University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE RIVAL SPIDERS.

It was long after midnight when 'Bram returned to his master
in the camp. But he had performed his mission successfully,
and brought back a written answer, partly in cipher, which
Sinclair read by firelight, and which proved satisfactory.

“But what of Ballou, 'Bram?”

The negro could give no account of the scout.

“'Speck he 'tretch out somewhay in de bush, drunk like a
gempleman.”

Our major painfully admitted to himself this probability; he
well knew the scout's weakness, and feared that he had fallen
into a temptation which had proved too great for his resolves.

“And lawd, maussa, ef you bin yerry how he sway to God
nebber for touch whiskey an' rum any more 'gen. But he lub
'em so.”

“Well, since he fails us, 'Bram, we shall only have to do
double duty ourselves. Don't let me sleep a moment after
daylight. I must ride down to Kit Rowe's by peep of day.
To sleep now, old fellow.”

With dawn he was up and mounted.

“Keep your eyes about you, 'Bram, while I am absent. You
can push the boat across the river and scout about Holly-Dale.
Henry Travis will meet you by the swamp cedars, and bring

you something to eat. I shall probably be with you after dark,
in the camp, mind you. We can cross in the canoe.”

And shaking the negro's hand, as if he had been a bosom
friend, our major of dragoons took his way down along the edge
of the river swamp, until he reached the ford where he had
previously crossed the stream, when he boldly pressed through
it as before. On the opposite side he sped along with a free
rein, meeting nobody, and possibly escaping all eyes, at that
early hour of the morning. But he kept under cover as much
as possible, passing below the bridge until he found himself
nearly opposite to Rowe's plantation. Here, after a little
search, he found, closely hidden away in the thickly-massed
forest which crowded down to the edge of the stream, a little
dug-out, with a negro boy in it asleep. He routed up the
urchin, who was evidently set to wait for him — not watch —
and stripping his horse of his saddle, and loosing his neck-chain,
he led the steed by the bridle to the water, and entering
the boat, bade the boy push across; the horse, never fearing,
taking the water like a dog of Newfoundland, and swimming
beside the dug-out. The steed concealed in the swamp thickets,
and the boy left in charge of the boat, Sinclair, after sundry
precautions, made his way up toward the settlement, giving his
bugle a slight blast which brought Rowe out to him in the thicket.

“Have you heard of Dick Coulter and his troop?” was the
first question of Sinclair.

“He was at Chevillette's last night, and is no doubt plying
about in the swamp between his place and Barton's.”

“Good! I must have him up to-morrow by three o'clock in
the afternoon. Can you give him a whistle?”

“It shall be done. Where must he find cover?”

“At Holly-Dale, west of the road, out of sight, but ready
bitted, for a charge at the first blast of the bugle. Has anything
more been gathered touching the recruits of Travis?”

“I counted twenty-six at drill, yesterday.”

“How many has Coulter?”

“Not more than nineteen last night, but some were out
scouting.”

“Has Ballou been here?”

“No! I thought I heard his horn blow down by the negro

quarter last evening, as I rode up from Chevillette's, but I have
seen nothing of him.”

“He is either drunk in a hollow, or on a hot trail. I need
him now, and we shall be pushed for time. Greene's advance
will probably pass Rawdon to-morrow night.”

“Ah! and his lordship?”

“Is making for Orangeburg as a fox makes for his hole with
thirty dogs at his heels. The heat is playing old Harry with
his men, and his Irish are ready to break out in mutiny.”

“Good! What of Stewart and Cruger?”

“Nothing positive: but they are on the road also, pushing
downward with the whole tory settlement of Ninety-Six, bag
and baggage along with him, and Pickens at his heels with his
mounted rangers — too few to cut him up, yet too hungry not to
follow. But you must get me some breakfast out here. I have
a famous dragoon appetite this morning.”

“There's no stranger on the place or about. Can't you venture
up to the house.”

“No! I can risk nothing unnecessarily now — I have a life
depending on my vigilance and safety, which is worth an army
to us.”

