 | CHAPTER XXVI.
A PAIR OF ARCADIANS. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days |  |
26. CHAPTER XXVI.
A PAIR OF ARCADIANS.
While our major of dragoons, seizing a brief respite from the
toils of war, was solacing himself in the embrace of love, let us
return to the village of Orangeburg, and make the personal acquaintance
of other parties, of whom, hitherto, we have only
heard.
The dwelling of the widow Bruce was, at the time of which
we write, one of the most pretentious in the village. It was a
double house of two stories upon a basement cellar, and faced
with an ample piazza. It occupied a central position in the
place, being situated in the main street some two squares distant
from the jail in a northwest direction. No traces of it now
remain.
The widow, herself, was a Scotchwoman and a loyalist. She
believed devoutly in Britain and in George the Third; was
fully assured of her principles, ready in their assertion, inflexible
in their maintenance, and perfectly satisfied of the ultimate
and complete triumph of royalty in its endeavor to maintain
itself in the country. She was by temperament an aristocrat,
proud, high-spirited, lofty of bearing, delicate in consideration,
and tenacious of all the proprieties. She was a woman of decided
character, with a temper of her own; of good face and
figure, stately and of excellent carriage. At thirty-five or forty,
her age at this time, she was not too old to cultivate the graces,
or to feel the necessity of looking her best upon great occasions.
She was not rich, but in moderate circumstances; and we are
not to suppose that she kept an ordinary. Her house simply
yielded its hospitalities (for a consideration, no doubt) to visiters
of distinction. The magnates of the rival parties, alone, were
welcome. Here, accordingly, my lords Cornwallis and Rawdon
so, at other periods, did the American leaders, especially Governor
Rutledge, who was quite a favorite with the widow, in
spite of his intensely rebel predilections. In those days, the
utter disruption of society in Carolina — the fact that the
Revolution had divided families, and placed in opposition the
members of the same circle — led necessarily to great toleration
among all persons of sensibility. The widow Bruce was an
honest loyalist, but there were sundry honest rebels whom she
could welcome to her abode with no diminution of her ancient
hospitality.
Her house being aristocratic in pretension, it was quite natural
that all new men, ambitious of position, should prefer it as a
place of lodging, to that of Jack Baltezegar who was the professed
publican of the village. Honest Jack was the democrat
par excellence of the place; not one of that class of noisy, brawling,
impudent demagogues of the present day, at once insolent
and ignorant; but a genuine, simple, frank, good-humored fellow,
rough and unpretending, who was willing to serve you
and provide for you, and receive your money with thanks, and
send you forth with a blessing when you departed. Jack Baltezegar
was a good specimen of the village-landlord, as well in
person and deportment, as in taste and principle. He was a
baldheaded, ruby-nosed, broad-mouthed, lively-eyed fellow,
short and squab of figure, with face and belly equally round
and ample, fond of jest and dinner, and no slouch at a rouse,
with a group of good fellows in the hall, after all the demure
lodgers have gone off to bed. His tavern, which was of more
humble appearance and dimensions than that of the widow
Bruce, stood upon Main street, i. e., the Charleston road, and
was the resort of all persons of moderate means, of humble pretensions,
and such especially as thought much more of their
ease and freedom than of social rank and appearances.
Now, it was wholly owing to this difference of status that the
lodging-house of the widow Bruce, was preferred to that of
Jack Baltezegar, by our captain of mounted riflemen, Richard
Inglehardt. Inglehardt was a new man; an ambitious man,
anxious to shake off old and inferior associations; anxious to
bring himself into constant communication with persons of
that of Jack Baltezegar, had been closely intimate; but between
himself and honest Jack, there was a broad sandy stretch
— a desert scarcely passable — which neither sought to overpass,
and which the ambitious captain would prefer to see increasing
in breadth of space and depth of sand. Jack Baltezegar knew
— none better — all the humble antecedents of Richard Inglehardt.
It was the most impertinent sort of knowledge, which
Jack was not disposed to keep sealed up from the vulgar sense.
He might have been civil enough to keep silence, had Richard
been sensible enough to have foreborne giving the preference
to the house of Widow Bruce. Had he done so, indeed, it
might have been the better for himself — might have secured
him greater popularity — for, the truth must be told, Richard
was more feared — respected, perhaps — than loved. He had
abandoned his caste, an unforgivable offence, which moved the
dislike of all its members; and he had not quite succeeded in
forcing himself upon the affections, or the full confidence of that
other circle which he sought to penetrate; and this moved the
scorn and derision of his old associates — none of whom was
more sharp and satirical than our excellent Jack Baltezegar.
Now, Jack was, besides, though in secret, a revolutionist. He
did not publish his articles of faith, it is true; and he rather
avoided all question in respect to them; but, in his own way,
he suffered the patriots to know that he was an ally whenever
the wind blew from the right quarter.
It was not with any eagerness, we may state, that the widow
Bruce consented to receive Captain Richard Inglehardt into
her dwelling. She, too, was quite well acquainted with his
first beginnings, and early associations. She did not incline
to these, and she did not much affect the character of the man.
As a lodger he would never, before the Revolution, have found
his way to her board; but that event forced people into new
and seemingly unnatural relations and the widow Bruce was
compelled to recognise the claims of the loyalist captain, in a
lawless period, whom, as the son of an obscure overseer, of no
good character, she would have spurned from her threshold.
Inglehardt felt all this, but was quite willing that circumstances
should do for his desires what personally he might not have done
in consequence of what he knew to be the real,
though suppressed feelings of his hostess toward him. She
despised him — that he knew — as an individual; but as she
did not outrage his pride by any wanton exhibition of her sentiments,
he was by no means unwilling that she should entertain
them. In fact, he had nothing to desire at her hands more
than he received, and beyond this he never troubled himself to
consider for a moment what degree of sympathy might exist
between them. He had few sympathies himself for anybody,
and his heart was of too cold a nature to feel the need of sympathy
from others.
