University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
DOUBTS, HOPES, FEARS — A TANGLED YARN.

It was with a feeling of intense disappointment that Willie
Sinclair found his search after Henry Travis fruitless. His
duties imperatively required that he himself should forego it,
after a certain period, and proceed to Orangeburg in prosecution
of his military tasks. He did so, leaving Ballou, the scout,
in charge of a small party commissioned to continue the pursuit
so long as there remained any precinct in the vicinity unexamined.

He could not have left the affair in better hands. But Ballou
found himself at fault. His hunt that night resulted in no
discovery; and with the morning, he descended with his party
into those recesses of the swamp which it was idle to attempt
by night. His scouting in this region was nice and narrow.
It was fruitless also, beyond the picking up of a couple more of
the fugitives, one of whom was wounded by a pistol-bullet. The
missing canoe led him to conjecture rightly the course which
Inglehardt had taken. The absence of the slave Julius explained
to the family the means by which the loyalist captain
had been extricated from his bonds, and conclusively showed
by whose agency the latter had been enabled to pick up so
many of the secrets of the household. The only hope of the
mother and sister, in respect to the safety of Henry Travis, lay
in the hoped-for discoveries which Sinclair might make at
Orangeburg. When this hope was expressed in the hearing of
Ballou he was silent. Afterward, he said to 'Bram, the only
comrade of the party to whom he condescended to utter his
opinions freely: —

“No chance of that, 'Bram — no chance. Inglehardt knows
better — knows better. He's picked up the boy, somehow.
How, there's no telling jest yet; for you see, though we find

Inglehardt's track and the nigger's close to where the dugout
lay at the landing, we don't find no other. The boys ain't there
— ain't there. But you see, we hain't found Hell-fire Dick,
and we hain't found the Trailer, and it's clear they've got off
— got off. Now, can you guess how, 'Bram? How?”

“Nebber kin guess, Ballou.”

“Well, did you see them tracks about the garden?”

“I bin see — for true.”

“Very well. I've got the measure of Hell-fire Dick and the
Trailer, and them's their tracks. Now, you see, they've worked
off a-foot to yonder thick, and there you see where they had
their horses fastened — there, now, they've got a chance and
carried off the boy — that's the how — the how. None but horse
tracks after that, and such a crowd of 'em, there's no telling
which is which. If I had been a-foot, and me only, and in a
fair daylight, I might have taken the track of all of them — all
of them. But this hunting by fire-light — it only sarves to blind
one's own eyes, and to show the inimy how to skulk the better
— skulk the better. Inglehardt and Dick and the Trailer, and
the boy, and maybe Captain Travis himself, are all off somewhere
together. The dugout could carry off three of them I
reckon, and they may have picked up another boat along the
river to carry off the whole. But what they've done with the
horses there's no telling yet, and only one way to find out, and
I'm for a search down along the river as far as Four-mile Branch
to see where they've put in. For put in they must have done
somewhere. They never made down the road — they never
made up. They swum the river, or found a ford, and we must
find out the how and the where. When we've done that, we
can make a pretty sure guess as to what's become of them.
My notion is they've crossed the horses, and dropped down the
river themselves, leaving one of the party to fetch a compass
through the woods and round the village with the horses.”

“I 'speck you right, Ballou.”

“I reckon I am. And now, 'Bram, I don't mean to take any
of you fellows along with me on this search. You, and these
dragoons, will stay here, and keep guard over the family, tell
you get your orders from the major. And jest you say to
Madam Travis and the young lady that I'm hard after sign

[trail-track] and that I'm mighty hopeful. Tell 'em there's no
danger of any harm coming to the lad, excepting the captivity
— excepting the captivity. You kin tell her this jest as well as
me, and, prehaps, a little better; for I do hate to lie when I'm
reporting about a scout, and if I see her a-weeping, and sobbing,
and wringing her hands, I know I shall have to lie as bad as
any regular trooper — lie as bad as a trooper — as a trooper!
— and, Lord knows, lying comes as natural to a trooper as
mother's milk to an infant, or whiskey to a militiaman, or roast
pork to a famishing Christian nigger in cool weather. Now,
you hear, I don't forbid you to lie a little if you see the case
requires it — if the grief's very hard to bear — and you hear the
women a-screaming too bad. You may tell what bloody lie you
please to make 'em quiet, and strengthen their hearts, and make
'em feel better, and fill 'em with hope — fill 'em with hope. If
'twant about scouting, I could lie to 'em too, as well as anybody;
but a scout that don't see sign must n't say sign. Such a scout's
no better than a mangy dog that barks up the wrong tree — a
mangy dog.”

“Knock 'em on he head.”