We will not pursue our major of dragoons for the present,
satisfied that he wishes concealment, and that he will be active.
Let us look in, for a moment, upon Richard Inglehardt.

He was taking his breakfast, a somewhat late one, at the
table of the widow Bruce. All the other lodgers — they were
few — had breakfasted and gone. The widow presided at the
table and watched her guest, as, somewhat more abstractedly
than usual, he broke his bread and sipped his coffee. Inglehardt
seldom showed himself in a contemplative mood; but he
was evidently somewhat heedless of the lady's presence at this
moment. Mrs. Bruce was a lady of dignity, stately and reserved,
herself, but with that sort of pride which demands that
others shall pay tribute of confidence and solicitude. She did
not much admire Inglehardt. She knew him as obscure of
family, the son of an overseer, and he a man of little force of
character. But Inglehardt had made himself, and this proved
him in possession of native endowments which, properly exercised,
would give him means of power, and moral power is per

se a virtue. Richard Inglehardt was not a person to be despised
— not a person, however, to be loved — by the Widow
Bruce he was not even admired. Did she fear him? not exactly.
It would be difficult to say through what agency he
coerced her respect. It was not a respect accorded to him
through any social consideration. His social position was
doubtful and his manners were bad. But even his manners
were significant of latent powers. He was so cool — so assured
— so seemingly indifferent as to the results of the game — so
equal to it, as it was ordinarily played — that those who could
not analyze the source of the possession were yet able to recognise
it. It was something, therefore, to inspire curiosity, to
perceive this man apparently forgetful, absorbed, heedless of
the things around him, and, for once, natural, and so far human,
therefore, as to betray a consciousness of such relations with
the world about him, as to take him completely out of his indifference.
He whose thoughts make him forgetful of the absolute
presence in which he stands, shows himself in some degree the
subject of fortune. He is not superior to fate. It is working
in his brain, or in his heart, so as to inspire a care — an anxiety.

Why should Richard Inglehardt be so anxious at the present
moment, as to forget his affectations — forget his usual manner,
and show himself heedless of the very person in whose presence
he sits? Such a man rarely betrays any heedlessness of those
about him. He is always watchful of the world as if he knows
that it is full of enemies or — victims. It is only those who
sympathize with humanity who ever forget their vigilance.

“I should say, Captain Inglehardt,” quoth the widow, “that
you were meditating some enterprise of more than usual difficulty.”

There was something of pique in the tone of the lady, the
fruit, perhaps, of his failure to note her presence.

“Did you speak, Mrs. Bruce?” he answered, somewhat quickly,
but looking up still absently.

“Is it love or war, Captain Inglehardt?”

“Love, madam!”

“Ay, sir; I ask if it be love or war that now exercises your
strategic faculties? You are evidently busy in some scheme of
more than common embarrassment.”

He shook his head as if to shake it free of thought, and answered
slowly, resuming his deliberateness of speech and manner.

“Yes, madam, I am to sup shortly with the devil, and my
spoon is not quite long enough for my purposes.”

And with these words he coolly rose and left the room, a
little vexed with himself that he should forget himself, in his
anxieties, in the presence of another.

“Ay,” said the widow, “be it war or love, the devil will be
sure to have his hand in your mess, no matter whom you have
at supper.”

The widow did not admire her lodger certainly;— and had
but little faith in his virtues, though she might respect his
powers Meanwhile, Inglehardt retired to his room, and lighting
his pipe, sought, through this medium, to blow the clouds from
off his brain. He is not one who suffers himself often to soliloquise;
but he needs a safety-valve at this moment which the
pipe itself will not supply, and he broods aloud, without heeding
that we listen.

“I feel dubious about this whole affair. I feel that Travis is
playing the rogue with me. I do not know it, I only feel it; it
is an instinct; and I hate to rely upon instinct merely. I can
not fathom the secret. I have those who watch him yet they
report nothing unfavorable — all seems flowing smoothly, like a
river going down to the sea, singing as it goes. Still, there is
a something treacherous in the current, and I can not sound its
depths.

