University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
WHICH AUGURS AN AFFAIR OF BOARS!

It is the tendency of all revolutions, when they once fairly begin,
to precipitate themselves with fearful rapidity. The impetus once
given, and the car rolls onward, with a growing head of steam.
The development is as eager as light in its progress, from the moment
when the germinating principles begin to be active. It will
be admitted that the transitive steps were soon overcome, in the
overthrow of the ancient prejudices between the Bulmer and Bonneau
families. Major Bulmer was a man of locomotive temperament,
who could not well arrest himself in his own movement,
having once begun it. Scarcely had he returned home, and reported
what he had done, when he hurried to the library, in order
to prepare billets of invitation for Madam Agnes-Theresa, and
the fair Paula, to his proposed Golden Festival at Christmas.
These performances were not so easy. Every precaution had to
be taken by which to avoid offending the amour propre of the
old lady and re-awakening her ancient prejudices. Twenty notes
were begun, and were dismissed, because of some unlucky word or
phrase. I was finally called in to the consultation, and required
to prepare an epistle, possessing all the accuracy of a law paper,
with all the blandness of a billet doux. Some hours were spent
in devices, and doubts, and arguments, and objections, and quiddities,
and quoddities, in order that we might not chafe rabidities and
oddities. The work was done at length, but there was still a
shaking of the head, on the part of the Major and Miss Bulmer,
as to certain words, and dots, and consonants; and it was finally
decreed that Ned should decide as to which, of half a dozen epistles,
should be sent. The great, final consultation was held in his
chamber,—and he decided,—and we may suppose with judgment,

concerning the result. The billets were sent, for the old lady and
her grand-daughter; and before an answer could be received, Miss
Bulmer,—a most benevolent and gentle soul as ever lived,—took
the carriage and drove over to Madame Girardin, in order, if need
be, to smooth over difficulties and overcome objections; at all
events, to add her eloquence to that of her brother, to persuade
the parties to acceptance. But, before her arrival, the discussion
had taken place between the old lady and the grand-daughter.

“Well, Paula,” quoth she, “wonders will never cease. What
do you think? Here is an invitation to me,—to me,—to spend
Christmas day and night at Bulmer Barony. And here is a note
to yourself, I suppose, to the same effect.”

And the old lady read her billet aloud, and then required the
young one to re-read it, and to read her own.

“And now what do you say, my child. Don't you think it very
surprising?”

“I don't see any thing to surprise us, mamma. I confess it's
only what I expected, after the Major's visit yesterday.”

“Well! these sudden changes are very awful. No one can tell
what is to happen. I declare they make me quite nervous. Major
Bulmer has never been on friendly terms with our family, but I
think him a very worthy man, and I should be very sorry if any
thing evil was to occur. I knew once of a person who was a great
sinner, a very wicked man, who swore like a trooper, and drank
like a dragoon horse; who was always quarrelling with somebody,
and fighting and lawing with his neighbours; who all at once became
converted from his evil ways, renounced his bad habits,
joined himself to the church, became really pious, and suddenly
died of apoplexy only a month after he had become religious.”

“That was surely better than if he had died before becoming
so. I don't think the change for the better, in his character, produced
the change in his body for the worse; or that the danger to
his life was the consequence of the improvement in his morals.

It may be that certain changes in his physical condition, of which
he was better conscious than anybody else, brought about the
change of heart within him; and, fortunately for him, brought it
about soon enough for his spiritual safety. I don't see why you
should infer anything unfavourable to Major Bulmer's health, in
consequence of the improved feeling which he shows towards us.”

“I don't know, my child; there's no telling. It's all a mystery;
but I have my fears. I'm dubious that he is not altogether
so sound of body after that accident.”

“Why, mother, he walks as erect as ever.”

“Oh! that's owing to his pride. These Bulmers were always
so. My poor brother used to say that if they were dying, they'd
still carry their heads up, and would draw on their boots and put
on their spurs as for a journey. But, what's to be done, my child,
about these invitations?”

“Oh! we must accept them, mamma, as a matter of course.”

“I don't see that, Paula.”

“Surely, mamma, if Major Bulmer makes the first advances to
reconciliation, you are not going to show a less Christian spirit than
he.”