Coldness of heart was the great and terrible infirmity of
Richard Inglehardt. He could be kind upon occasions — nay,
was habitually kind — forbearing rather, and when unmoved by
selfish considerations. But the moment that self interposed,
however slightly, he was as unscrupulous as a tiger. Mild and
conciliatory of manner, slow and subdued in speech, patient and
quiet under all circumstances, deliberate in all his moods, he
was subtle, sly, suspicious, ever working in secret like a spider,
stretching his meshes on every side, and ensnaring, where he
could, with a restless cunning, that worked half the time from
mere instinct, and the love of the employment. He was passionate
in nothing. His hate or love was never a thing of extremes,
never uncalculating, never rash. He could abandon,
with small feeling of sacrifice, the object of attachment for a
consideration; and could embrace his worst enemy, in the attainment
of a new desire. Essentially cold of heart, he had no
friendships, acknowledged no sympathies, and subjected all his
feelings, with little effort, to the requisitions of the reason or of
the moment. He was, in brief, one of those unfortunate men
whose minds grow prematurely into strength at the expense of
their affections. His intellect at fifteen was as much matured
as at twenty-five. In short he had never been a boy. Ripe
from the beginning, his mind was as subtle, and deliberate, as
well balanced, and cool and circumspect, as if endowed with
fifty years of social experience.
A mind thus constituted, without the eager passions and generous
impulses of youth, rarely goes beyond a certain graduated
usually — unprogressive, and, as it usually excites large expectations
at first, so it is apt to disappoint its own promise in the
end. It is, perhaps, true in general, that great minds are commonly
slow of growth to maturity. There must be a gradual
rise to strength, if permanence is to be attained; and the very
sobriety of youth is really an unfavorable indication for the
future performances of manhood. Of Richard Inglehardt, the
calm, sensible, cool, discreet, assured boy, large expectations had
been formed. He still remained calm, and cool, and sensible;
and, in moderate affairs, even sagacious; but something more
is essential to maintain the claims of such a beginning. That
he had not advanced beyond his earliest marks, was, in fact,
proof of retrograde. And he had not advanced. He had shown
himself brave, but not brilliant; cunning, but not wise; calculating,
but not profound; able in the performance of ordinary
duties, but never nobly adventurous. As a captain of mounted
riflemen, he had been diligent. He knew his duty, but he
never rose to performances which cast a glory over the simple
duty. He had never conceived greatly, as he lacked impulse
and enthusiasm; and exhibited no resources beyond the narrow
range of customary endeavor. The lack of enthusiasm is
always a proof of deficient genius. Talents he had; an adaptable
capacity for the work before him; he was a shrewd judge
of common men; could conceive their motives; anticipate their
projects; thwart, or promote them, according to the suggestions
of his own policy; but enthusiasm foiled him; he could
never comprehend the worth of impulse, generous self sacrifice,
ardent adventure, eager and impetuous zeal. His cunning
failed him usually when he had to deal with these qualities.
He not only did not quite understand them, he did not believe
in their existence; or, if he did, it was only to rate the possessor
as lacking in that common-sense virtue which was his own
and only secret. Now, a common-sense mind, with a cold
heart, is a thing of cunning only — not of wisdom — not of virtue;—without
magnanimity; capable of small operations, among
small people; and usually failing deplorably in moments of
great exigency, when it requires a brilliant conception to encounter
the odds of an extreme necessity.
Yet this man, so cold of heart, so insensible to sympathy, so
calculating in his affections — such as they were — was a professed
lover of Bertha Travis. What was the secret of this anomaly?
The contradiction exists simply in appearance. He was
a man of objects, continually seeking something — always aiming
and grasping; and, while in pursuit, singularly tenacious
of his object. He possessed a dogged sort of perseverance,
which supplied the lack of zeal; but his pursuit, not grounded
upon the affections or the sympathies, but the result of calculation
only, could be arrested in a moment, by the suggestion of
any new motive of self to his mind. Of course, he was not
wanting in animal passions also, and these become terrible
powers of evil in a cold heart. His early years had been passed
in near neighborhood of the Travis family. His father had
been for several seasons in the employ of Captain Travis, as a
keeper of his large stock of cattle, and, for a time, as the overseer
of his negroes. The boy had set his eye, even while she
was yet a child, upon the budding charms of Bertha. He had
determined, with wonderful precocity, that she should be his
wife. She was beautiful, and he had a taste for beauty, which
was stronger than any feelings or affections of his heart. She
had the promise of wealth, and at a very early period, he had
discovered the almost universal power of wealth, and he desired
wealth as a means of power. Power was his principal craving,
and his aim contemplated every possible avenue to it. He had,
accordingly, resolved upon making Bertha Travis his wife.
Of course, he felt all the difficulties in the way to the attainment
of his object. The almost immeasurable space which, in
a society like that of South Carolina, separates the overseer's
family from that of his employer, presented a barrier, the height
and breadth of which the calculating eye of young Inglehardt
began to scan and study when he had but entered his teens.
He did not even try to deceive himself in respect to its formidable
impediments. The Revolutionary struggle was favorable
to its overthrow, and he determined to avail himself of it. A
time of general commotion in society is apt to be destructive of
most conventionalities.
But there was yet another barrier in the little damsel herself.