“Yet what can be his game? He knows, as well as I do,
that this rebellion is nearly burnt out. In the northern states,
it scarcely shows a flame. Virginia and North Carolina have
been swept by Arnold and Cornwallis. Georgia is crushed and
helpless at the foot of Britain. Here, only, in our own province
is the struggle maintained — and how? Greene is too cold and
cautious to achieve any brilliant results. He only keeps alive
by economizing his forces. The troops of Marion and Sumter.
Pickens and the rest of the partisans — they come and go, and
are equal only to small predatory performances. Half of the
natives are in our ranks, and here are three new regiments from
Ireland, and others coming. One disaster to Greene's army,
and the war is ended.

“Well, I am in position, and Travis is in position. His
policy is to be faithful to the crown and to me. He knows that
I can tear him down at a moment — nay, give him to the halter.
He has every motive of interest and safety to be faithful, and
with such a man such notions are everything. We are both
in a position to achieve fortune by the event, and that is as
nearly reduced to certainty now, as anything can be in the
world.

“And yet — I feel that he is treacherous! He does not press
this matter with his daughter. He hopes yet to escape this necessity.
But how? There is no doubt of my proofs, and he
knows me too well to doubt that I will crush him, ay, hang him,
without remorse, if he is unfaithful — though Bertha Travis lay
at my feet pleading to me for mercy. He knows that, yet he
trifles with me!

“Shall I submit to this trifling? Why has he not broached
the matter to her in the last thirty-six hours, when I laid bare
to him the absolute necessity of his case, and deliberately showed
him my own stern resolve? He knows what I require, knows
me firm, and knows his danger. Wherefore should he trifle,
then, and procrastinate, unless in the hope of some method
of evasion? Does he calculate on the chapter of accidents, in
this three weeks which I have allowed him — calculate on chance
shot or sabre stroke cutting me off and assuring his safety by
silencing my testimony? Ha! I must let him understand that
my very death is his ruin. I must give him to know that I
shall so arrange the evidence against him, and place it in such
keeping, that the very hour in which I perish gives up the
secret to Balfour.

“And what are his sources of hope for these casualties?
This Sinclair — where is he? His battalion is not with Greene.
That is certain. Where is it? He, himself, has been heard of
below, as far as Monck's Corner, and Biggins'. A troop of cavalry
supposed to be St. Julien's, has been down upon the Pon
Pon with Harden. This Edisto boy, Richard Coulter — my old
school-mate too — is somewhere below, skirting and recruiting
along the river. Can he be in any strength? I must prepare
for some of these parties. My own recruits are strong enough
now for a dash, and I must have them out scouting. Had I my

veterans here, something handsome might be done. I shall have
them in another week — and then!

“But am I safe here another week? Hardly — if it be true
that Harden, Maham, St. Julien, Sinclair, and Coulter, are below.
It will need that I take to the swamp. Oh! for half-a-dozen
scouts who know their business!

“This wooing is not my forte. It fatigues me. I require
easy conquests with the sex. They do not compensate toil and
stratagem. The father must do my wooing. I shall make it a
short process with him, and he will find it needful to be quite as
summary with her. He shall have his three weeks, but not a
moment more. In that space of time, he can not escape me.
Yet I must watch him. My instincts are ever sure, and, I feel,
though I can not see, that he is treacherous. He has his game
no doubt, but I will block it on him when he least expects it.”

We are not to suppose that all this soliloquy was delivered as
we have written it, without pause, break, or interruption. The
mood was almost dreamy in which the captain of loyalists uttered
himself, with frequent intervals in which the pipe sent up its
curling wavelets of smoke about his head, with his body thrown
back, face lifted, and heels upon a chair opposite. And thrice,
during his revery, did he fill the bowl of the pipe with fresh
tobacco. Meanwhile, his snuff-box lay untouched upon the
table. He never took snuff except in the presence of others.
Snuff-taking was one of his processes for pause —for gaining time
— for masking a wood or purpose.

