University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
GLIMPSES OF CAPTIVITY.

Meanwhile, Jeff Rhodes with his gang, and their captives,
pursued their way down the country, with a caution and confidence,
the due result of their knowledge of the perils of the region,
the prize which they carried, and the skill and experience
they had acquired in the practice of the scout. One or other
of the party rode constantly beside the ancient negro, Cato, who
was compelled to continue as the coachman, without being allowed
to make any comment or question of the route which he
pursued. The old fellow was by no means quieted to submission
by the rough handling which the robbers had already shown
him, and from which he was only rescued by the timely interposition
of his young mistress. He was very much inclined to
assert his own and the independence of the ladies whom he
served; and many a sharp response, from his saucy tongue,
aroused the outlaws to a momentary show of sharp penalties in
store. But of these, Cato would have taken no heed — in fact,
he would have relished nothing better than an encounter,
a l'outrance, with any or all of the gang, and without regard to
the inequality of forces, if it had not been for the unceasing
watchfulness of his mistress, and the stern authority which she
continued to exercise over him. Denied to speak or to fight, the
grey head of the veteran coachman kept up a frequent motion,
bobbing defiance from side to side, as the outlaws severally appeared
on this or that side of the carriage. He submitted very
sulkily, and continued to drive on, through the woods, or along
very obscure roads, until night had fairly settled down. Then,
one of the outlaws jumped upon the box, pushed the old fellow

aside and took the whip into his own hands. They drove slowly,
feeling their way all the while, and occasionally scraping
against the pine-trees, or settling suddenly in some bog or hollow
of the way, until about midnight, when the vehicle was suddenly
halted before an obscure settlement, consisting of two or
three rude log-houses, not unlike the one of good Mother Ford.

The suddenness of the stop caused the young lady, who had
been sleeping on her mother's shoulder, to start up in alarm.

“What's the matter, mother?”

“Nothing, my child. The carriage has only stopped. Here
seems to be a settlement, such as it is. Here are loghouses, I
fancy.”

The girl looked out with a shudder.

“It's a dismal looking place, mother.”

And so it was. The pine woods were almost as dense as in
the original forest. There were no fences. The rude huts
stood under great shadowing trees that frowned them into utter
insignificance. The starlight could only very faintly penetrate
the enclosure, and the dwellings themselves seemed to have no
lights. A moment after, however, the barking of a dog was
heard, and then a faint gleam, from one of the nearest of the
hovels, announced the inmate to be in motion. The door was
soon thrown open, and a hoarse voice cried out:—

“Hello! Is it you, Rhodes?”

“Ay! ay! all right.”

The next moment Rhodes was at the carriage door, which he
opened with a profound obeisence; and, with a voice rendered
as soft and insinuating as it was in his power to make it, the
old ruffian said:—

“I'll thank you, respectable ma'am, to git out now, you and
the young lady. I reckon you must be pretty nigh tired down,
you and the beautiful young madam. We've had to ride far, to
put you out of harm's way; for, you see, the whole country's
now alive with sodgers, and a sorry chaince you'd have, you
two poor lonesome ladies, a meeting with any of them wild riders
of Sumter and Marion. Now, here, you're safe, till we kin
find out your friends and family, and let 'em know where they
kin look for you. This is the most snuggest hiding-place in
all these parts. It's called Cat Corner, and I reckon if puss

know'd all about it, she'd like no better hole to creep into.
Please you, now, ma'am, to let me help you out of the coach.
It's hard dry airth that we stand upon.”

“I thank you, sir, but need no help,” returned the elder lady,
preparing to alight. “Come, Bertha, my child, we can do no
better.”

“That's the right reason, ma'am,” responded Rhodes, “and
this is the right sort of place to hear to reason. It's so snug
and quiet, that, I reckon, ef the whole of the ribbil army was
a marching by, they'd never stop to look in, and ef they did,
't mout be they'd find nothing to make 'em any wiser.”

A torch was brought from the house, and held while the ladies
alighted; and they discovered that the man bearing it — a stout
ruffian, without coat or cravat — was wanting a leg. The lack
was supplied by a stump of oak or hickory, upon which, with
the aid of a staff, he strode on with tolerable ease and confidence.
He led the way to the house, standing at the door
with his torch, while the ladies entered.

