 | CHAPTER XXXIII.
SMILES AND SUNSHINE — BLOWS AND BONDS. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
SMILES AND SUNSHINE — BLOWS AND BONDS.
The game of war, unlike that of chess, admits too greatly the
interposition of fortune, to leave skill, however admirable, any
security from vicissitude. It was a wise superstition of Sylla,
which made him ascribe all his successes, however great, the
exercise of his own genius, courage and caution, to the favors
of the fickle goddess. The wise man will always thus make due
allowance for those caprices of fortune against which it is not
possible for any foresight to provide. As he will leave nothing
to Fate which can be encountered by judgment and precision, so
will he rise above the reverses which are apt to flow from conditions
over which he can exercise no control. He will suffer
himself neither to forget his prudence in success, nor sink into
despondency from failure. The soul for the great struggle implies
always great equanimity of temper and a cheerful fortitude.
The players at this game of war in our humble legend,
Sinclair and Inglehardt, have placed their men, decided upon
their game, exercised the coup d'œil with ample and deliberate
vision, and have staked very considerable issues upon the result.
We are to understand that each has made his arrangements
for the conflict according to his resources and his best
ability, and these have been put in motion, in accordance with
the degrees of knowledge, which they severally possess, of the
conditions under which they work. It is not the least difficult
feature in this game of war, that the facts are so rarely to be
grasped with certainty and entireness by any military genius.
Inglehardt, assuming, according to all the information he could
obtain, a certain state of things for Sinclair, has made himself,
in his own notion, very sure of the result. He has omitted none
of the precautions which could make the results certain. And
His troop has disappeared from the immediate vicinity
of Orangeburg. His preparations have been also made for his
own personal departure — at a certain hour. Meanwhile, he
surrenders himself up to apparent idleness. He lounges about
the house of the widow Bruce, with an air of lassitude which
seems to deprive him of all his energies. He expects a visiter,
in fact, and would have him suppose that nothing has undergone
any change in his feelings, his purposes, his conduct. He is,
to the last, a creature full of stratagem. He is playing his game
even while he seems drowsing over it.
And what is Sinclair about? At present he is not in the
field, that we can see. He has eluded our vision. But, knowing
him as we do, we may take for granted that his game occupies
all his thought — that he is somewhere, in some quarter of
the field, making his preparations also — exercising the uttermost
forethought — providing against possible reverses — bringing
all his faculties to bear against the coming necessity. He,
too, has his stratagems, but they contemplate only single objects.
They are not complicated like those of Inglehardt. He prefers
the open to the sly game — the manly to the merely cunning.
His anxieties are great — greater than those of Inglehardt,
since he has a greater stake in the game. He stakes, on the
issue, other purposes than those which simply affect himself!
Let us suppose him at work, as he ought to be, and leave him
for the present to his secret operations.
What visiter does Inglehardt expect? Whom does he desire
to delude with an appearance of apathy, which is so totally
untrue to what he has done, and what he contemplates doing,
that day? He contemplates another meeting, and trial of wits,
with Travis, before those revelations are finally made which
shall strip both parties of the mask.
And what of Travis? He has risen from a sleepless couch
full of anxieties. He feels how much he also has at stake, in
the game which is to be played to-day. His night's reflections
have tended greatly to inspire him with the anxieties which
oppressed Sinclair, and to make him feel the impending peril to
his fortunes. He is somewhat touched too, by the reflection
that his selfishness has been exacting; and that, in holding
afternoon, and under threatening circumstances, he has been
unnecessarily tenacious of his own objects, to the great hazard
of other parties. But a life of selfishness is not to be rebuked
in a moment. He has been a hard and exacting man always;
and he silences his self-reproaches, with the reflection that it is
too late now to amend his fault. That it is now impossible to
see Sinclair and make other arrangements.