She had, strange to say, at a very early period, shown
young rarely deceive them, when they themselves possess enthusiasm
and sensibility. The very lack of the former, in the
boy, though she could by no means describe the deficiency,
trace its source, or define its precise effects upon herself, was
yet a source of dislike and aversion. She repelled all his approaches;
— she did not fear him, but she avoided him. Her
instincts rightly led her to regard him as of cold, selfish, unscrupulous
character; to feel rather that he was so; and this,
too, without expending thought upon the subject. It was only
in the full rush of the revolutionary torrent, that Bertha Travis
ever began to think that there might be any serious danger to
herself, in the undesired preference which Richard Inglehardt
bestowed upon her charms.
Still, up to a late period, his preference was of a somewhat
undemonstrative character. He was not less tenacious of his
object, because he pursued it quietly, in secret, and with a circumspect
avoidance, outwardly, of all design. He had proposed
to her, it is true, and been rejected; — civilly, but firmly; —
sufficiently so to convince him that she was not to be won by
him, through the medium of her affections. But he was not discouraged.
He had been advised of her intimacy with Sinclair.
He had once met him at the house of Travis; he had seen and
felt that the latter was a formidable rival; he had seen the
love of Bertha Travis speaking out in eye, and lip, and gesture,
without constraint, at the approach of this rival. He did not
hate Sinclair for this reason; it was the chance of the game
that had given the latter his ascendency; but he resolved to
baffle him nevertheless; to destroy him if he could; to make
his fate, if possible, a means for acting upon the fears of the
maiden. He had another agency for this purpose, in the father
of Bertha. He knew the corrupt nature of Travis. He had
fathomed some of his secrets. His study was to perfect his
power over the fortunes of the latter, and make the condition
of his safety, the hand of his daughter.
And, in the prosecution of these schemes, he had steadily engaged
for months — nay, almost for years — and, with a certain
degree of success, in respect to the affairs of the father — which
his game.
And Travis, himself, a sly and subtle politician, had discovered
the practice of the other; had begun to fear him; kept
close watch upon his movements, and steadily worked, on his
hand, to strengthen his defences, and multiply his resources
against the moment of attack. He felt that he was measurably
in the power of Inglehardt already; in other words, that the
latter had discovered certain secrets which would greatly prejudice
him with the British commanders, Rawdon and Balfour;
a condition of his affairs which became much more complicated
as he reflected upon the uncertainty of the Revolutionary issue.
Were he sure of the triumph of the British, the game was in
his own hands, provided he was willing to sacrifice his daughter
to the man who held the secret of his erring practice. But this
result was daily becoming more and more doubtful. Travis was
too old a soldier, and too keen a politician, not to perceive that
the resources of Great Britain were nearly exhausted; that, in
fact, for some time past, she had been fighting her battles,
through the weapons of the colonists themselves. The loyal
Americans now constituted the best portions of her veteran
regiments. The moment that this fact should become fully apparent
to the colonists, themselves, would be, he well knew, the
signal of their withdrawal from those ranks, in which, conquered
or conquering, they were still only sacrificing native blood
in behalf of foreign power.
But, let us view these two persons together, Inglehardt and
Travis, as they sit, fronting each other at a table, in the chamber
of the former, at the house of the stately widow Bruce.
Travis has been invited to the conference. It is the resumption
of one which took place the night before at Baltezegar's,
where Travis usually had a chamber.
See the two as they sit at the table. There they sit, smiling
both, suspicious both, with the sympathy of an equal cunning
alone bringing them together; each with a selfish object; each
well aware that all the ordinary securities among men — loyalty,
good faith, a common object, a common feeling — are all equally
wanting to either party. Both are persons, to the casual eye, of
rather pleasing aspect; smooth of face, lively of eye, intelligent of
some unpleasant peculiarities. Neither looks into the eye of
his neighbor. Both would like to do so, but neither is willing
to expose his own. The lips of Travis show some incertitude
of character; those of Inglehardt are firm enough, but the lips
do not smile; they only part when he would laugh. Both are
men of sallow complexion, and dark hair; but Travis is fifty;
Inglehardt scarce twenty-five. Yet how equal in years! The
latter was as old as Travis when but twenty, as he had lived
only in the intellect. Whatever the moral deficiencies and
obliquities of the other, he was not wanting in the affections,
and a heart so much contributes to the proper human wisdom,
that we may give him credit for even an intellectual progress
which the other can never make. His mind is already old;
his heart has never grown at all. The one has dwarfed the
other, out of sight, as if it never had existence.
What pleasant jest has been provoking them to laughter?
That laughter of the heartless — What a lie it is! What a
mockery of heart and humanity! A laugh, to be of any value,
to compel any respect or sympathy, must be down-right, honest
— an ebullition which we not only would not, but can not restrain.
A strained laugh has the effect of a serpent's hiss, a
savage's howl, the child-like cry of the hawk. It tells of mischief.
Beware!
But the parties know each other.
The laughter subsides, and both faces suddenly sink into
gravity. An honest laugh subsides slowly. It is like a generous
sunset which leaves its sweet soft purplish tints upon the
sky, even when the parent smile is gone from sight.
There is no smile now on either face. Each looks gravely
upon the floor or the table. Travis rises, restlessly, and lights
his pipe which he has laid upon the mantelpiece.
“Will you drink, Captain Travis?” asks the younger politician
in deliberate accents, measuring every syllable, and rapping
his snuff-box with nice manner ere he pinches.
“Drink! I don't care if I do, captain. What have you
got?”
“Jamaica and Monongahela, both.”
And the speaker rose slowly, placed his thumb and forefinger
snuff-box in a particular place upon the table, took out his
pocket-handkerchief, passed it deliberately about his upper lip,
returned it to his pocket, and made three steps to his closet,
when he produced two royally large black bottles, both square,
and both half filled with liquor.