Here they found themselves in a log-cabin, fifteen by twenty,
without a single window, and but the one door by which they
entered. There was a fireplace upon which a few lightwood
brands were feebly burning. The house stood on logs, four
feet from the ground. Through the floor there was an outlet
of escape; one of the planks being moveable; but of this, of
course, the captives knew nothing. This trap conducted to a
wing, of logs also, to which from the main building there was
no other mode of ingress. It had a door however opening upon
the woods, in the rear. Two other huts similarly constructed,
and at convenient distances, might be seen in the background,
which, no doubt, possessed similar facilities. They were contiguous
to a deep thicket, and an almost impenetrable bay in
the rear. The outlaws had most probably constructed their
place of refuge, with an equal eye to obscurity and defence.

The apartment into which the ladies were ushered had a
single rude bedstead, with all the necessary bedding. There
was a common pine table in the room, and a few old chairs. A
piece of broken mirror was fastened to one of the walls; but,
unless with candle or firelight, it could have very few uses. A

shelf, with a few old cups and broken tumblers and pitchers,
completed the furniture of the establishment. The door had a
lock on the outside, and a bolt within; and scarcely had the
two captives entered the den, than it was suddenly closed upon
them, and they heard the bolt shot from without. They were
made to feel that they were close prisoners. Even the servant
girl was not suffered to enter with her mistresses.

You may conceive the anxiety of their souls in this gloomy
den of outlawry. But the elder of the ladies was calm, and
the younger cheerful.

“We are certainly destined for our share of adventures,
Bertha,” said the former. “This you probably will call romantic.”

“What can these wretches mean, mother?”

“Plunder, robbery, my child.”

“But they have taken all that we have.”

“Yes, but that does not content them. They know us, I
fancy; and calculate on extorting a ransom from our friends.
We must be patient. They can have no other motives. They
are quite too low in the scale of society to feel any other; and
their cupidity once satisfied, we shall be suffered to go free. I
do not apprehend in respect to ourselves, except the painful
length of our detention, in the present condition of our affairs.
My grief, my child, is for your father, and our dear Henry, in
the hands, no doubt, of their bitter enemy. Oh! my child, to
what are they reserved? — what is their fate? — where are
they? — in what condition of suffering and privation?”

“I can conceive of nothing worse, dear mother, for father or
Henry, but some such confinement as our own. There is no
reason to suppose that Captain Inglehardt, if he has captured
them, will do anything worse than keep them fast as long as he
can, until he can secure some of his objects.”

“Ah! that's the misery, Bertha! What are his objects?
He would secure your hand. Are you prepared to make the
sacrifice?”

“Never! How can I, mother? I hate, I loathe him; and
can I, before God, profess to love, to honor, and obey him! I
should look to see the bolt of heaven descend upon me while I
was uttering the monstrous perjury.”

“Thus it is, Bertha. Your father feels this, even as you and I
feel it. He, too, hates and loathes this Inglehardt. I despise
him. And Inglehardt knows exactly how we all feel toward him.
His pride would humble you. His passions lead him to you.
Your father's wealth — for he is wealthy — is an object of his
determined watch. What will he not do to obtain his objects?
I tremble, my child, when I think of his power, his will, his
appetites, and his cold-blooded cruelty of disposition! Our
fate somewhat depends upon your father's; for who is there to
buy us out of captivity? These wretches, into whose hands
we have fallen, require money. To whom will they apply?
Your father? But where is he? In a dungeon himself. I
know not where to look, dear child, unless to God!”

“I believe in God, mother. I believe that he takes as watchful
a part in the affairs of men, this day, as he did five thousand
years ago! He will send us deliverance when we least look
for it. Sinclair is not idle. I know that his warm heart is
vexing him now that he can do nothing. I know that his sleepless
eyes are busy ever, piercing into the dark. Ah! if he had
been with us instead of Captain St. Julien, this had never
happened!”