But his reflections have made him grave; and secretly they
have somewhat tended to the growth of a more trusting faith
and more generous impulses in his heart. Having eaten breakfast
in silence, he orders his horse, and calls Bertha Travis into
his chamber. There he produces a little tin case which might
contain a dozen sheets of paper folded compactly. He holds it
in his hands for a short space in silence, as if doubtful of his
purposes. Bertha gazes on him with anxiety. Travis was a
person of a hard nature, not easily moved to exhibit his emotion;
still less was he given to show any despondency of spirit, even
in moments of reverse and disaster. The unusual depression of
mood under which he labored had arrested the anxious attention
of both his wife and daughter while he sat at table. This
depression was now so much more decided that the girl could
not forbear referring to it, and asking the reason. He answered
her:—
“I am about to ride down to Orangeburg, where I trust, in
one hour, to finish all the business I shall ever have with Richard
Inglehardt and the British commissariat.”
“I am so glad, father.”
“Yet something depresses me, Bertha — something like a
presentiment of evil. I must go. This is the day for my
monthly closing of accounts, and I must not be absent from my
post, lest it lead Inglehardt to suspicion. You know enough to
understand that he has cause of suspicion. You know him to
well, and his objects, not to understand that, with him, to suspect
is to watch, and follow, and if need be, strike. In brief, I am
not sure of my ground, and events, of the highest importance,
are ripening to-day, which, if successful, will relieve me of him
— relieve me of many anxieties besides — and relieve me of all
future connection with the British army. As a matter of course,
It is due to myself, my child, to assure you that my present decision
has been mainly taken because of your relations with
Major Sinclair. But for these, I should never, perhaps, until
too late, have had my eyes opened to the rights of the American
cause, and to its probable success. The desire to see you
happy, with a man whom I honor, as much as you love, has
unsealed my vision, and taught me better lessons of my country.
It is probable that Inglehardt, whom I have long baffled, is
partly the possessor of my secret policy. I would save you
from him, even if I should not save myself; for his is the very
soul of treachery, and, I may find myself in his grasp at the
very moment when I flatter myself I am wholly out of it.
Now, I wish you to pledge me solemnly, whatever shall happen
to me — no matter what you hear — no matter what my situation,
that you will never marry him!”
The girl smiled as she replied:—
“Surely, my father, that needs no pledge — no solemn promise.
I know no being whose presence I so much loathe, as that
of Richard Inglehardt.”
“I believe it — I know it; and I know that, with a free
choice left you, there could be no danger that you would ever
place yourself in the power of so cold-blooded and selfish a tyrant.
But you may not be allowed a choice. There may be situations
in which you may be placed, in which you may deem it a
duty to sacrifice yourself for others — sacrifice your own heart —
for others; for a father's life, for example.”
“Oh! surely, my dear father, there is no danger which now
threatens you.”
“No! perhaps not! Danger, no! None, at least, which
does or can do more than threaten. But who is secure — who
can be secure — at such a time as this, and in the present condition
of the country? Danger is all about us, more or less
threatening of aspect. We are between two fires. There are
two great combatants in the field, both insisting upon our allegiance,
both able to hurt, neither quite strong enough to protect
us. In such cases the wise man takes all the precautions that
he can, and with the best, still feels that his prospect is everywhere
clouded with uncertainty. We are in a perilous conjuncture
the ships must go down. Which? I have endeavored to steer
my way in safety, more with regard to my family than myself.
I have determined now upon a course which involves much
uncertainty; a course which must make this man Inglehardt a
decided enemy.”
“He is not your friend now.”
“He is no man's friend; but there's no strife between us;
we are on terms; but such only as belong to selfish objects.
He finds me useful — would make me profitable — aims at your
hand — or, rather, at the fortune which he supposes you will
inherit. But I should writhe in my grave, Bertha, did I know
that he were the possessor of either.”
“Never fear, dear father! I loathe and detest him.”
“Yet women have been compelled to marry the very object
of their loathing.”
“Never shall the case be mine.”
“Remember, Bertha, I hold this as your solemn pledge, as it
were above the grave. I shall expect you to keep it whatever
may happen. Whatever you hear — if tidings are brought you
that I am in the hands of my enemy — in chains — threatened
with death — a sudden and a shameful doom — nay, should you
get a letter from my hand requiring you to wed with Richard
Inglehardt, as the price of my life and safety — heed it not!