In this soliloquy you have the secret of his moral make.
Cold, calculating, selfish, remorseless, subtle as a serpent, and
capable of using his fangs even where his passions are unexcited.
He was too phlegmatic to woo. He thought too little
of the sex, for such an effort. He could toil and weave laboriously
in the effort to secure his enemies in his meshes, but he
could not toil in behalf of his own heart. Power was his passion.
He knew nothing of the fine, inspiring frenzies of love.
Love he knew only in its coarser forms, as the creature of will
and passion; and the coldness of his heart rendered him susceptible,
even in this degree, only at periods, and when his
brain craved a respite from political intrigues. We see what
are his calculations touching the condition of the country, and

the prospects of the war. His politics were wanting as they
chiefly contemplated the surface. Of men, in general, he knew
much — could probe the ordinary character with skill and
adroitness — but of superior men, having great impulse, without
which there is no great virtue, he knew nothing. Enthusiasm
was a thing of depth, beyond his plummet. Thus, it was
that the very pressure which was calculated to bring out the
real heroism in the country, was beheld by him only as a crushing
and irresistible one — one to crush and be irresistible only
among the class which he could comprehend — those who calculated
the chances of the struggle, rather than the merits of
it, and who gauged their patriotism by hopes and fears, rather
than love, principle, and duty. In brief, this man, wonderfully
shrewd and cunning, was maste only of the avenues of the
brain; of the deep, full heart, whether in man or woman — the
absorbing generous affections, the glorious impulses, the honest
gushings, and noble frenzies — he had no knowledge. For these
he made no allowance.

But we need not linger in his analysis. He will develop
himself as we proceed. Enough that, having finished his revery
and soliloquy, his pipe and plans, he prepared to join, and
exercise his raw recruits. We need scarcely say that he gave
them sufficient employment. He despatched sundry of his best
men in different directions. He had silently matured the details
of a progress, in which he was to act more decisively than ever
upon Travis. But his necessities required that he should also
send out his spies, to ascertain, if possible, what degree of risk
he incurred in lingering about the village. The reports of
scattered bands of the partisans below him, were calculated to
render him uneasy. In fact, he felt that an enterprise against
him, by a spirited and able captain, might have put him and
his little troop entirely hors de combat. He had felt himself
safe only in the supposed absence of the Americans with
Greene and Marion, across the Santee. He had been so far
safe, in fact, only as it was generally known by the partisans
that he was temporarily invalided and in concealment, without
any troops with him, and that they had their hands full elsewhere,
of much better employment than looking after a game
which promised so little of reward for the trouble of the search.

It was, indeed, only within the last ten days, and when he had
succeeded in picking up some recruits, that he had ventured
openly to show himself in Orangeburg. It was the report of
Richard Coulter's troop in the neighborhood, that now, most of
all, made him feel the necessity of a proper vigilance. Accordingly,
his spies and scouts, such as they were, were all set in
motion.

Leaving him to his plans and practices, let us see after Sinclair.
We join him late in the day, when, having recrossed
the river in Rowe's canoe, paddled over by the negro-boy, his
horse swimming beside the boat as before, he sped up on the
route toward Holly-Dale. He drew rein in the same neighborhood
where he had held a previous interview with Travis.
Here he stabled his horse in covert, and prepared to wait the
reappearance of that person who, as he had learned, had gone
down that morning to the village. We may state that Travis
and Inglehardt again had a long private interview together, the
result of which — both parties playing fox in the game — was
to leave the latter in as great a degree of incertitude as ever —
his instincts making him suspicious, his thought denying all
reason for doubt or apprehension. Travis repeated his assurances
of good faith — swearing at his leek, like Pistol, even
while he swallowed it — and Inglehardt insinuating his warning
of the penalties that would follow from his treachery.