“Nay, Bertha, child, be not unjust. St. Julien did what he
thought right. He had no option. Either he must defeat those
refugees, or they must defeat him. He was compelled to do his
duty to the country. He himself told us that our escort was only
a secondary consideration, and, however uncourtly the speech
might seem, it was only manly and honest, and it declared
for his integrity. A woman is always a thousand times more
secure, trusting to a man of integrity, than to a mere gallant.
I have no fault to find with St. Julien; and, remember, my
daughter, we know not, at this moment, whether he be dead or
living! You may be even now speaking unjustly of one who
has paid, with his life, the penalties of his error; if he has
committed error, which I do not believe. Be patient, child.
Let us do no injustice; particularly to one in whom Sinclair
put the most perfect trust. If not slain, or captive, what must
be his restless search — what his anxieties this very moment, on
our account? How will he reproach himself, even though he
be not really to blame.”

“Ah! if Willie knew!” said the daughter. “I look to him,
mother, to find and rescue us.”

“Look to God, Bertha Travis, who, I trust, will commission
Willie Sinclair for our rescue.”

Thus, for an hour, the two captives, in solitude and comparative
darkness, communed together of their own, and the distressing
condition of their friends. It was a melancholy sort
of consolation, this comparison of gloomy notes. At the end
of this time, the lock was shot back, the door opened, and an
uncouth and ungainly looking white woman, with reddish hair,
and purplish nose, made her appearance, and silently drawing
out the table, spread over it a dingy cloth, laid plates and knife
and fork, arranged certain cups and saucers and bowls in order,
and then said:—

“I reckon you'll be wanting a leetle supper, won't you?”

The elderly lady nodded assent.

“They don't mean to starve us, at all events,” she said to her
daughter. Meanwhile the woman disappeared, and, in ten
minutes after, returned with dishes of corn hoe-cake, and fried
bacon, and a vessel of coffee. How she carried all in one armful,
was something of a mystery to both the ladies. But she
did carry all, with equal ease and dexterity.

“Well, mem, your supper's ready.”

“Thank you. Can I have my own servant-girl to attend on
me?” inquired the matron.

“I don't know, mem; I'll ax the men-folk. They knows.”

She went out. There was some delay in her return; in truth,
the subject was, for awhile, under discussion with Jeff Rhodes
and his gang; but consent was finally yielded, and the servant-girl
made her appearance in the prison. The poor creature ran
up to her mistresses, and caught their hands with the eager joy
of one who has just escaped the clutches of the cormorant.

“Oh! misses — oh! Miss Bert'a — I was afeard I was nebber
guine see you agin. Dey lock me up in house with Cato, and
Cato's mos' go mad, kaise he ain't le' 'em see to he hoss.”

We can readily imagine the martinet jehu denied to attend
his horses.

But the negro-girl had seen little more than her mistresses.

She could add nothing to their stock of information. They
made her share their prison.

When supper was over, the red-headed woman, who had
attended throughout the repast, removed the remnants; the
negro-girl having first been assigned a portion of the supper, to
the manifest disquiet of the woman, who growled dissent, but
in vain. When she disappeared the door was again locked
upon the party, and they remained prisoners for the night.

Sunrise brought them a rude breakfast; noon, dinner; night
supper and sleep again; and thus several days passed, and the
captives were allowed to see nobody but the red-headed woman.
Cato, similarly bonded, was furious; but he raved only to the
walls of his log-prison. His mistresses asked after him, of the
woman who served them, but her only answer — “I reckon
he's doing very well”— afforded little satisfaction. Of course
their anxieties increased. Poor Bertha began, at length, to
fancy that the world had quite forgotten her, and Willie Sinclair
in particular. The young are very apt to be unjust when
they are unhappy.

Meanwhile, Jeff Rhodes was busy — mysteriously so — playing
the politician with the profound gravity becoming a statesman
who has large provinces in jeopardy. His emissaries were
as busy as himself. He, and they, were continually going and
returning. Sometimes they departed at night; — sometimes
returned under its cover. They were all practised woodsmen,
and they wrought, in their mysterious crafts, with equal celerity
and secresy. They went abroad alternately, mostly going upward;
and, with each returning agent, Jeff Rhodes's gravity
increased. His politics were embarrassed by certain unexpected
impediments. Even a scoundrel, with the devil's help, can not
always have his own way.