“There is something in that, my dear, but—”

“Let the but alone, mamma. It properly belongs to the Bull
family.”

The old lady laughed.

“So it does, my child, so it does; that is very well said;—
but—”

“Again, mamma! Now let me give you a sufficient reason for
acceptance. You would not have me go alone; and I must be
there, you know, as the whole neighbourhood will be present, and
you would not have it appear that I was slighted, or that I had
shown myself too little of a Christian to accept the overtures of a
family between which and ours so long a feud has existed. You
must accept the invitation, and go for my sake.”

“Well, my dear, for your sake!” replied the indulgent dame,
concealing, under the expression of her desire to gratify the damsel's
wishes, some hankering tastes and curiosity of her own. The
great object had thus been, safely and easily attained when Miss
Bulmer made her appearance, and by some ill-judged, though
very benevolent attempts to argue Madame Agnes-Theresa into
the consent already won, had nearly driven the vessel out to sea
again; like certain politicians of our acquaintance, who mar
the pleasant progress of their own objects, by the too great passion
for listening to their own eloquence. Many a good measure has
been defeated in legislative assemblies, by a pert speech and an
amiable epistle: both possessing more wind than wisdom. Our
lady politician was of this unlucky brood, and, but for certain looks,
nods, winks, and other sly proceedings—to say nothing of an absolute
nudge or two—administered by pretty Paula, the ragoût of
compliance, to use an oriental form of speech, would have certainly
been spoiled in the cooking. But Miss Bulmer was fortunately
silenced at the most dangerous crisis of the affair, and was persuaded
to listen quite long enough to learn that grand-mamma had
already consented, in regard to the especial wishes of the damsel,
to attend the Golden Christmas at Bulmer Barony—the importance
of the event seeming to justify the concession—it being the
hundredth year since Christmas was celebrated in the same family
and household. You may see on the gables of the house, in
huge iron figures 1-7-5-1! It was the Golden Year in the history
of the ancient fabric—ancient for the civilization of our country—which
promises to attain the decrepitude of age, without realizing
any of the famous dust and dignity of the antique. Though
not exactly a favourite with Madame Girardin, our excellent maiden
sister was not by any means the object of such dislike as had
hitherto been felt for her brother by the former; and the first business
over, that of the invitation, the parties had a long domestic
and parish chat together, which brought them still nearer in social

respects. Of course, the two more ancient ladies looked together at
the pigs and poultry, and—a matter of equal unctuousness in the
sight of both—the best way of dressing and curing sausages, occupied
an interesting half-hour to itself. You will at length suppose
the interview over, and the maiden sister departed.

“Well, really,” quoth Madame Girardin, “it shows that the good
folks of the `Barony' are coming to their senses at last. I do not
see, my child, after the solicitude they have shown, how I could
possibly escape this visit; and then, my dear, it's on your account
too, you must remember.”

“Certainly, mamma,” returned the artful little puss, “you have
always been good to me! You know, mamma, you have to yield
to my wishes.”

And she wrapt her fairy-like arms about the neck of the venerable
Hecate, and kissed her as fondly as you or I would have
done the most rose-lipped virgin in the world.

