleman, very quiet, simple, and unobtrusive.
In a word, he was one of those happy temperaments whom you
never take by surprise. Yet he was a man of warm feelings, and
even violent passions.

“You have ridden far to-day, Mr. St. Julien.”

“Some forty-four miles, sir; but our troop would not have so
much felt the ride, had it not been for a little brush with a
body of Yahoos, near the Four-Holes.”

“I hope you demolished those wretches utterly.”

“We did something toward it, sir.”

There was a pause. At length the veteran resumed:—

“I do not know what the peaceable inhabitants of the country
are to do, with these squads of banditti roaming about the
forests. Nobody is secure. Their object is plunder only.
This wretched rebellion has deprived us of all our securities.”

This was an ungenerous speech, considering who were his
guests. It was, however, by no means a deliberate offence, on
the part of our loyalist baron. It was simply his ordinary
reflection. A slight smile on the lips of St. Julien, found its
interpretation from the tongue of Willie Sinclair, who said
quickly:—

“It so happens, father, that all these rascals, Scophilites, Yahoos,
foragers, tories, by whatever name they may be called,

are all in the king's commission. They all claim, with yourself,
to be busy in the work of putting down rebellion.”

“Well, sir, does it make anything against the authority that
the agent should abuse the trust?”

“Yes, sir, when the authority knows perfectly the sort of
agent which it chooses. The Scophilities and Yahoos, sir, were
notorious long before the beginning of this war.”

“Well, sir, even allowing this to be quite true, yet, in a rebellion
such as this, which finds a whole people ungrateful, I
hold that the king has a perfect right to subsidize any agent.”

“If I concede what you claim, my dear father — which I do
not — it necessarily follows that nobody has a right to complain
that the rascal, endowed with a trust, continues to be a rascal,
in spite of the king's commission. You, in particular, who profess
to believe that George of England can do no wrong, must
quiet all those murmurs which resent the civilities of George's
agents.”

“Sir, I will be obliged to you if you will speak in more respectful
language of our king.”

“No king of mine, sir; — but I am willing to defer to your
wishes. I wish to speak of him as little as possible, and would
you suffer it, sir, should gladly forbear this class of subjects. I
find it more pleasant to think of the good cheer I had to-day.
What had you for dinner to-day, St Julien?”

“Hope of supper to-night, major.”

“What! no dinner, Mr. St. Julien?” cried the old man.
“Carrie, do see that supper is not a moment delayed. Sir, you
shall have supper, with as hearty a welcome as if you were not
a rebel.”

“My stomach is a loyal one, at least, colonel,” was the quiet
reply of St. Julien. Carrie Sinclair had disappeared.

Not to talk of the war was scarcely possible. There was no
other topic. The necessity of running into it was unavoidable,
and, with the best intention of forbearance in the world, our
baron soon after found himself talking of Lord Rawdon and
Lord Edward Fitzgerald.

“Have you met with Lord Edward, Mr. St. Julien?” he asked
of his guest.

“I have not had that honor, colonel?”

“You will be delighted with him. He is a fine looking fellow,
darkly handsome, with fine eyes, and a peculiar mouth. He is
as noble as handsome, sir; a very noble fellow; all ardor and
impulse, and capable of the very highest heroism. I should be
sorry that you should meet as enemies, Mr. St. Julien—”

“And why, sir?” demanded Willie Sinclair, with some little
pique. “I, for one, as the friend of Peyre St. Julien would
have no dread of the result in an encounter.”

This speech taught the veteran the doubtful character of his
own remark.

“Oh! Mr. St. Julien, I did not mean that; I have no doubt
you would do your duty, sir; and I am far from venturing an
opinion as to the result of a conflict between you.”

“I take that for granted, Col. Sinclair.”

“Sir, you only do me justice. But I will say no more. It
seems impossible to escape a blunder, the moment we happen to
speak of any of the parties in this accursed war. Sir, will you
not agree with me to damn this war? I say, sir — damn this
war! This most abominable, unnatural war, which will not
suffer a gentleman to declare his honest natural sentiments.
Sir—Mr. Julien, be pleased to say damn this war.”

“With great pleasure, Col. Sinclair—damn this war!”

“And I echo the sentiment,” cried Willie,—“D — n this war!
— let me add, sir, an amendment —” to his father, — “and d — n
the inventors of it!”

“And who do you call the inventors of it, sir?” demanded
the old man sharply.

“Ah! sir? into that question we need not inquire. You will
have one notion, I another. It matters not, sir, who is right,
— the war being unnatural and abominable, I ask of you to
say — d — n the inventors of it!”