Be sure that it is a forgery, or that it has been wrung from me
by tortures which have left me incapable of a true thought, or
an honest desire.”
“Oh! my father, why conceive these fearful things?”
“No matter! You will heed and obey my present wishes.
You will cling to the pledge you make me now. You will
never wed with Inglehardt. Nay, so soon as Sinclair asks
your hand, promise me to give it him. I could die cheerfully
to-morrow were I sure that you were his wife, and safe in the
honor of his name. Do I have your promise, Bertha?”
“Dear father, it is easy to make it. My heart has long been
his — his wholly.”
“Enough! It is your pledge to me at a moment, Bertha,
when I may be speaking to you from the grave.”
“Do not entertain such gloomy thoughts.”
“I am no longer a young man. I am engaged in perilous
enterprises. I have fearful enemies. Even now I ride to
Orangeburg to meet with Inglehardt. His policy is not easily
fathomed. He feels that you hate him. He knows that I do.
If he suspects that I am about to free myself utterly from his
control, it is difficult to say what he will not attempt.”
“Why go, then? why put yourself into his power? why not
at once join Willie Sinclair, and let us all fly across the Santee
— now, this very day, this hour?”
“Easier said than done! No! I must see through this day
here, on the Edisto — close it if possible at Holly-Dale. To-morrow
— but sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. Here
is a letter to Sinclair. Take it and this case. Should I fail to
be here when Sinclair arrives, give this letter and case into his
hands. He knows what to do with them. Your mother has
my instructions also. She will put everything into his hands
should I fail to appear at the appointed hour. Keep these
safely and secretly, and about you. Do not leave the house.
Say to Sinclair that I leave everything to him, and have here
given him the best proofs that I confide in the magnanimity of
the person he will bring with him, to procure for my family the
safety which I seek for them; and now, my child, one kiss —
one embrace — and leave me awhile with your mother.”
The girl threw herself into his arms — threw her arms
about his neck, and kissed and clung to him fondly.
“Where's Henry?” he asked. “I have not seen him this
morning.”
“He has gone on a mission for Willie. He went by daylight
this morning.”
“Up or down?”
“Up.”
“Kiss him for me, Bertha. Love him well! I would like
to have clasped the boy once more to my heart.”
And — strange sight to Bertha — the big tear grew and glistened
in the eye of the hard and otherwise selfish man. Hers
were streaming freely. Once more he kissed and embraced her
with a nervous fondness, then gently pushed her away.
“Now go and send your mother to me.”
With a sudden impulse the girl once more threw her arms
then, as if fearing to trust herself to speak, turned away suddenly
and left the chamber in silence. In a few minutes her
place was supplied by her mother.
The husband put his arms affectionately about his wife, drew
her to his bosom, and looked earnestly and tenderly in her face.
They had been wedded nearly thirty years: the alliance between
them had been one, which, in spite of his hard and selfish
nature, had been productive of a certain and equal degree of
felicity — perhaps, in as great, as is ordinarily shared between
married people who indulge in no extravagant expectations
from life, or from human affections. She knew his frailties, but
he had been faithful to her. He had been an indulgent husband
and a kind father. His evil aspect had been usually
turned away from his household.
“Lucy,” he said, “I will not distress you by a repetition of
our conference last night. You know the nature of the dangers
which I apprehend. You also know that I can not well avoid
to meet them. If I face them boldly, they may lose their character
of danger. If I skulk them, they become decidedly a
peril. But, no more of this. Anticipating the worst, I have
come to the conclusion that you must fly to the Santee, to my
sister, the moment that you discover that anything has happened
to me. Should I fail to return to-day, you must prepare
for immediate flight. Sinclair will see to the arrangements;
at all events, see to hurrying away the negroes, under a proper
escort. We may trust to his honor. More: it is my wish that
his marriage with Bertha should take place — if he is willing —
as soon as you can learn that I am in bonds or danger from
Inglehardt. Were I sure of this marriage, I should be better
reconciled to every danger. But I trust everything to Sinclair's
honor and discretion. He has both in eminent degree. He is
generous and noble. His conduct has shamed mine, and I have
to deplore that its effect was too slowly felt to enable me to save
him the peril which now threatens both of us equally. The
stroke which places me at the foot of Inglehardt, will be one
which will descend at the same moment upon his head. Ay,
and upon the head of another, whose peril I tremble to think
upon. But Sinclair is forewarned, and, I trust, forearmed. At
am in hopes, of resources adequate to the present exigency.