“Exactly! He ain't fit to live. Now, 'Bram, you understand
what you're to do and to say. You kin lie a bit, I tell
you, if you see that it will do the ladies good, and ease their
afflictions, and you kin say that I'm on the track, and that I've
found sign, and that you reckon I'll have the boy back again in
a few days — a few days — have him back. And I hope I will,
'Bram, though I don't see the sign, and you're to stick to the
house, and keep a sharp eye about you, and wait the major's
orders and just you tell him that I'll keep out until I can make
a sensible report.”

“I yerry!”

“Very well! all right, so far. And now, 'Bram, do you see that?”

Here he pulled a corpulent quart bottle from his coat pocket.

“Ha! wha' dat, Jim Ballou? 'tis bottle.”

“Well, you're a wise nigger, after seeing it, to guess so quick.
But, do you know what's in the bottle?”

“I guess he whiskey. Ha?”

“Not a bit of it. It's nothing worse, 'Bram, than good old
Jamaica. Smell of it, if you wish to be sartain.”

“I kin tell 'em more better by de tas'e.”

“Well, if you can't tell Jamaica by the smell, the liquor's
not the sort to do you any good by the taste.”

“Psho, Jim Ballou, dat's berry foolish sawt o' talk! Whay
you git dat Jimmaker?”

“Out of the pocket of the red-headed fellow that we found
half dead in the swamp this morning. I reckon he was bit with
the liquor before he got the bite of the bullet. You see that
there's a pretty considerable swig gone out of it; and the cork
being a good one, I reckon it never went out of its own accord,
and only by word of command.”

“Look yer, Jim Ballou, you guine to pull at that Jimmaker?”

“Bram, I'd jest freely give my leetle finger now, cut off clean,
to swallow one good mouthful of this charming creature — I
would — my leetle finger — for only one good mouthful. I
hankers for it, 'Bram. But I durstn't drink. I've swore a
most etarnal oath, and it's as much as my soul's worth to taste
of the beautiful varmint. But you shall drink on my account,
and I'll charge to you. There! take a swig. Is it good, 'Bram?”

The negro's potation was deep; the stream poured down
without a gurgle. The throat offered no resistance, and the
prudent hands of Ballou finally tore away the bottle from the
fellow's mouth. A smack of the lips, a long drawn sigh, and
suddenly humid eyes, attested 'Bram's satisfaction.

“Is it so sweet, nigger?”

“Like de milk ob Heabben, Jim Ballou.”

“You love it too much, 'Bram.”

“You too, Ballou!”

“Yes, but I can't trust myself to taste. If I only taste, I'm
gone. Can I trust you, 'Bram?”

“Wha' for no truss me? leff de bottle wid me, Ballou.”

“If you give me your word of honor, 'Bram, that you'll only
swallow one-half to-day, and t'other half to-morrow.”

“I sway!—”

“No! don't you swear! But just give me your word of
honor as I tell you. There's enough for you, two days, if you
drink like a gentleman.”

“Psho! for able-bodied pusson like me, Jim Ballou, de liquor
guine sarve only for one day.”

“Yes, but you're to drink like a gentleman, not like an able-bodied
person — a gentleman, 'Bram — a gentleman.”

“For two day, den, I must 'habe [behave] like gemplemans?”

“Yes.”

“But s'posing de young lady, Miss Bert'a, say to me, yer
'Bram, somet'ing to drink?”

“Then you're to keep the Jamaica for another day.”

“Ha! Jim Ballou, you mighty hard 'pon dis nigger.”

“You won't get it until you promise. Remember, you rascal,
how I love it.”

“I promise, Ballou — ef I doesn't, you only guine to drink
'em you se'f and lose your 'spectability.”

“Take it — and put it out of my sight, 'Bram. It's mighty
hard work to keep my mouth from it. It's a sore trial of the
flesh — sore — a sore trial of the flesh. Hide it from my sight.
I'm mighty weak and thirsty.”

“I'll tink 'bout you when I drinks, Ballou. Hope 'twill do
you good, same as ef you bin drunk you se'f.”

“Thank you! And now, 'Bram, keep your eyes bright, or
the Philistines will be upon you. Remember all I've told you.
Good-by, old fellow; I'm going to put out this very minute.
Good-by! Don't forget, if you see too much grief going on,
to put in a lie now and then about the sign.”

“I 'member all wha' you say.”

And the two shook hands and parted — the scout burying
himself at once in the recesses of the swamp, and 'Bram taking
his way toward the house, resolved upon any amount of lying,
if he thought that the afflictions of the ladies should need that
wholesome kind of sedative.