“Why, where the h—l can old Travis be?” he said to his
fellows, while in secret consultation with them, in one of the
cabins, after several unfruitful expeditions had been made up
to the precincts of Orangeburg. “I tell you, boys, he must be
found!”

“Well, you must find him yourself,” was the rough answer of
his son Nat; “for I ain't guine agin. There's too much resk
in it.”

“Why, where's the resk I wants to know?”

“Ef you wants to know, go yourself.”

“Well, so I would, sooner than trust sich a good calkilation,
to such poor shoats and cowards; ef I were a leetle more spry
and active now, you'd soon see what I could do.”

“Cowards!” said Nat; “why, you wouldn't have one man
face all Greene's army, and Marion's men, and Sumter's: to
say nothing of the red-coats that air as thick as dogwood blossoms,
in spring-time, in Orangeburg. I tell you, it calls for
mighty nice snaking to get through among all these people.
It's sartin that Cappin Travis ain't at his place, for its all
burnt down, smack and smooth! The house, kitchen, and out-houses,
are all in ashes. I reckon, 'twas done only last night,
for the ashes is hot to the feel yit.”

“Where kin he be?”

“That's it! Find out, old sodger!”

“So I will, if I hev to go my own self! I tell you, Cappin
Travis is a man to sweat gould, and these wimmins is his wife
and only darter, and he'll pay through the nose to get 'em back
again safe.”

“Well, I'm ready for the gould sweating, whenever you kin
find the man; but that I hain't been able to do yit. And
'tain't me only. Did Clem Wilson do any better; or Barney
Gibbes? Barney got into Orangeburg, itself; but could do
nothing, and hear nothing, when he got there. Ef you think
you kin do better, try it — that's all. The road's open.”

“Well, so I will; stiff in the j'ints as I am, sooner than lose
all the profits that we've been honestly working a'ter. But
you try it to-morrow, John Friday.”

“I'm willing. But I don't think I'm any better in the bushes
than Nat and Clem.”

“Never you mind. Luck's all. It'll be your chaince, I
reckon.”

And the next day, John Friday went on the snaking expedition.
He returned the day after, making no better report
than his predecessors; and Jeff Rhodes finally looked round to
Mat Floyd.

“A'ter all, Mat's the boy to do the business. There's no
better scout in all this country than Mat Floyd. Now, he

knows the Edisto country like a book; and he knows old
Orangeburg like a woman; and ef he kain't find out where
Cappin Travis is, then I give up! Mat, you're the boy to do
this business.”

The blarney scarcely sufficed to prompt the slow spirit of
Mat Floyd to undertake a mission in which all had thus far
failed, and about which there really hung no small danger. Mat,
just then, had a strong and vivid image before his mind's eye,
of that fearful scene, which, as we remember, so painfully haunts
the memory of his sister. It was from Nelly's graphic portraiture,
indeed, that Mat had received his most vivid impressions of
the terrors which Fate had for him in store.

He was reluctant accordingly. But the subtle Jeff Rhodes
knew the character of his victim. He had his arguments for
every objection; his persuasions for every mood of the weak,
vacillating creature; and the scruples of Mat Floyd were
finally overcome.

“As for the danger,” quoth Jeff, “where was the danger to
Nat Rhodes, and the rest? They went, and come, and hadn't
even a scare!”

“Yes, but they didn't go far enough. They did nothing —
found out nothing; and you wants me to see ef I kain't go farther,
and find out better than them! Well, I tells you, I knows
there's great danger. I'd rather not go!”

“What! scared at your own shadow, Mat?”

And the morale of poor Mat yielded to the taunts of his
companions, even when they failed to convince his reason. He
departed that very night for Orangeburg and the Edisto country,
in search of a person who could be made to “sweat gould.”

And where was he, the aforesaid “gould-sweater”? Poor
Mrs. Travis, whom our outlaws supposed to know all about her
husband and his whereabouts, would have given the world to
find him. And others, too, were in search — Sinclair, St.
Julien — representing the anxieties of persons even greater
than themselves. It is very doubtful whether Mat Floyd will
be able to gather much in his mission.