But kissing is not now our cue—

We have other and very different games on hand. I am signalled
for the Wallet and the Strawberry Clubs—both hunting Societies—and
both occurring the same week. Everybody knows, of
course, that the clubs of the gentry exist in all our parishes, the hunters
assembling weekly or semi-monthly, hunting the better part of
the day, dining together at the Club House, or at some central
point in the neighbourhood. The wallet club, by its name, shows
the process for providing the dinner. Each hunter carries his wallet
stored with creature comforts and a doomed bottle. The Major
and myself were parties to both hunts, but neither of us succeeded,
on these occasions, in getting a shot. We spent a merry
day, however, with the good fellows of the parish. But we
had another sport in reserve, of rather different character, to
which a large party was invited; the affair to come off two
days before Christmas. You are aware that, in the larger
swamp and forest ranges of our low country, where population is
sparse, the hog runs absolutely wild. He is hunted up as the
season approaches when it is necessary to fatten him for the shambles.
Sometimes hogs will escape all notice for years. Turned
into the range after being marked, they flourish, or famish, on the
mast, just as the seasons decree. Sometimes they will show
themselves sluggishly fat, lying on sunny days of the winter in
heaps of half-rotted pine straw, enjoying themselves in the fashion
of Diogenes—asking nothing from man or fate but the small
amount of sunshine which reaches their repose through the tops
of two or three grouped pines or gums. The acorns are plenty.
They have fed fat that season, and are gruntingly good natured,
and growlingly sedate. You may walk over them and into them,
without irritating their self-esteem; almost without disturbing their
slumbers. But the case is otherwise in seasons when the mast
fails. Then they are gaunt and wolfish. Then they growl savagely,
and you must not tread wantonly upon their sensibilities.
They drowse no longer in the sunshine than they can help. The
goad of necessity is ever at their flanks. They hear perpetually in
their ears the voice of a beastly fate which cries, “Root pig or die!”
and as they hear, each lank and angular porker thrusts his long
snout into the earth, and stirs the fields, from which the planter
has reaped, more thoroughly than the plough-share. The potato
fields, the ground-nut patch, are thus burrowed into, and the meagre
supplies, thus gleaned after the progress of the farmer, suffice
for a while, not to fatten the animal, but to keep him alive.—
Even these fail, in season, and the farmer then, through rare benevolence,
sends forth his grazier, who, with a daily sack of corn,
apportions to each, a small allowance, upon which he consents to
live a little longer. In this condition, the neglected hogs, grown
larger, and given to wandering through extensive and almost impenetrable
recesses of swamp and thicket, become very wild and
savage. They turn readily upon the dogs, and it requires a very
vigorous cur, indeed, and a very bold one, to take them by the
throat. They will sometimes give fierce battle to the hunter
even, on horseback, and have been known to inflict serious if not
fatal wounds upon the horse; while the rider, himself, must be
wary enough in the encounter if he would escape from hurt. The
long white tusks of an angry boar, which has never been honoured
by the annual tribute of the barn, or mollified by the pickings
of the farm-yard, are no trifling implements of battle, rashing
short and sudden, against the thighs or ribs of the heedless hunters.

It was with no small pleasure that Major Bulmer was advised
a week or so before Christmas, by his overseer, that he had found
out the hiding place in a neighbouring swamp, of a gang of “wild
hogs” having his brand. Two of them were described as boars
of the largest size and fiercest character. The Major instantly
conceived the idea of a boar-hunt. It was his pride to emulate
as much as possible, the character of the ancient English, and to
practice those sports, the neglect of which, he insisted, were the
first signs of the degeneracy of the age. The introduction recently,
into the parish, of the jousts and tiltings of the knights
of the middle ages,—as hath been well recorded by the antiquarian
chronicler of the Charleston Courier,—served, perhaps, to
suggest the present enterprise particularly to his mind. And the
fact that the Boar's Head constituted, in old times, the prëeminent
dish at every feudal English table on Christmas day, made him
resolve that this grim trophy should also adorn his own, on the
approaching anniversary. To some six or eight of the young
knights who had distinguished themselves at the last tournament,
proper notice was given, and, at the time appointed, we had the
pleasure of seeing them assemble, each armed with a boar spear
and couteau de chasse. There were the Knights of St. John, and

of Santee; Knights of the Rose and of the Dragon; Knights of the
Bleeding Heart, and of the Swan; and others, whom I need not
name. I confess to figuring as the Knight of Keawah,—the old
Indian name of Ashley River,—while a young friend, from the city
also, came up in season to enact the part of the Knight of Etiwan—
or of Cooper River. It was a proper day which we took for the
sport,—dry, and a mellow sunshine in the heavens and upon the
earth. We rode under the guidance of the overseer, and under
the lead of the Knight of the Dragon,—the Major being still
a little too sore and stiff to head the party, though nothing short
of a broken limb could have kept him from partaking of the adventure.
We took with us but five dogs, but these were of known
blood and courage. These were Clench, Gripe, Wolf, Bull, and
Belcher. It happened, though we did not know it when we set
out, that we were followed by another,—a stranger,—which nobody
knew,—a gaunt, gray beagle, of very long body, and a modest,
rather sneaking deportment, He had not waited for enlistment,
received no bounty, and, seeking only the honour of the
thing, went as an obscure volunteer. We never noticed his appearance
until we were in the thick of the fight.