There! I have told you all that I now need to say. Remember,
you are not to delay in what you do, in the indulgence of
vain fears, or as vain anticipations, touching my fate. The moment
you find me missing, that very moment, if possible, carry
out my instructions. Send off the negroes, and fly yourself
with our children. In my letter to Sinclair, I have declared to
him my wish that he should marry Bertha, without delay, if the
proceeding conflicts with no earnest necessity or important policy
of his own. And now, my wife, we part! God bless and
keep you safely, whatever fate may befall me!”
The stately, and we may say, the noble old lady was sensibly
touched. The present attitude of her husband ennobled him.
He was behaving generously — far more than was his wont —
far more than we can well conceive from the few facts which
we have arrayed in this narrative by which to illustrate his
character; — generously, in a readiness to sacrifice himself for
his children, at a moment when he might possibly save himself,
by their sacrifice. His heart was not wholly the home of selfish
passions.
A brief twenty minutes, perhaps, were consumed in this interview
between the father and mother, when he emerged, composed
seemingly, from the chamber. A fond and lingering look
he cast about him over the fair fields and old groves of Holly-Dale.
The place never looked so beautiful before. It seemed
the very home of peace. Then he quietly mounted his horse,
and turned downward, for the road to Orangeburg.
He was gone from sight in a few moments; and, sadly apprehensive
— for he had imparted his own presentiments to both
wife and daughter — they watched together, for long and in
silence, over the route which he had taken.
He pursued his way to the village without interruption; proceeded
to his room at Baltezegar's, where he kept his office, and
where he destroyed his papers, such as he did not think proper
to preserve. These he stuffed into his pockets. Of course, he
was private in his office when these duties were performed.
Soon he had visiters, and some that he knew were only spies.
He met them, and baffled their inquisition with a calm visage,
knew, meanwhile, of his arrival; knew of his visiters;
guessed at his secret employments, and smiled at his progress.
He knew, too, that Travis would be with him in the course of
the morning — an hour, perhaps, before he was prepared to return
to Holly-Dale. Inglehardt waited with the exemplary
patience, but vigilant eye of the spider, who, in his hole, sees
the fly circling or loitering about the distant meshes which he
has stretched around him, unsuspected, in all directions.
“Keep him in sight!” was his simple command to all his
agents. He, meanwhile, showed himself quite at ease; languidly
lounging in his oaken chair, in loose trousers, and a linen
morning-gown; his pipe well replenished, sending up occasional
curling clouds; head thrown back, and heels upon the table.
His eternal snuff-box lay at hand, open, ready for use whenever
he should have a companion. He was thus habited, and
posed, when Travis sought him, which he did about twelve
o'clock.
“Ah! my dear captain, how are you? And how is that excellent
lady Mrs. Travis — and how is the fair creature of my
constant thought, your daughter?”
This was said drawlingly, with a languid smile upon the
speaker's lips, and an air of the most perfect complacency.
“D—d puppy!” was the self-spoken feeling of Travis, who
yet replied quietly as if totally unruffled:—
“Pretty well; a little oppressed in this hot weather.”
“It is growing terrible. I can hardly endure it, I am
dreaming nightly of a siesta upon an iceberg. No breath of
air here last night. I am in the wrong chamber. I must certainly
see Bruce to-day, and get another room. A sleepless
night is followed by a drowsy day. I am not well awake this
morning — have done nothing — can do nothing. Yet, I have
enough to do. I ought to be stirring to see after that rebel,
Coulter. Yet, the very idea of marching in this hot sun is terrible.
By the way, do you hear anything of the fellow?”
“Not a syllable!”
“I fancy he has gone toward the Savannah. Yet I can
gather no intelligence. I must certainly be moving, yet dare
not with my awkward squad. I must get these ungainly fellows
make a successful dash with them. In a week, perhaps—”
Here he paused, and stirred his pipe and replenished it.