Meanwhile, Sinclair had startled all the echoes in Orangeburg.
It was night still, and very dark, when his cavalry
thundered up the streets. What could it mean? Who could it
be? While the question was undecided, whig and tory kept
equally close.

Sinclair darted at once upon the jail. It was a sort of citadel.
The post of jailer was held by an invalided Scotch sergeant,
who very reluctantly threw open his doors to the rebel
troopers. The commissariat was soon emptied of arms and
ammunition. A score of rifles, as many of muskets, bayonets,

a bale or two of blankets, and a variety of odds and ends in the
way of arms, implements, and clothing — not too great a burden,
however, for the troopers to divide and carry off upon their saddles,
rewarded the raid. Petty as was the spoil, it was of very
considerable importance to the Carolinians, half of whom were
bare at hip and elbow — many only in part armed, and not a
few without any weapons. The war of liberty rarely implies
adequate provision for its champions.

It was several hours after daylight before our major of dragoons
had sufficiently done his work in the village. Sixteen
wild Irish were extricated from the dungeon, charged with the
Irish virtue of mutiny and insubordination. Without asking
questions, they hailed their deliverer with a shout. He had
but one question to ask of them:—

“Who are you for — King George or freedom?”

“Is it fradom, do you say?” was the reply with one voice.
“Och! thin, the divil fly away with King George, and all the
other kings upon airth! Hoorah for the fradom, and Ameriky
for iver!”

It was no use to expostulate with such ready converts to the
true faith, or to put them under any special ordeal for the trial
of their virtues. They were at once marched out into the open
air, and enrolled in the ranks. Then followed the search for
Inglehardt and his retainers and captives. But, after ransacking
all suspected places, to the no small terror of the lurking
loyalists, Sinclair was compelled to abandon the search in that
quarter. He was in despair. No trace of Inglehardt — no
sign of Henry Travis.”

Noon found him back at Holly-Dale. Bertha was the first to
hail his approach from the upper windows, and to rush out to
meet him.

“Oh! Willie, what of Henry?”

But she read his answer in his looks, and wrung her hands,
while the tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Nothing! nothing! Has Ballou made no discoveries?”

“He is gone in search. 'Bram says that he is on the track
— that there are signs — and that he is in hope of finding him.
He went alone. The soldiers are here.”

“And 'Bram?”

“He is here also. Ballou preferred to go alone.”

“He was right. Do not fear, Bertha. Ballou will find him.”

“But if he is hurt, Willie?”

“No fear of that. He is evidently carried off. Inglehardt
has secured him while making his own escape.”

“Have you had no signs of him?”

“None! He has probably got across, or gone down the
river; but he can not escape us long, dear Bertha; and, meanwhile,
there is no reason to suppose that he will harm the boy.
His game, I see. It is his policy to save him, but to keep him,
and your father too, as pledges for you.”

Here the mother joined them.

“My child, Sinclair — my child!”

Her eyes were dry, but wild, red, fearful to behold. Sinclair
renewed his assurances, his encouragements, the expression of
his hopes, the grounds for their security. These hardly reached
or satisfied the senses of the mother. She could only repeat—

“My child! my child! my poor, poor boy! He was never
away from me one night in his life. And, now — in what condition
is he? in whose hands — how suffering? Oh! Willie
Sinclair, will you not bring me back my boy?”

“I would die to do so, my dear Mrs. Travis! I will do all
that can be done!”

How feeble are all words, all promises, all expressed hopes,
in such a case, addressed to the ears of a mother!

It was long before she could vary this one note, or speak or
think of other things. But, suddenly, she grasped Sinclair by
the wrist:—

“It was this danger that he feared! He would have provided
for this very chance! Here me, Willie. You have my husband's
letter. I am aware of what it contains. He bade me
follow all its instructions in the event of his failure to return
yesterday. You remember what they are?”

Sinclair nodded his head affirmatively.

“You are to have all the negroes transferred immediately to
the Santee plantation. Bertha and myself are to follow them
as soon as possible, and she is to become your wife — if you
are prepared for it — without a moment's delay.”

The cheeks of Bertha grew to crimson.

“His letter to me,” answered Sinclair, “is to this very effect.
I have planned the mode, and have the means, for conveying
the negroes and your most valuable moveables to a place of security.
Kit Rowe undertakes to convey your furniture to his
plantation. Your husband has sent me his signature to a bill
of sale, conveying it absolutely to Rowe. It may thus be
saved. In your absence, the tories will probably destroy your
house. Your cattle I shall have transferred to Greene's army.
Your horses, except such as you need for your own purposes, I
will take on account of the state for our troopers, several of
whom have none. You will need but four for your journey to
the Santee; and the sooner you set out the better, since escape,
in two days more, will be next to impossible; Rawdon's army
being in progress from the Congaree, Colonel Stewart from
Charleston, and Cruger with a swarm of loyalists from above,
and pressing down upon the route to Orangeburg between the
two Edistos. They will pass your door. Your policy will be
to force your way between Rawdon and Stewart, before they
can effect a junction.”