“The Jamaica is particularly old, Captain Travis. It is part
of a small supply which I had the good fortune to secure, during
my last visit to Charleston, at the sale of some confiscated effects
of Gadsden, and some other of the rebel gentry. The Monongahela,
is of some age also, but it has no family characteristics
to recommend it. It is a good creature, however, as good as
the district can furnish of its age.”
All this was spoken in low tones, very slowly, drawlingly in
fact, with a slight nasal twang, which might, however, be due
to the snuff, which Inglehardt too freely used, rather than to the
natural tones of his voice. The whole manner of the man was
artificial. His true nature was to be found in art — that is, in
the exclusive sovereignty of his mental constitution.
“The Monongahela for me,” said Travis. “I am half inclined
to think that the Jamaica is hartful. The whiskey never
affects the brain or liver. The Jamaica does both.”
And he poured out, as he spoke, a moderate stoup of the
liquor, which he only dashed with water. Inglehardt was even
more moderate. He drank but little. Abstinence was among
his virtues. He never suffered his wits to escape from the leash
of will and prudence.
“Neither troubles mine, I think.”
“Hah! you never give them a chance. You are afraid of
the bottle.”
“Not afraid — only non-committal.”
“A politician even in your liquors, as in your prayers.”
“Truth. I give myself up to no excess in either. You may
safely trust that Monongahela, captain. It is mild with age,
and gentle in degree with its purity.”
“What say you then to a stoup together of equal measure?
Approve your eulogium by your own practice.”
“Ah! if I dared; but I have not the head for it.”
“Pshaw! you have head enough for anything. As for any
I should say it was impossible. Your head is as stubborn as
mine, as capable of endurance;— nay, more so; only try it;
have faith in yourselt, and yield up a trifle more of your life to
the follies of it. After all, there are moments when I fancy
that drinking is one of the best panaceas for trouble. If I
had my attic full of that old Madeira which the parish gentry
soak daily, I should perhaps give myself no trouble about the
workings of my own brain, or that of my neighbors.”
“That fierce old baron, Sinclair, is said to have his attic full
to overflowing of the oldest in the country.”
This was spoken with unwonted abruptness for so delicate a
speaker. But Travis was on his guard. He answered carelessly,
and with great indifference of manner.
“So I hear! He has wealth enough for it. But his case is
a warning against old Madeira. He has a pipe of it in his
legs — gout-casks — which he can't tap, and wouldn't willingly
carry.”
“But the Madeira is a gout-remedy.”
“So the fools say! It is the disease itself. The gout, like
most of the diseases of rich men, comes out of the kitchen and
the cellar.”
“Nay, we know that it is hereditary.”
“Ah! that sounds authoritative; but you are nearer the
mark to say that habits are hereditary. The son is apt to live
as his father taught him, and to suffer from the same sauces.
They both spice the broth after an hereditary measure, and have
hereditary puncheons in their pegs, accordingly. Catch the
spawn of the old fish, and transplant to other waters, if you
would take out of their scales the taint of the old mud. I
doubt if you ever knew a son who was rescued from his father's
examples, before he is able to perceive them, who ever exhibited
his father's infirmities, physical or moral.”
Inglehardt seemed to muse, and fingered and tapped his
snuff-box, and fed his nostrils tenderly; then wiped his upper
lip with an easy gesture, restored his 'kerchief to his pocket,
and said — all of a sudden: —
“You have tasted of old Sinclair's wine?”
This was said carelessly, though quickly. Travis in a moment
been to see him lately.” He perceived the snare. He saw
that any effort at evasion would involve him in deeper suspicion;
he determined upon a frank manner, at all events, and as free
a revelation of the truth as he deemed it good policy to make.
These reflections cost him not a moment; and he replied:—
“That I have, and first-rate liquor it is. It deserves its reputation.
I paid the old soldier a visit some five weeks ago —
bought a hundred beeves of him — and he very civilly insisted
upon my dining with him — was very gracious, indeed, and
gave me of the best. The bottles he put on the table were
crusted with cobwebs. The wine was then twenty-nine years
old. He mentioned, with a chuckle, that my Lords Rawdon
and Fitzgerald, had brought up bottom, after earnest soundings,
from no less than a score of bottles in one evening.”
The wily Inglehardt was baffled.
“How the d—l!” thought Travis to himself, “did he get at
that visit? I had taken every precaution!”
Of course, he knew, from the question of Inglehardt, that he
had made the discovery. The only mode left him was to anticipate
exposure by frankness, and disarm it. He could not
disarm suspicion; but he might baffle evidence.
“Ah! my Lords Rawdon and Fitzgerald. So Fitzgerald has
been there! That must have been just when I was laid on my
back by this troublesome wound. No doubt they relished the
old fellow's wine. They can't get such wine in England.”
“No, indeed; Carolina's the region for the ripening of Madeira.
Zounds, my lips smack of its flavor at the very recollection.
I wish I had a thousand bottles of it — the contents of
his garret would probably yield quite as many.”
“And why should you not, Captain Travis?”
“How should I? — I'd like to know the process.”
“It is an easy one when the work of confiscation becomes
general, and spreads a little more from the seaboard into the
interior.”
“Ah! but how will it affect him? Why, he is as fierce and
stubborn a loyalist as any in the country.”
“Words! words! Do you suppose that his mere profession
of loyalty will save his estates, in the teeth of his son's active
fall into the hands of the rebel, simply because his father professed
a fidelity which he did not sustain in any other way?
I see no reason why the Sinclair Barony should not fall into
the general stock, and reward some true subject who has shown
himself in deeds, as well as words.”
“Truly, if such be the prospect before us, the pickings will
be considerable. The old Barony would cut up famously. But
old Sinclair is strong with Rawdon and Balfour, and I suspect
the property will all be covered by the name of the daughter.”