The dogs knew very well what we were after. One of them,
following the overseer, had tracked the prey before. We had,
however, some trouble and a long ride to find them, as they had
changed their hiding places repeatedly since the day of their discovery.
The dogs scattered in the search. They had penetrated
a great mucky bog, at several points, while the hunters skirted it,
waiting for the signal. An occasional yelp, or bark, would at times
excite us, but, for a while, we were disappointed. At length, one
of the dogs gave tongue, shortly and quickly, and with evident
anger in his tone. The hunter is apt to know his dogs by their
voices. The Major said,—

“That's Belcher,—a sure dog,—better to report truly than to
fight fiercely. Let's put in.”

With the words, we spurred forward in the direction of the
sounds, making but slow headway through the thick matted copse
and underbrush which covered the entrance. But we got through
at last, and found ourselves in a wood, where the trees were of
considerable size, standing sufficiently open,—gum, water-oak, and
pine,—with occasional patches of gall bushes, and dense masses,
here and there, of cane, bramble and shrubs, with thin flats of
water lying between, and leaving little tussocky beds, high and dry,
on which we found frequent but abandoned beds of the beasts we
were in search of. We rode forward now at a trot, Belcher, the
dog giving tongue more rapidly, and, being now joined by another
dog, whose bark was less frequent, but very fierce; and one which
the Major did not recognize;—a fact which somewhat worried him.
Soon, we saw the overseer, with two other dogs, approaching from
a point on our right; and, as we were joining, the form of the absent
dog, Gripe, came rushing by us from the rear, and making for
the scene of clamour, which appeared to rise from a recess in the
wood still beyond us. This we could attain only by passing through
another dense skirt of undergrowth, vines, shrubs, canes and gall
bushes. Four dogs we had just marked as they passed, yet we
had heard two tongues within the covert. We had no time to
speculate upon the surplus `tongue'; the clamour was momently
increasing. The enemy was evidently brought to bay. Poising
our boar spears aloft, we forced our way through the copse, at the
expense of some scratched faces, torn skirts, and caps lost for the
moment. Breaking into the opening, the whole scene was apparent
at a glance, and in one of those very spots where, our object
being to see and to engage in the meleé, we should have chosen it
to occur. There was a spectacle indeed. There were three hogs
of immense size, of the breed, called, I think, the `Irish Grazier.'
They were long bodied animals, with long legs, grisly and angular
in aspect and outline, and all with ominous tusks. There was
a huge sow, very thin, with some eight or ten pigs. There were

besides, two or three good sized shoats. A single boar, and he, the
largest, seemed to be in good condition. He was evidently one
of those fierce, insolent and powerful beasts, who are known to
plant their shoulders against a worm fence, and by main force to
shove it over. These were all grouped together, the pigs within
the circle, so as to present a front on every hand, when we came
in sight. The dogs had surrounded them, but kept at a decent
distance. They became more adventurous the moment we appeared,
and dashed gallantly in among the herd. But it was a
word and a blow only; the sharp bark was followed by a sharper
cry, and we could see the blood-stains instantly upon the shoulders
of one limping beast, and the gash along the ribs of another,
who howled himself out of the fight, only to sink down, seemingly
fainting in the water.

“Bull has got his quietus, I'm afraid,” quoth the Major, poising
his spear, and preparing for a charge.

“Stop, Major,” quoth the Knight of the Dragon; “let's have
fair play. It will not be easy to have a chance, or to work successfully,
while they keep herded in that hollow square. We must
try and separate them. If you will suffer me, I will but prick one
or more of the beasts with my spear, and allow the dogs to break
into their ranks. At all events, suffer me to try it.”