“He talks too freely; all at once,” was the thought of Travis.
“He means mischief.” But he said nothing to this effect; barely
asked after the news, and responded in sympathy to his companion's
complaints about the weather; and then, practising
after Inglehardt's subtle fashion, he added:—
“I dread the thoughts of taking the sun homeward at my
usual hour, and shall probably stay till the cool of evening.”
“Right!” said Inglehardt. “I shouldn't be persuaded to
that ride, on such a day as this, for a hundred guineas. I am
half dead with the heat in the shade — here even, where you
see there is an eastern exposure. But what's the hour?”
“Twelve by the sun!”
“Heavens! and I am hardly awake! and can't wake. You
see my deshabille. What is to be done? It is impossible for
me to do anything till evening; yet my ragged rascals ought
to be seen to.”
“Where have you got them?”
“Somewhere in the woods. I left it all to Fry. The little
rascal is a sort of salamander — don't mind heat at all — rather
loves it, I think. Last night, I found him dancing, with a
dozen women in the camp, to the music of the old fiddle of Cato
Cusack.”
“Has that old African turned up again?”
“Yes! Heaven knows where he has been for the last six
months. But there he was last night, lively as ever, sitting
upon the end of a whiskey-barrel, and going `the Black Joke'
at race-horse speed, while Fry was leading off with the fattest
and yellowest sandlapper of a woman I ever saw. Where the
women came from, all of them, I can not guess; but there they
were, merry as monkeys, if not quite so active, sweating away
their ill humors, in a motion that almost overcame me with
horror. I perspired at the very sight of their fury.”
“I thought Fry too severe an orderly for such indulgences
in camp.”
“He is strict enough on drill; but, as he says — `what's to
be done? Drill's over; danger's distant; we must keep the
came from — he answered, pertly enough, `Why, captain, we
all think from heaven, since they make us so happy while they
stay!' Happy in a sweat and stew; for I fairly felt myself
steamed to faintness in the spectacle. Faugh! I sweat with
the remembrance. But the exercise was not a bad one for the
troop. Let them complain of heat on duty if they dare! I did
not discourage them, but sent them the materials for a bowl of
punch, and left them happier than ever. Fry tells me, this
morning, that they kept it up all night. They are, of course,
fit for nothing to-day.”
“Now,” thought Travis, “this is all a lie — a mere invention
— meant to blind me. I don't believe a word of it.”
But he expressed himself very differently.
“Faith, it must have been a curious sight. Such a night too.
Where the d—l could these women have come from? Not the
village?”
“No! not that I know. They looked like nobody that I
had ever seen. Yet they seemed to know me. But foul weather
brings out very strange birds. You say it's twelve?”
“Yes! it was just twelve when I came.”
“Let us have some punch, Travis. Nothing like rum punch
for hot weather. Come, you do the thing better than I. You
have the knack of it. Make a good stoup for us both. I would
drink anything which would put a little more life into me. I
have no more energy in such weather as this, than a snake in
December.”
Travis made the punch, and drank — but he observed that
the other only tasted the beverage, for which he had expressed
so much unctuous appetite, and set it down beside him. He
took snuff in preference, and there was a pause in the conversation.
At length, Inglehardt said: “Well, Travis, when am
I to visit Holly-Dale? Shall it be to-morrow?”
“As you please.”
“You have broached our suit to the fair Bertha?”
“Yes.”
“And — she does not frown?”
“I trust that Bertha will show herself submissive to her
father's wishes.”
“If not genial to mine! Well, I must be content. She
knows me not. She will think better of me with better acquaintance,
and, after marriage. I make no question that love
will come in to the support of duty. To-morrow then, Travis,
I may hope to see her. She will then receive me. Meanwhile,
my dear good father-in-law, that is to be, make the way as
clear as possible. Of course, you have suffered her to understand
the necessity of this union?”
“She is fully informed, Inglehardt, of my wishes.”
“Ah! — and she does not fly out — does not wear the sullens;
She smiles, I hope.”