“Well, sir, I do, believing them to be your infernal Congress
and—”

“No more, sir, you have already said a syllable or two too
much. You old gentlemen presume a little upon your years to
be a-talking, sir; you know not when to stop. I will not imitate
you, since my purpose is not to provoke an interminable dispute.
The moment that gentlemen learn the fact that opinions
among the party are diametrically opposite on one subject, they

have but one rule, and that is to refrain, unless their object is to
provoke a quarrel. Now sir, your object is not to provoke a
quarrel, since I am your son, and can not fight you, and Capt. St.
Julien being your guest, you can not fight him. We must accordingly
steer clear of politics, and, by the way, sir, talking of Sir
Edward Fitzgerald, did he tell you, sir, that he is engaged to be
married to a Miss Sandford, a lady of great beauty and wit, with
whom he so flirted, just before coming to America, at the castle of
Lord Shannon, that, the story goes in Charleston, she is about
to follow him to this country!”

The colonel raised his eyebrows in consternation.

“Engaged! Impossible! How should you know what is
the talk in Charleston.”

“I ought to know. I have been in that goodly city within
the last few days!”

“Ha! there is treachery at work then! Say, sir, by whom
were you sheltered there, and what was your object?”

“My object is briefly told. I wished to select house and
grounds for my summer residence, after the evacuation, and
they can be procured at small cost when that event occurs. I
wished to put my agent on the alert, so that I may not lose the
season. As to the person who sheltered me, I have only to
say it was a fair lady; gallantry can concede no more, and
courtesy will not ask so much. In regard to the treachery, sir,
do you not see that any talk on this hand will bring us back to
the forbidden subject. In your loyalty, sir, you must not lose
sight of what is due to the gentleman.”

“Did you ever hear such an impertinent son, Mr. St. Julien?
But he is right, after a fashion of his own. I am too old a subject
of the king, Mr. St. Julien, not to forget, in my zeal, sometimes,
what is due to the company. Pray pardon it. In respect to
Lord Edward Fitzgerald, my son, I don't believe a word of
your report. I fancy it is a fabrication of your own, and that
you have not been in Charleston.”

“Ay, but I have, sir.”

“Why, sir, do you not know that you incur the peril of the
gallows.”

“I am not alone, sir; the thing is frequent.”

“You are bold, sir. But of this report of Lord Edward.”

“It is the report. The fact is, sir, that the good ladies of
Charleston speak of Lord Edward as something of a flirt — a
young cavalier of very flexible affections — who finds a new
flame wherever he goes.”

“What a slander! The young man, when here, seemed rather
demure than otherwise. I confess he was very attentive
to Carrie, but without any seeming purpose of display. He
was—”

“My dear father, in love, and fashion, and gallantry, and display,
everything has undergone a change since your time.—”

At this moment Carrie re-entered the room. Her appearance
probably suggested to the major of dragoons a portion of
what he should say.

“Then,” he continued, “if you happened to be in attendance
upon a fair damsel, and a musical instrument of any sort happened
to be at hand, you were expected to solicit her to play;
it was one part of the code of courtesy that you should escort
her to the instrument, her finger-tips in yours, you bowing half
to the ground, she smiling to the skies all the way as you went;
and when you seated her you bowed again to the ground, your
disengaged hand upon your enthralled heart, and she still smiling
as graciously as if acknowledging the last of mortal favors.
Then, as she played and sang, you stood behind or beside her
chair, and fell, or rose into raptures at every stave, until at the
close you cried —`Oh! what divine enchanting ravishments!”
and, with a deep-drawn sigh, such as an air-pump might utter
as it sucks away the last breath from an exhausted receiver,
you again took the lady's tips between yours, and with mutual
smiles and bows escorted her back to her former place.”

“Puppy! you don't mean to say that I ever practised any of
this ridiculous sort of behavior?”

“No doubt of it, sir, when your joints were a trifle more
flexible than now. But such was the behavior, and, absurdly
tender and impressive as it was, it never, in those days, was held
to bind either of the parties thus playing the fool, in any mortal
or spiritual engagements. But the case is altered now, and even
you, sir,—” to the father —“even you, sir, are evidently disposed
to subscribe to the prevailing notion that when a blockhead
behaves after this fashion, there's something in it.”

“How, sir, — what mean you — I believe in such nonsense?”