“But how can I leave Holly-Dale, Willie, and no tidings of
my child?”

“You need not remain on this account. I shall see that
tidings reach you, wherever you are, as soon as we obtain
them. In remaining here, you know not what you risk. All
this region will be under the control of the enemy, until we can
come to blows with him, and, should we fail, you will be more
at the mercy of the foe than ever.”

It was a hard task with the mother to leave Holly-Dale
while her son's fate was doubtful.

“Oh! Willie, should he return, the poor boy, and find nobody
to recieve him!”

Of course, this notion of his voluntary return was combated
as a great improbability, by Sinclair.

“He will not be suffered the chance to escape, my dear Mrs.
Travis, by those who have him in captivity. I have no doubt
that the same person who has carried off the father, has the son
in custody also. I make no doubt they are both together.
Neither will reappear, until brought back by Inglehardt, or
until rescued by his foes. We shall spare nothing for the latter

object; and you need not wait here for the former. Whenever
it is Inglehardt's cue to restore your son and husband, he will
find no difficulty in doing so, go where you will. And go you
must! Pardon me this earnestness, but you must suffer me to
be master now. Submit — confide in me, dear Mrs. Travis —
as the mother in her son.”

“And you will be my son? Yes, Willie, I submit — I confide!
God be merciful to me, Willie! — under him, I have
now no hope but in you!”

She threw her arms about his neck and sobbed upon his
shoulder.

“And how, and when shall the marriage take place, Willie?”

Bertha's cheeks flushed once more to crimson at the question,
and she was turning away when the answer of Sinclair arrested
her.

“There can be no marriage now, my dear Mrs. Travis. That
is just now impossible.”

Red and pale alternately did the cheeks of Bertha become
in a single moment — pride and shame both active at a word.
Mrs. Travis withdrew her hands from the affectionate rest
which they had taken on Sinclair's shoulder.

“How, sir, no marriage?”

“None just now, my dear mother; — and you, Bertha”—
here he caught her hand — “do not you misunderstand me!
No gift could be more precious to me than this hand, now and
for ever! But I dare not, for your sakes, clasp it in marriage
now! Were I to do so, we should lose all hold on Inglehardt
— forfeit every hope of safety for Mr. Travis, if not for Henry.
Such an act would precipitate the fate of one or both. It would
cut Inglehardt off from that object, for which he keeps both of
them in captivity. Were we married, he would at once sacrifice
your husband to the fury of Balfour. He would expose
those secrets which now give him a hold upon your father, and
would denounce him, as the possibility no longer remained of
securing the daughter through the terrors which he would seek
to inspire in regard to the father's fate. While there is still a
prospect of obtaining your hand, your father is safe. Cut off
that prospect, and we have no security.”

“But it was even this very state of things, his arrest and captivity,
which my husband anticipated.”

“True, my dear madam, and his commands, contemplating
this prospect, afford a generous example of self-sacrifice, and
are highly honorable; but he never once contemplated the
capture and detention of his son. He never dreaded that the
son's fate, no less than his own, rested upon the disposition of
his daughter's hand. Heaven knows — nay, Bertha knows —
that no blessing of Heaven could be more grateful to my soul
than the instant possession of this dear girl's hand; but when
I see the peril which it involves, to father and son alike, I dare
not touch it — I dare not espouse her! We must wait! We
are at the mercy of this base, cold-blooded villain, and you both
know him only too well, to need that I should say, that our
marriage would be fatal to the safety of Mr. Travis, and possibly
to that of our dear boy, Henry.”

“God be merciful!” groaned the mother, as the true situation
in which she stood became apparent to her understanding.
“God be merciful to me a mother! Oh! Willie Sinclair, I
have ceased to think. I can only feel and fear. Do with me
as you please. Give your orders. I obey. I submit without
question — only tell me that you will save my husband — that
you will give me back my boy.”

“If human will and effort may do this, mother, at any hazard,
it shall be done. Bertha, you do not doubt me? You are
not angry?”

“Doubt you, Willie — angry with you! No! no! I trust
you as my own soul. I love you as my life. Believe me!
believe me, Willie. Though we never marry, Willie Sinclair,
I am still yours, yours only!”

And the ingenuous girl flung her arms about her lover's neck,
and kissed him as if he had been a brother. There was no
longer a doubt — a cloud — a shadow — between their loves!