“Well, she will reward some good loyalist who has carried
a sword in action, for his active services. Somehow, the property
must go into the proper hands. The only doubt really is
about the issue of the war.”
“But can that be doubtful?”
Nobody better knew how doubtful was the result than the
speaker; in fact, he was chiefly occupied at this very moment,
in preparing against this doubt. But he knew that Inglehardt
was sounding him. It was the cue of Travis to make the other
believe that he himself had no sort of question that the British
arms would be successful. The policy of Inglehardt depended
upon this success; and, as most persons can easily be persuaded
of what they wish, Travis took for granted that, though he
seemed to intimate a doubt of the final issue, he yet felt none.
Still, Inglehardt was not unwilling to suggest to his companion
the fear which he hardly felt himself. He replied:—
“There's no saying. Troops do not arrive with sufficient
rapidity from England.”
“Three fresh Irish regiments only the other day,” answered
the other.
“Yes; but not meant for this colony — designed for Virginia,
and only permitted to be used by Lord Rawdon temporarily,
in the necessity of relieving Ninety-Six. Then, you see, these
Irish troops are not to be relied on. The moment they get an
opportunity they desert and join the rebels. They entertain
no love for the British flag. No! our best chances depend
upon the loyal Americans, and they come in very slowly now.
Here have I been recruiting for a month, and have succeeded
Things, I fear, begin to look suspicious.”
This was said with great gravity and deliberation, and a
melancholy shaking of the head. But Travis knew his man.
“He hopes,” such was his mental reflection, “to win me on to
let out my own calculation. But I know better than to commit
myself to him by declaring my true conviction. No, no, Master
Inglehardt, you don't catch this weasel asleep!” Then,
aloud, and with some show of disquiet:—
“Pshaw! Captain Inglehardt, you are in a croaking humor
to-day. You surprise me by such notions. As for Great Britain
lacking troops, or being compelled to rely upon native
Americans, that seems to me one of the idlest fancies in the
world. Our loyalist troops are but a drop in the bucket.”
“By Jupiter! Captain Travis, they are pretty much all that
are worth having in the bucket. Look how the British armies
are now made up. The veteran troops are nearly all American.
The Hessians are pretty much used up; the Scotch regiments
are not half full; the Irish desert when they can, are perpetually
mutinying, their officers dare not rely upon them, and
tremble, when they go into action, lest their own bayonets
should be the first at their bosoms. Half of Lord Rawdon's
force at Camden were loyalists; of the thousand men of Ferguson,
that gave up to the mountaineers, at King's mountain, more
than nine hundred were American born. And who but native
Americans have kept the post of `Ninety-Six,' under Cruger,
so long against the whole of the rebel army of Greene? I tell
you, Captain Travis, that the forces of Great Britain, now in
the South, would be swallowed up everywhere, but for the rifles
of our own people.”
“And if this be so, Captain Inglehardt — which I am very
far from admitting — what better proof can we have of the
ultimate success of our cause? If, keeping her own powers in
reserve, Great Britain can so direct the resources supplied by
the loyal population, as to keep the rebels in subjection, do you
not see that she can, at any moment, achieve the fullest results
of victory, by only a slight increase of the foreign forces?”
“Ay, but has she kept her own forces in reserve? Has she
not employed them to the uttermost? Why did she need to
lacked numbers, or were reluctant to join the war. The
Scotch are not a numerous people. England herself cut off too
large a proportion of the Highland Scotch, not to feel the want
of them now. The Irish are unfaithful and not to be trusted.
What then? She now depends upon them, chiefly, as the reserved
powers of which you speak; and these, with our native
Americans, constitute all her strength here at present.
When you add to this, that the drain upon the British treasury
for six years, will hardly now suffer her to hire more troops, or
even pay those who are in arms at present, you will see that I
have some good reasons for holding the present issue doubtful.”
Now, Inglehardt had truly painted the condition of Great
Britain, the exhaustion equally of her men and money; but,
strange to say, he did not himself fully believe in the extent of
the danger as he described it; he believed still only as he
wished; but his subtle policy was to persuade Travis that he
himself was beginning to be affected by those arguments, which
he had reason to think had been already adopted by Travis,
of his own reasoning. If Travis, now, should only be so far
deluded into the notion that he, Inglehardt, like himself, was
beginning to meditate how best to prepare for the backdoor of
retreat — and, thus persuaded, should let something of his own
meditations to this effect be seen, he should secure such further
hold upon the father of Bertha Travis, as would most effectually
place him in his power.
But the old politician was not so easily gulled. He laughed
at the gloomy picture which the other had painted of the future.
“No!” said he, “Great Britain is like a rock against which
all the waves of rebellion, though numerous as billows of the
Atlantic, would chafe and beat in vain. The mother-country
is only economical of her resources. She has adopted the true
policy of making us fight the battle with as little cost to herself
as possible. When it is necessary to put forth her strength
— her men and money — they will not be wanting. Do not despond,
Inglehardt. There is nothing to fear — nothing to doubt
— there is no danger that the rebel power will ever succeed.
As you yourself have shown, the native loyalists have proved
quite a sufficient match, almost alone, for the native rebels.
is a serious one, because so full of injustice. It is a wonder,
indeed, that it has not worked for her the most mischievous results.”
“What is that?”
“She expects us to find her the troops, yet refuses to let us
find the general officers. At best, all that our distinguished
young men can get from her, is a colonelcy, a majority, a captaincy.
They are not trusted as generals of brigade or division
— have few discretionary trusts confided to them; yet could I
pick out a score or two of natives, of this one province, who are
far better fitted to plan a pitched battle than half that are now
in command in the British armies. This is a blind policy. It
is the one which Britain pursued all through the French and
Indian wars, and it cost us immense loss in blood and treasure.