“And while you are persuading your daughter, Travis, I
must have the privilege of seeing her. My last three visits to
your house, have been profitless in this respect. She keeps out
of sight. Now she is indisposed, now she has retired for the
night, and there is always some excuse. You must enlighten
her upon the necessity of having no headache when I come,
and particularly against going to bed so early.”

Travis gave him a look full of hate and venom, but Inglehardt
only laughed.

“By Heaven! Richard Inglehardt, I should sooner brain you
than serve you.”

“Ah! but that wouldn't serve you. Remember, as I have
been at the pains to show you, the hour of my death is that of
your arrest for treason, to say nothing of certain minor offences.
The papers — proofs — I can reach at any moment, so long

as I live — dead, speechless, they are at once transferred to the
keeping of Commandant Balfour. But, enough!”

And he handed his mull with nicely-extended finger to his
auditor, throwing up the silver lid as he spoke.

“No, sir!” answered Travis, with stern look and emphasis —
“no, sir! none of your snuff!”

The other only smiled as he helped himself. His thought
was:—

“Yes, I have him in the toils, and he feels it. He has no
means of evasion.”

In fact, Travis had played his cards so well, that Inglehardt's
instincts were shamed almost into silence by his mental convictions.
They still lived, and were still somewhat watchful, but
they were no longer urgent.

“Have you heard, Captain Inglehardt,” said Travis somewhat
abruptly, “that Dick Coulter, with some ten or a dozen
troopers, has been seen in the neighborhood of Cooper's
swamp?” thus giving very gratuitous information, and mutilating
it besides — cutting down the twenty or thirty of Coulter
to ten or a dozen. Inglehardt noticed this discrepancy between
this account and his own, but the fact of Travis giving
the information at all, was in proof of his playing fairly with
him, and he could readily conceive that a discrepancy, in the
report of numbers, might easily occur without being a fraudulent
one. He did not know that Travis was already apprized
of his own perfect knowledge of the whereabouts of Coulter;
and he still pretended ignorance of the fact till the present
moment.

“Ha! Coulter!” he exclaimed — “He about! At Cooper's
swamp, eh? But with a dozen men only! He must be seen
to. We must take a drive in that quarter shortly, as soon as I
get my ragamuffins in good order for a charge.”

What more was spoken between them, we need not here report.
It was of business matters, affecting their own relations,
and those of the army; but as Travis was about to leave the
loyalist captain, the other touched him gently on the arm, and
looking with his deep, keen eyes, a stare of sharp and unyielding
firmness, he said:—

“Remember, Captain Travis, I am serious in the demand to

see your daughter when I happen to visit Holly-Dale. She
must not keep out of my sight. She must not show aversion.
There must be no petty excuses of headache and early couching.
I must not only have your assurance that you will fulfil
your engagement, but I must exercise my own eyes, in seeing
what sort of progress you make. It must not be a thing of
mere coercion; — she must be won — her affections—”

“And how the d—l am I to reach them in your behalf, when,
perhaps, she has no affection for you?”

“Ask the devil, and he may instruct you in the process.
At all events, I require to watch the progress. To-morrow, if
you say so — to-morrow, I will visit Holly-Dale.”

It was with indiscreet quickness that Travis answered:—

“Not to-morrow! not so soon! It will take me some days
to prepare her mind.”

“Ah! her antipathies are very strong, I see! But you will
advise me when she relents, when she relaxes, when she begins
to love — will you?”

“You are a sneering devil, Inglehardt.”

“And you anything but a smiling one, Travis,” was the
quiet reply, “though devil you are, by all that's satanical.
The only wonder is how you should ever have been blessed
with so saintly a daughter.”

Travis felt it in his heart to knock him down, and looked it;
but the other, his eyes still on him, fed his nose from the snuff-box,
with his complacency totally unmoved. That prudence
which taught Travis to seem very angry with his subtle associate,
taught him to subdue within proper limits his genuine
anger. They separated, with a burst of bad temper from
Travis, and a cool, contemptuous grin and bow from Inglehardt.