“All I can say is, Inglehardt, that the dear child will prove
submissive to my will. I can not promise you her heart. I do
not deceive you, no more than she seeks to deceive me, that she
would prefer another. But enough, if I repeat that she will
yield herself to what I require.”
“To-morrow then! To-morrow!” — and, with the slightest
smile upon his features, Inglehardt fed his nostrils from the
snuff-box.
Travis rose to depart.
“What! Whither would you go, and at this hour? not to
Holly-Dale surely. Why, man, you will drop upon the road.”
“No! I think I shall order my dinner at Baltezegar's at
three. It is too hot for riding. Besides, I have some matters
to settle at my office, which will keep me to that hour. It will
suffice if I reach Holly-Dale by dark.”
“You are wise! A hundred guineas should not tempt me to
take the road at this hour.”
And, with some more talk, in which each sought to mystify
the other, they separated.
“Cunning scoundrel!” muttered Inglehardt, as the other left
the house — “he fancies that he blinds me. But I shall have
eyes on him at every turning.”
Travis, meanwhile, took his way to Baltezegar's.
“Jack,” said he, “let me have a dinner here at three o'clock
— dinner for two, remember.”
That he had given this order, reached Inglehardt in twenty
minutes after.
“Dinner for two, and at three o'clock. Who can the other
I suspect. At all events, it shall not change my plans. He is
secure, whether he goes home, or stays here. This day shall
unmask his batteries as well as mine. The scheme shall stand
as it is. Travis may dine here, yet Sinclair, not the less, dine
at Hollydale. I shall have him there, whether Travis stays or
goes. Have him!”
And the heretofore languid speaker, to whom the weather
had been so oppressive — who would not take the road at that
hour for the world, proceeded to gird himself up for action.
Having dressed himself for the saddle, he stole out of the house,
by the back-door, into the yard, and made his way to the stables.
There he met one of his rangers, as if awaiting him.
“Have my orders been obeyed, Elias?”
“Yes, sir; the men are all gone with Sergeant Fry. None
remain, sir, but myself and Witsell, as you bade.”
“Good! Has my horse been taken into the swamp opposite?”
“Witsell has him there, sir, with his own and mine.”
“Is the boat ready?”
“Ready, sir — hidden among the bushes above the bridge.”
“Do not leave this place then, till you hear from me.”
Meanwhile, Travis chatted with Jack Baltezegar on indifferent
affairs, or such as seemed to be so to the honest landlord.
“Inglehardt has picked up a clever troop, he tells me.”
“I reckon over thirty men, and pretty clever fellows some
of 'em.”
“They must have had rare doings at the camp last night —
dancing 'till daylight. But where did all the women come
from? Are the girls of the village in the habit of dancing in
a ranger's camp, all night?”
“What! our girls! Never a one of 'em. It's not easy to
get 'em there even in broad daylight, and when they're a drilling.
But what camp are you speaking of?”
“Inglehardt's.”
“Where is it? He's moved his troop off into the swamp
more than two days. Except Fry, the orderly, 'Lias Barnett
and Tom Witsell, and, perhaps, a small scouting party that
came in by day-peep this morning, he's got nobody here.”
“Isn't that imprudent — now that Coulter's about?”
“Well, there's no saying what's imprudent, or what is not,
with Cap'n Inglehardt, he's so knowing. But it's hard to catch
him napping, and if Coulter should make a dash at the village,
I reckon 'twould be through ambush that's set for him. It's
hard to catch such an old weasel asleep.”
Travis picked up some other items, all of which tended to
confirm him in the opinion that Inglehardt was subtly working
against him, and that the sooner he should take his departure
the better. But this required some nicety of management.
Repeating his directions to Baltezegar, touching the dinner at
three, he jumped on his horse, and rode up to the jail, where
there were some Irish prisoners in safe-keeping, charged with
mutiny and strong drink, and for whom he had been required
to furnish clothing. He saw the jailer, and spoke with him
awhile, then rode off, rounded the jail, and got into the cover
of the woods on the south, whence he moved round, making a
complete circuit, mostly under cover, of fence, house and
thicket, till he found himself in the swamp below the bridge.