It has cost us this very rebellion, which never would have
taken place in the South, had not our own able men been everywhere
thrust upon the shelves. Why, for example, should you
remain five years a captain only, when such persons as Barry,
and Sheridan, Mad Campbell, Fool Campbell, Bulldog Campbell,
and Weasel Campbell, all take higher rank. I know you, and
so do they; and they know, as I do, that you are better fitted
for a colonelcy of foot or dragoons than any one of these people.
Yet, after all your services, for six years, you are just in
the same position as when you brought your own company into
camp. If they could have taken your captaincy from you, without
discouraging all the loyalists, do you suppose that it would
not have been given to some favorite, some younger son of an
old house, who was found too troublesome, or expensive at
home? Certainly, this policy has done more toward keeping
back the royal cause from triumph, than anything besides.”
The speech of Travis was an adroit one. It was, in some
degree, turning the tables upon his companion, insinuating an
argument, ad hominem, which, in a case of even moderate self-esteem,
might be found to tell. In other respects, the remarks
of the speaker betrayed such perfect confidence in the power of
Great Britain to effect the final conquest of the country, that it
threw Inglehardt off from the chase of the one idea he had pursued,
though it did by no means persuade him to any faith in
for the adroit appeal to his own pride, in the reference to the
neglect of native merit, and its slow promotion, the bait did not
take; though, we may add, sub rosa, that Inglehardt had been
laboring secretly — (was it a secret to Travis?) — for a higher
command, and had found his wishes invariably set aside, in
favor of some young springald, of famous blood, and broken
fortunes, from the mother-country. He felt the truth of what
Travis urged accordingly; but it failed of its effect, in disarming
him of his suspicions of the speaker, simply because he felt
that the point was urged with the evident purpose to act upon
himself. The wily man will distrust every argument, however
true and just, which he feels to be suggested with a specific
purpose, which is yet not openly avowed.
“Well,” said he, somewhat musingly, and feeding his nostrils
again from the snuff-box — “I am glad that you think so well
of our general prospect. I confess that I had some misgivings.
But what you say seems reasonable enough. It is clearly the
policy of Great Britain to fight the rebels at as little cost of
men and money as she can. I only hope that she may not carry
her economy too far. War is an expensive luxury in which
one can not exercise a very nice economy. Men wish to be
paid well for the privilege of being shot and bayoneted. It is
only the gold in the pouch that reconciles one to the prospect
of lead in the paunch. As for this army favoritism, you may
be right in some degree, Captain Travis. There is quite too
much of it. In respect to myself, why, I certainly should not
quarrel with his majesty's seal to a commission making me major
of brigade, or giving me an independent legion. The thing
has certainly occurred to me, but more as a something I had a
right to expect, than because of any earnest desire that I have
for it. But, as a poor captain of rangers, I am not uncomfortable.
It is a snug command, easily managed, and, if I have only
a small trust, I am relieved from all heavy responsibilities. If
I receive no favors, I am at least not burdened with the sense
of obligation. The neglect of my services does not mortify me
to a loss of my appetite.”
“You are more philosophical than I should be — than most
all my military ambition.”
“Yes — but you have not survived all your appetites,” replied
the other, with a smile which was something of a sneer —
“Your ambition is more modest, captain, than some of your
other passions. A commissariat is not a bad sphere for making
friends with fortune. In truth, such is my modesty, that I do
not know but I should be willing to exchange places with
you.”
“You would soon sicken of it,” answered Travis, somewhat
hastily.
“Never, because of surfeit,” replied Inglehardt. “But I do
not quarrel with your good fortune. I keep in mind the fact
that your operations, with your economy; must all result in the
prosperity of your future son-in law.”
“Bertha Travis will be in comfortable circumstances should
anything happen to me,” replied the affectionate father, somewhat
evasively.
“Why, Captain Travis, she will be a millionaire. Talk
of comfortable circumstances, indeed! I would venture to say
that, by the time this rebellion is crushed, you will be one of
the richest men in the province.”
“Pshaw! you talk wildly. Only comfortable — comfortable!
A moderate estate, which, well managed, will enable a small
family to live independently.”
“No more? Well, fortunately, Bertha Travis herself is one
of those treasures which would sufficiently reconcile me to such
a moderate prospect of fortune. By-the-way, Travis, this thing
drags a little too heavily. Though apt to take most things
coolly, yet I confess, in the matter of the affections, I am
rather an eager, impatient person.”
And the speaker uttered these words even more deliberately
and drawlingly than usual, and resorted to his snuff box, slowly
tapping it first, then segregating, with the thumb and forefinger,
the smallest possible particles from the mass, and feeding with
it, as a young lady would feed canary or humming bird, the
slightly reddened tips of his sharply-elongated nose.
Travis thought to himself: — “Now d—n the skunk, does he
expect me to believe, or does he himself believe, that he has
an ounce of impatience in his blood would prove of better use
to himself and to all other persons, than all the virtues in his
carcass.”
But Travis did not venture to speak aloud such “parlously”
offensive matter. The reflection was instantaneous, and did
not prevent him from a sufficiently prompt reply.
“It is not my fault, Inglehardt, that the affair drags so
slowly.”
“I am afraid, my dear fellow, that it is your fault.”
“How? I have done all that I could. I have urged your
cause to Bertha—”
“No, Travis, you have not done all that you could; and
there are such modes of urging a cause as infallibly to defeat
it.”
“You do not mean to accuse me of bad faith, Inglehardt?”