The Major held up somewhat unwillingly, and the young Knight
darted forward gallantly, brought up his steed, which was equally
fiery and shy, with a sharp thrust, into both flanks, of a Spanish
rowell, and, rising in his stirrups, dexterously passed the broad iron
spear along the shoulder and sides of one of the largest boars.
The savage beast in a moment snapped at the assailing instrument,
but fortunately took hold of the part only where it was sheathed
with iron. He shook himself free from it a moment after, and as
it was withdrawn instantly, he wheeled about in the direction
of his assailant, who had now ridden past. This changed his attitude,
exposing his broad flank to the Major, whom nothing now

could keep from the charge. He made it with commendable
spirit, and drove his spear clean through the neck of the boar.
The wounded beast, with an angry cry, turned suddenly before the
shaft could be withdrawn, and the iron head was broken off in the
wound. The suffering must have been extreme, for he wildly
dashed at the steed of his assailant, which backed suddenly against
a cypress, reared, plunged and dashed forwards, almost into the
circle where the other hogs were still collected; and, but that the
Major was a famous horseman, he would have been unseated. The
wounded boar was not, however, permitted to carry the affair after
his own fashion. The Knight of Santee came to the Major's rescue,
and adroitly drove his iron in between the gnashing teeth of
the brute, piercing obliquely through the neck again, and compelling
another cry, between a grunt and a roar. The blood gushed
freely from the wounds, and the scent of it had the usual stimulating
effect upon the dogs. The first in was the gaunt gray, of
whom nobody knew anything,—the volunteer in the expedition.
He had the boar by the nose in a moment. A single toss and
twist threw the monster down, and, leaping from his horse, the
Knight of the Dragon passed his keen couteau de chasse over his
weasand.

The other parties, hogs, dogs, and knights, were by no means
idle during this progress. The operations of the Major, by which
one of the grimmest of the boars had been withdrawn from the
circle, left it penetrable. The dogs dashed in once more. The
pigs squealed, the sow gave battle fiercely, but was taken by the
snout, by the dog Gripe, and turned over in a jiffy; the overseer,
jumping down and tying her with certain buckskin thongs, with
which he had come properly provided. The capture of the pigs
continued to employ him during the rest of the affair. For this,
we had a fair field; and, by the way, the noblest quarry. The
Knight of the Dragon, like a courteous gentleman, kept aloof,
leaving the sport to those who had taken no hand in the killing of

the first boar. Major Bulmer was disarmed, by the breaking of
his spear, and looked on with rare impatience, while the conflict
continued. It was not allowed, be it remembered, to use any other
weapons than spear and knife. There had been little sport, and
none of the classical, in the affair, but for this restriction. The two
remaining boars confronted us, with their little, round, sharp, malignant
eyes, telling us, as well as words could do, what we might
expect from their monstrous white tusks, which stuck out three
goodly inches or more from either jaw. To seperate these two, to
divide our forces against them, and to begin the attack, were all
matters of very brief arrangement. To the Knights of St. John,
the Bleeding Heart, and myself, were assigned the conquest of the
largest of the grim graziers. The second named dashed forward
valiantly, and delivered his spear, well addressed, fairly at the throat
of the brute; but, turning suddenly, at the moment—not disposed
to wait for the assault—he made at the horse of the attacking
knight, who barely recovered himself in season to wheel about and
escape the glaring tusks that almost caught the courser's sides.
Following up his onslaught, I put in, successfully taking the fierce
brute just behind the ear and below the junction of the head and
neck. The spear passed in,—a severe thrust,—which was only
arrested by the skull. I was fortunate in drawing forth the weapon
before he could turn about, and seize upon it, as he strove to
do. At this moment, no aspect could be more full of rage and
fury than that which the boar presented. His back was absolutely
curved like a bow, the bristles were raised, erect, and standing out
in points like those of the porcupine; his eyes seemed to flash a
grey, malignant light, like so much white heat, while the bristling
brows, long and wiry, stood out straight. The teeth and tusks
were bare; and, standing, regarding us with a sidelong watchfulness,
there was a mixture of rage and subtlety in the look of the
boar, that showed him no merciful customer, could he ever make
himself fairly felt. That he had the fullest purpose to do so, every
raised and corded muscle of his body seemed to declare.