Hence he felt his way up, still in the swamp thicket, till the
bridge was reached, when, looking out carefully in the direction
of the village, and the coast seeming to be clear, he boldly
emerged from his shelter, crossed the bridge, and dashed upward
in a canter, which soon left his enemies — all of whom he
knew — in the rear.
But ten minutes after he disappeared from sight, Richard
Inglehardt, in the uniform of his troop, sword at his side and
pistols in his holsters, emerged from the thicket accompanied by
two troopers.
He smiled pleasantly as he said:—
“We may walk our horses for a while, men, and leave our
friend to make use of all his advantages.”
And they took the way upward in the direction of Holly-Dale,
though the troopers knew not whither they were going, or what
they had to do. Inglehardt made no unnecessary revelations of
his purpose.
Meanwhile Travis sped on without interruption. He was,
however, too old a stager to be guilty of the boy-folly of hallooing
before he had quite cleared the bush. He knew his enemy,
ill — that his smile was a danger — that all his horrors of heat
and exertion were mere affectations, and he believed frauds —
active employment had somewhat lessened the presentiments
of Travis, but had not wholly dissipated them, and though he
rode on for three miles without seeing a human being, he was
yet by no means surprised or confounded when, at that distance
from the village, he found his horse's bridle suddenly seized by
a sturdy fellow, who leaped out of the copse, at a short turn of
the road, and forced the steed back upon his haunches.
“'Light, cappin,” said the voice of the stranger —“we wants
you!”
Travis answered with a bullet. His hand was firm, his blood
prompt, and at the first bound of the assailant, he had drawn a
pistol from his pocket, and fired full at the fellow's head.
“Gimini!” cried the ruffian, “he's cut off my ear!”
At the same instant, and before Travis could draw another
pistol, a blow from behind, with a heavy bludgeon, from a third
hand, tumbled him from his horse. For a few moments he lay
insensible. When he recovered, he found himself in the deepest
thicket, his hands and feet bound firmly, his pockets rifled of
all his papers, and two men whom he did not recognise standing
over him. Before he could quite recover himself, to ask the
reason of the outrage, Inglehardt and his two followers rode
into the thicket. The eyes of the loyalist captain and Travis
met. Neither spoke. A sweet smile was upon the face of the
former. The latter felt too surely the impotence of his anger
to allow it to appear in his features. He simply met the gaze
of his enemy with an immovable countenance.
“Dinner for two at Baltezegar's, Captain Travis — why are
you here? But your companion will wait. I will report at
Holly-Dale your engagements for the day. Should I meet
Major Willie Sinclair, I shall be most happy to send him on to
you. You will find the ride back a warm one. Good morning,
Captain Travis, good morning.”
Travis could only look at his enemy the vindictive hate
which he felt. How he longed for the fabulous power of the
Medusan head that he might look his banterer into stone. The
loyalist captain smiled complacently in reply to the venomous
Tophet, and Brunson, the Trailer, aside, and said:—
“If you have time for it, before the men can wind their way
up, then see that Captain Travis is carried down to Green Bay
thicket, and hidden away there till our return. That is the
place of rendezvous, remember. But, if time should not serve,
leave him here, tied securely and in cover. You need not be
careful to turn his eyes up to the sun. Let him lie at ease.
You are not to forget the more important commission which I
have given you. You are not to engage in any occupation but
the one. While I see to the securing of Sinclair, you contrive
to carry off the girl. That is the one duty which I assign you.
Neglect it for no other. And see that you do it tenderly.
Harm her, by word or act, and you hang for it! Beware too
how your fingers incline to plunder. You will do nothing of
that sort. I will see that your reward hereafter shall compensate
your forbearance, which I well know will be the most
painful trial of your virtues.”
“Vartues don't bother us much, cappin,” answered Dick with
a grin.
“See that your vices are not more troublesome. Beware
how you offend me now. Your own safety depends on your
good behavior to-day.”
“Good behavior, cappin! that's to-say, ef we does jest
what you wants us to do.”
“Certainly! your good behavior lies only in your obedience
to orders.”
“We're to catch and carry off the gal, while you're busy
with the major.”