“Not exactly that! I flatter myself, that, putting out of
sight altogether what is evidently your preference and policy,
I possess certain securities for your good faith, the value of
which no one better knows than yourself. Now, I feel sure
that you are not heedless of these securities, and I could almost
persuade myself that, apart from these, your policy perceives,
in my union with Bertha Travis, the greatest advantages to
both. Let her once be mine, and our united strength renders
us both secure, and enables us to work with more confidence
upon the British authorities. Then, indeed, I might secure
this colonelcy — assuming it to be an object of real importance
and desire; and, instead of a mere deputy commissary, you
might pass into the department as its head. Why will you
not see these advantages as I do?”
“I do see them — I am certainly not blind.”
“Hardly with open eyes, Travis, or you would do something
more for their promotion.”
“I do all that I can. I have urged your claims upon Bertha.”
“Ay, you have said — `This man seeks you, and I could wish
that you would be pleased to see in him a marvellous proper
person.' That is all; is that urging my claims? Look you, my
amiable father-in-law, that is to be — ought to be, at least —
— look you — is this the time, or is yours the situation, when
you can suffer the tastes and prejudices of a silly young girl,
that as yet knows nothing, to pule about her heart, and her affections,
and all that stuff? Shall the plans, the schemes, the
fortunes — nay, the very safety — of men, be jeoparded by such
absurd pleadings? She does not love me; — well? In all
your experiences of the sex, how many of them have loved
wisely? — how many have married where they did not honestly
love, and yet passed a very comfortable life of it? Why should
Bertha Travis not love me? I am not an Adonis, true; but I
have tolerably comely proportions. Do you not suppose that
I will make her quite as happy — to talk in the ridiculous dialect
of vulgar people — as that insolent fellow Sinclair? I am
not brutal of habit, am not a profligate liver, have my tastes, as
you know — nay, pride myself a little upon them — have had
a very tolerable education, and believe that I can carry
myself quite as much as a gentleman, as any aristocrat in the
parishes. You do not believe — I know — that there is any
prospect of your daughter forfeiting the usual amount of human
happiness in becoming my wife?”
It was delightful to note the cool deliberate sweetness
with which all this was spoken — slowly, softly, and sprinkled
with the finest of Scotch snuff, in frequent parentheses.
Travis was getting uneasy. He was not an impulsive man, but
he had more ardor, and was more impatient than his antagonist,
to whom this difference gave a decided advantage. He answered:—
“No! no! I have no doubt that you will make my daughter
as happy as anybody else; and I have urged upon her
these very arguments. I have counselled, entreated, argued the
matter with her—”
“A moment, my dear Travis, a moment. This is going over
old ground. You have told me of these pleas and arguments
before. Of course they did not convince Bertha Travis, and,
of course, also, they do not satisfy me. She is a young damsel,
who has had very much her own way, and is tickled just now
with certain girlish fancies, which persuade her that one Willie
Sinclair, major of dragoons in the rebel service, is the only true
woman's fancy, having such a tickler, is not prepared to listen
to an old man's prosing philosophies, meant to persuade her into
quite another sort of fancy for another sort of man. No! no!
no argument of man, however wise in reason and profound in
policy, could ever hold its ground, or make any impression,
against a young girl's fancy. Her fancy, my dear good Travis,
becomes her religion. She has no other faith for the time being
— not till she gets a new fancy, potent enough to push the old
one from its place.”
“Why, what would you have me to do? I have tried —
I have told her—”
“Suffer me again, my dear captain. Suppose that, instead
of a dozen, you had urged these arguments upon her a thousand
times? What then? Do you deceive yourself with the notion
that a mere repetition, however frequently made, of an argument,
or a plea, which the ear of the hearer refuses to receive,
will avail you anything more than a single urging? The mere
repetition of a plea or a petition, which was held to be distasteful
at the first, only renders it more and more distasteful as you
continue to urge it.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Have you told her, sir — that this marriage is necessary to
your safety? That, unless it takes place, her father is in danger
of being punished as a swindler, as a forger of false accounts,
as a speculator of the public moneys, as, in short, a traitor to
the cause of his majesty, George the Third, king of Great Britain,
France, and Ireland, defender of the faith, &c. Have
you told her this, Captain Travis?”
Now fancy all this matter delivered with the utmost deliberation,
quietly, even gently, in the softest tones, and without a
single passage or word being emphasized, in obedience to the
requisition of its own import. Fancy all this, if you would
conceive the cold, stern, deliberate, strategic nature of Richard
Inglehardt. No wonder that a cold sweat stood upon the forehead
of Captain Travis as he listened.
But Travis was a man of passions. He had a quickening
pulse — was not without pride — was a father, and a fond one
— though, no doubt, a great rascal — and he irked greatly at
power — he, too, the son of his overseer!
He started from his seat, and strode across the room, his lips
white with rage.
“No! Captain Inglehardt. I have told her none of these
things, for I believe none of them — I hold none of them to be
true.”
“Ah! my friend, you are rash now. You are surely forgetful
of all your reason and experience. I do not wish to wound
your pride, or rouse your passion. My appeal is to your common
sense!”
“D—n common sense.”
“As you please — after you have heard. Now do me the
kindness to examine these papers. You need not be angry with
them, and seek to destroy them — or you may — it matters not.
They are only copies. You will find there some memoranda
which would be of considerable interest to Colonel Balfour in
the future discussion of your accounts. You will see that the
facts can all be established by good witnesses. I need not tell
you that I am in possession of all the facts, and all the clues, to
your transactions for government during the last three years.
I need not add to a gentleman of such clear understanding as
yourself, that these proofs, laid before either of the generals of
the crown would lead to the confiscation of other estates than
those of old Sinclair. I gave you a proof of these papers on a
previous occasion, my dear Travis. Why will you force me to
idle reiteration.”