It was a point of honour to give the Knight of St. John a
chance, so I held my spear uplifted, and suffered him to ride up to
the charge. To say that the Cavalier in question is one of the
best riders in the country, one of the best exercised in the lance, and
can ride at a ring with a grace to charm the most fastidious of the
damsels of the parish, would be mere surplusage. To see him,
with his beaver up,—by which I mean his fur cap, with patent
leather peak,—his enormous mass of sable whiskers, and elaborately
twirled mustache,—to behold him rising in the stirrup and
levelling the spear,—then, as he drives the spur into the sides of
the courser, to see him lance the direct shaft into the throat of the
beast, a seemingly mortal thrust—would have given a grim delight
to any ancient Nimrod of the German forests. One would have
supposed such a thrust, so well delivered, with so much equal address
and force, quite enough to have settled the accounts in full
of the victim; but not so! It seemed to act only as a new spur
to his fury. He dashed headlong at the horse of his assailant—
which curved with a sweep handsomely out of his way—then, with
a strange caprice, dashed on the opposite side, just as the Knight
of the Bleeding Heart was slowly approaching, lance uplifted, and
never dreaming of his enjoying another chance at the grim enemy.
He was taken completely by surprise, and, before he could anticipate
the danger, or wheel out of the way, the sharp, white, felonious
tusk of the boar rashed against the foreshoulder of his beast,
swift and deep, so that you could hear the griding of the keen instrument
against the bone. With a terrible snort of fear, his
mane rising and ears backing, the horse dashed wildly off, at an
acute angle, turning as if upon a well oiled pivot, working under
electricity; and, in the twinkling of a musquito's wing, the handsome
young Knight of the Bleeding Heart, might be seen describing
a short evolution in the air, vulgarly called the summerset—
supposed to be only a vulgar contraction for “some upset,” or
“some overset,”—and falling incontinently into the midst of the

conflict going on just then, between the remaining boar and the
Knights of Etiwan, the Rose, and the Swan. Out of one peril
into another, the Knight of the Bleeding Heart seemed in danger
of literally verifying his claim to the title. Of a certainty, that of
the Broken Head, seemed absolutely unavoidable. Nor was this
the only danger; for, at the precise moment when he fell into the
midst of the striving parties, the spears of the Knights of Etiwan
and the Rose, had actually crossed in the throat of the boar, and
he was gnashing, and rashing, and dashing, on both sides alternately,
keeping up a sort of see-saw motion, the crossed spears
maintaining for him the balance admirably, and the two knights,
during his phrensied movements, finding it difficult to withdraw
their weapons from his tough side. You have heard of the little
Canadian hunter, who was pitched by his horse among a herd of
galloping buffaloes, and straddled the great bull, and was horsed
from him to the back of the great cow, then precipitated among
and over and between and through and above, a forest of little
calves! Such, on a minor scale, was the sort of progress made by
our Knight of the Bleeding Heart—first over the great boar, then
flirted off upon the sow—who lay prostrate and tied—then rolling
from her embrace among the swarm of little piggies, who were
grouped around her, ten in number, each with nose to the
ground, and tail curling in the air. He was thus tossed about,
with a most feathery facility, for a moment, settling down finally
like a stone, in very close proximity to the sow. Their groans were
so mingled, that it was not easy to distinguish between them;
and, confounding them together for a moment, we almost apprehended
that the Knight of the Bleeding Heart would soon be in
want of an epitaph. Several of us dismounted and rushed to his
assistance, Major Bulmer, in the meanwhile, eagerly rushing in to
slit the jugular of the boar, who had succumbed to the Knight of
Santee and myself; and the Knights of the Dragon and Swan doing
the same good service for the third boar, with which he and
the Knights of the Rose and Etiwan had been doing battle. We
picked up the champion of the Bleeding Heart, and found him
with bleeding nostrils. This was his worst injury. He was stunned
and considerably scratched, but, alighting just upon the boar's
back, titled next upon the sow's, and, rolling over finally among
the pigs, the shock of his fall was measurably broken. It might
have been otherwise a fatal one; for he was slung from the saddle,
headlong, like a stone. It was surprising, too, that he should have
been thus unhorsed, for he ranked as a first rate rider. But he was
taken by surprise, and the lack of vigilance is usually the wreck of
skill. The worst of his misfortune is to come. That he should
have suffered so little was the evil feature in his case. Had leg, or
arm, or neck, been broken, the mishap would have risen into tragic
dignity. As it resulted, it was simply ludicrous, and the Knight
of the Bleeding Heart was every where laughed at as the Knight
of the Bloody Nose!