“Yes, and to trouble yourself with nothing else — to be diverted
by nothing from the one duty. Treat her respectfully,
use no ill language in her ears; and, beyond the degree of violence
necessary for carrying her off safely, see that you do not
harm her. Remember that! But see that she does not escape
you! Your life upon it, my good fellows; and if you succeed,
look to me for ample rewards.”
With these words he rode away, moving still upward, and
keeping close in the cover of the woods, on a line equi-distant
from the high-road and the river. The two ruffians remained
Travis down to the Green Bay thicket, which had been declared
the place of rendezvous. They contented themselves
with seeing that he was securely roped, and with searching his
pockets — even ripping up his saddle, in their thirst for plunder,
and possessing themselves of the money he had about him, not
overlooking his watch, knife, and other trifles. All these were
safely disposed of and out of sight. His papers were opened,
and scattered about the woods. Dick of Tophet found himself
a gainer by a forced swap of horses with his captive, coolly appropriating
that of Travis, and fastening the poor hackney of
Pete Blodgit in its place, to a neighboring tree.
“Kin we carry him down, Dick, to the bay?” demanded the
Trailer.
“Hain't got the time. All the time we've got, I wants you
to put upon my ear. The bloody bullet of this varmint hes
gi'n me such a mark as will last for ever.”
The Trailer proceeded to examine the injury, and employ
some rude surgery upon it; Travis being permitted to see the
process where he lay; the fierce glance of Dick of Tophet every
now and then, at every twinge of the wound under Brunson's
fingers, speaking daggers to the captive, which the occasional
comments of the Trailer were not calculated to disarm.
“'Twas a mighty close graze, Dick,” quoth the Trailer, to
his hurt comrade, “as good a hole as ever a sharp knife worked
in a sow's ear! And as you say, it's marked you for life!
You'll have to put a gould ring in it.”
“I'll wring his bloody neck for him, afore he gits out of the
wood; but make haste or we'll be too late for the scrimmage.”
“Kin we leave him whar he is?”
“Why not? He kaint stir a peg, and if he should whoop
who's to hear him? We'll find him hyar, I reckon, safe enough,
when we gits back. Look you, you mischievous, bloody, pistol-shooting
d — d old skunk of a rebel, do you see that you lies
close, and without kicking. I'm a guine up now to captivate
your wife and da'ghter, and all the combustibles of your plantation;
and before I'm done with them and you, I'll find satisfaction
enough to stop up this bloody hole that you've made
hyar etarnally in my ear. Oh! I'll never forgit you for it,
flesh for feeling a sharp wiper's tooth a-meeting in you! I'll
hev it out of you, in every way, you see. And I'll make you
feel it first through wife and da'ghter. And you may think
about what's a-going on at home, with my help, and others,
while you're hyar, tied neck and heels, and without the arms
to keep off the meanest varmints in the woods.”
We abridge the blackguardism and the denunciations of the
ruffian, who soon after rode away with his companion, leaving
Travis to utter solitude, fast-fettered, with scarcely freedom of
limb enough to avert his eyes from the glare of the sun, without
hope of defence, help, or extrication. What were his reflections?
Not altogether selfish. He was humbled, hopeless, in
pain, in danger, but, if he thought of his own situation, it was to
lament his incapacity to strike for the defence of his wife and
daughter. The shocking speech of the ruffian had filled his soul
with terrors — had taught him what to fear. The hot scalding
tears rolled from his eyes, with the sense of his dreary impotence.
“Good God!” exclaimed the wretched man — “what is to
become of Bertha — my child — my child — in the power of this
infernal tyrant! And Sinclair too, and the great man whom I
would bring into this snare! But I thought I had all sure. I
took every precaution. Oh! that I were free, if it were only
to strike one blow at the head of that arch-villain!”
But why listen to his unavailing regrets? Our anxieties require
that we should fly to Holly-Dale, even as his thoughts fly
thither, and witness for ourselves those events which, with so
much horror, he anticipates.
| CHAPTER XXXIII.
SMILES AND SUNSHINE — BLOWS AND BONDS. The forayers, or, The raid of the dog-days | |