All this was articulated with admirable slowness, softness,
and subdued manner, while a most gentle smile lighted up the
amiable eyes of the speaker. But the speech did not much
mitigate the indignation of Travis. He snatched the proffered
papers from the hands of the speaker, dashed them on the floor,
and stamped them under feet, saying, as he did so:—
“Ay, sir, but you used no such offensive language when you
spoke of this matter before. You spoke of it only as certain
mistakes and miscalculations in my accounts, and never dared to
apply such epithets to my name as you have just now. Now,
Captain Inglehardt, I give you to know that though fifty years
of age — twice your age, sir — I have not lost the capacity, or
presume, sir, on a fancied power, to offer insult. But, beware,
sir! Another repetition of this offence, and the terms between
us must be blood — sir — blood! — your blood or mine.”
Inglehardt listened to this outburst with amazing calm. He
sniffed at the snuff while the other was speaking, and 'kerchiefed
his nose with praiseworthy care and deliberation. When Travis
ceased, he answered in the sweetest temper:—
“My dear captain, you are unnecessarily angry. I had no
purpose to make you so. As for the issue which you threaten,
I have only to pray that when the storm comes I may have a
dry roof over me. But pistols will hardly be taken in evidence
against the truth; pistols will do little to settle my accounts
with you, or yours with the crown. You may judge for yourself,
by a single moment of reflection, of what avail they will be
here between us, and in the adjustment of our little differences.
Either what I say is true, or it is not. If not true, you have
only to defy the charge, and concede nothing that I demand in
the belief that it is true. If true, and the matter should involve
your safety in any wise, as I most respectfully think it does,
then you know the terms upon which, alone, the evidence is to
be suppressed. Suffer me to repeat them. You are within
three weeks to possess me of the hand of your daughter. I
care not what arguments you use — I but suggested to you such
as you might use, and such as would probably prove effectual
— and leave it to you to find better if you can. Once more —
your daughter's hand to be mine in three weeks, sir — three
weeks, Captain Travis! Three weeks may be held a liberal
term of time, added to a negotiation which has been in progress
nearly three years, in all which time, sir, I have been in possession
of many other little proofs of errors in your accounts
which I have foreborne to include in that catalogue.”
The whole manner of this speech was cruelly civil, moderate
of tone — even gentle — and so very deliberate!
For a moment Travis glared upon the speaker with eyes of
ill-suppressed hostility. But he tamed himself down, with a
few hurried strides about the room, during which Inglehardt
wonderfully kept his composure and his chair. Suddenly Travis
stood before him.
“You are bent on driving me to the wall, Captain Inglehardt.”
“No, sir — only in keeping you from falling under the wall.
I so admire your fortunes and the prospect before you, that I
would unite mine with yours. Why will you persist in seeing
anything unfriendly in this?”
“Why press this matter just now? Why not wait till the
war is over?”
“I do not see why love should wait on war a single moment.
In the days of chivalry they went hand in hand together.
Shall I eat no sweets to-day, because I may be slain in battle to-morrow.
Nay, is not that very danger good reason why I should
enjoy my sweets to-night? Because nations fight, and I wear
harness like the rest, shall I forswear wiving; or shall the woman
I love be tutored not to wed me, lest I never come home from
battle. In brief, Captain Travis, I have resolved, and you
know to what extent. You have my ultimatum. Briefly, will
you pledge me the hand of Bertha Travis, the marriage to take
effect three weeks from this day — not a day later. Understand
me, it must be your positive pledge, now — I shall not be content
with any promise that you will plead to her again after the
old fashion. Will you give me this pledge?”
The other hurriedly paced the room in silence. He felt himself
in the toils; but he had a refuge, and his secret thought —
that of the veteran politician always —readily suggested that to
gain time was to gain escape. Three weeks embody a world
of possibilities. The domain of chance is always a refuge to
one in an emergency. Besides — he had his own schemes —
and these were rapidly ripening to fulfilment. Three weeks
were all that he desired for these. He determined, as it were
desperately; and, turning to his antagonist, said:—
“Captain Inglehardt, you hold me and my daughter to hard
conditions. You may be a good man and may prove a good
husband, but by — you are one of the d—dest cold-blooded
tyrants whom I know! But enough! I give you my pledge.
It shall be as you say. In three weeks! I yield, sir. You
have taken an ungenerous advantage, and I submit! But that
shall not make me think more favorably of your mind and heart.
You are, I repeat, a most cold-blooded and deliberate tyrant,
where you have the power!”
The other smiled with satanic sweetness.
“You do me wrong, Travis. A lover is justified in his exactions
in due degree with the extremity of his passion. Come,
sir! let us drink the wedding-day — this time, in a more classical
beverage than either Jamaica or Monongahela. Here, sir,
is a bottle of old Madeira — not, perhaps, so old as that of Baron
Sinclair's, but of more sterling body.”
“Thank you, no! I will not drink another drop with you to-day!
I would I could never see you again, Richard Inglehardt
— never! never!”
The other, this time, laughed — and such a short choking
laugh, that Travis hastily bade him good day, and looking still
as angry as ever, darted out of the room.
“Remember your pledge, Captain Travis,” the other called
after him, almost as deliberately as ever —“Remember, sir!
Remember!”
And when he had gone, the eyes of Inglehardt darkened into
a scowl — and he muttered:—
“I have him under my heel — have her at my mercy, or will
have her — and we shall soon see who shall be the scorned and
who the scorner? He can not elude me — can not escape — and
he knows it! He will and must use the arguments I have put
into his mouth, and she must submit. Ha! ha! She shall to
the altar, or he to the halter!”
| CHAPTER XXVI.
A PAIR OF ARCADIANS. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days | |