“But it is evident you do, sir, whatever you may think;
for look you, here come my Lord Rawdon and my Lord Edward
Fitzgerald; and the younger of these two scapegrace
Irish lords, plays courtier to my sister Carrie, and by her finger
tips he conducts her to the harpsichord, and she sings for him
and plays for him, and he stands over her all the while looking
his raptures up at the ceiling, and thrusting his hands into his
hair, and sighing sentimentally, and imploring in subdued tones
for “one more divine song from those divine lips,”—playing
the foppish sentimentalist as the young foplings of the time of
Charles the Second used to do, your Sedleys and Rochesters
and Ethereges, Savilles, and Lovells; and you jump headlong
to the conclusion that all this is love — that our poor rustic sister
has made a conquest of a lord, and all that sort of thing, and
your dream now is of ennobling the family — having a lord in
it, and probably seeing before you die—”

The baron silenced him with a roar.

“Zounds, sir, do you hold me to be a fool!”

“By no means, sir, but the wisest man is hardly wise when
his peculiar weakness is assailed. Now, you are a born aristocrat,
and both of these Irish lords see the way to your sympathies.
They have flattered you by attentions which you suppose
to be peculiar, and what would be a commonplace civility
in a court, you find to be a special committal in a wild country
like ours. And you are filling my poor little sister's head with
all sorts of notions of conquest, until she too begins to think of
foreign conquest, and of stars and garters, and of a presentation
at court, and heaven knows what besides, in the shape of high
society, state, and grand establishments, among the British
nobility.”

“Now, Mr. St. Julien,” exclaimed the old man, stifling his
anger, and striving to respond in the same quizzical humor with
his son — “would not anybody suppose from this puppy's nonsense,
so seriously stated, that there was some truth in all this
statement; that I had really been playing the fool with these
Irish lords, and that my head was really turned with their
attentions? And all his invention comes from the simple statement
which I made him, that they had been here, and spent a

night with me. As for my daughter, sir, I see no reason why
she should be flattered by any man's attentions, or any lord's.
She is worthy, sir — to my notion — of any, the noblest person
in the three kingdoms; and it is a mere scandal to speak of
her, as being delighted with the favor of my Lord Edward. In
truth, sir, she was hardly polite to him. Yet he was attentive
— very attentive — though by no means guilty of any such foppish
excruciations as that young puppy would insinuate.”

Here Carrie herself interrupted playfully.

“Now, papa, don't pretend to lessen the merits of the conquest
I had made. I protest against both your account and
Willie's; and do complain of the disposition which you both
show, to deprive me of the secret satisfaction which I feel in the
visit of these noble lords. You, my father, are of the opinion
that my Lord Rawdon came here on political accounts, to obtain
your counsels in respect to the war and the country; and
you took good care to inform him of all he wished to learn, and,
I fancy, a great deal more; you, Willie, have a notion that,
knowing British power to be declining everywhere in Carolina,
my lord only came hither to prevent by conciliation the defection
from the good cause of so strong a supporter of royal
government. You are both decidedly wrong. He came hither
for no other purpose than to introduce my Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
He had heard of me in Ireland; he had exchanged
from the East India army into the 19th regiment, as soon as he
found that its destination was Carolina; and no sooner does he
arrive, than he volunteers as an aid to my Lord Rawdon, and
persuades his lordship to visit the Barony, simply to get a sight of
myself, and when he did get a sight of me, and heard me play
and sing, it was all over with him. I protest that he was in raptures,
and that Willie's picture, though something of a caricature,
was yet so very like the truth, that, in simple honesty, I
am compelled to recognise the portrait. There, gentlemen, you
have my version of this true history. It is such as a young
damsel alone could furnish,—who sees more deeply into the true
motives of Irish lords than anybody else. You see how everything
hangs together in nicely-adjusted connection; how the
parts fit; the cause and the effect equally discernible. You see
how earnest was the aim of my Lord Edward; with what love-like

tenacity he pursued it; at what sacrifice of comfort; at
what risk of life; and you see the result;— he has come — he
has seen, and I have conquered. Pray now, if you are gentlemen,
do not strive to lessen the merits of my conquest, or make
me doubtful of my lover. But, from sentiment to supper; I see
the servant beckons us.”

And she rose gracefully as she spoke, and took the arm of
her brother.

“What a conceited baggage!” exclaimed the veteran.
“But”— shaking his head more seriously, he added — “she is
half right. I do believe my Lord Edward has lost his heart!”

Willie laughed merrily, and a slight smile dawned upon the
small and well-cut mouth of St. Julien. Little Peter, at this
moment appeared, to wheel the colonel into the supper-room;
and the scene changed in a few seconds to the latter apartment.