Poor Captain Travis did not exactly know where he was
himself. He had, in fact, but one friend who did know at this
juncture. Let us look after him.

It is barely a week since Captain Travis fell into the hands
of his subtle enemy, Richard Inglehardt, captain of loyalist
rifles. He knew his danger from such a condition of captivity,
in the hands of such a foe. But his fears for himself were not
of a sort to humble him, or make him afraid. He had steeled
himself to every fortune; and, though not a good man exactly,
he had nerve and resolution, and was determined that there
should be no sacrifices made for himself. But, even in the hour
when he made this resolve, he discovered that his only son,
Henry — a noble boy of fifteen — had also fallen into the same
remorseless hands. It was not till the moment of that discovery
that he felt properly his sense of destitution and desperation.
We need not attempt to describe his misery; but he did not
yet dream how much he was at the mercy of his foe!

Travis and his son were not forgotten, or abandoned, by their
friends. An admirable scout was Jim Ballou, of Sinclair's
brigade of “swamp-foxes.” Jim Ballou was put upon trail, after
Inglehardt, Travis, and the boy. A keen hound was Jim after
a hot trail. He scented the outlaws; followed them down from
Holly-Dale, to Oak grove — Chevillette's— and below it, for a
mile or so; — found the nest warm, but the birds flown!

Jim was not to be baffled. He again found the trail, and
followed — slow but sure — giving no tongue, and suffering
nothing to escape his vigilance. He could calculate how many
hours ahead of him were the fugitives, and he timed his own
prospects accordingly. He was but one, but the party he pursued
were several; and among them was a famous scout, ranking
next to himself, called “The Trailer,” and he had for a
companion, a terrible desperado, whose nom de nique was Hell-fire
Dick! Inglehardt himself was one of the party, a wily,
bold, cool, and intelligent soldier; not exactly a desperado —
for he was a subtle calculator — but with morals sufficiently
flexible for one.

Jim Ballou was not required to gather up the fugitives; —
only to track and earth them. And he was the proper man for
the pursuit. He followed all day with the scent of a bloodhound.

“Lawd! how hot!” he cried, as he took a half hour's rest toward
sunset, in the thick woods skirting the formidable recesses
of the Four-Holes swamp.

“Lawd! if I only had a drink now — Jamaica, peach, whiskey!
But if I had, 'twere as much as my soul's worth to drink!
No! Jim Ballou, you've sworn not to touch, taste, or handle,
and you mustn't! — but, O Lawd! 'tain't against the oath to
wish for it! I do wish for it, I do! I do!”

And he supped sparingly of the waters of a branch that
trickled below him. He supped and was refreshed.

“Water, in a naked state,” quoth he, “is not altogether
decent drinking — not decent — but as I've sworn off from all
better drink, it's only wisdom and decency to swear by water.
Swear by water! Well, it'll do, and that's about as much as I
can decently say in its favor. 'Twill do!”

And he laid himself down in the shade upon the grasses of
the little hill-slope, shut his eyes, and seemed as much a vagrant
as any urchin that ever fancied the sunshine only signified playtime,
and the night sleep. His horse, meanwhile, more busy
but not less gratefully employed, browsed about amid the herb
age of the spot, and supped of the naked water also.

“Now,” mused Jim Ballou — “now, here we are, and these
scamps ain't quite half an hour ahead of me! I mustn't push
them too closely. They'll hardly go farther to-night. It's
clear they're making for the swamp; and half an hour's farther
working will bring 'em to 'Bram's castle. Now, here's the
proof of the major's right way of looking at things. Who
taught Hell-fire Dick the way to 'Bram's castle in the Four-Holes?
Who but Jim Ballou — and Jim Ballou drunk —
drunk! drunk! Jim Ballou drunk! Jim Ballou, if, after this,
you again get drunk, may the Lord ha' mercy on your soul,
— for, if I'm to be the judge, I'll have none! When the
war's over, and there's no more work for the scout, then you
may drink, Jim Ballou, but not a drop before — not a drop
before!”

He shut his eyes, and rested, as if asleep, for about ten minutes
longer.

“Now,” said he, while in this position, “if it's to 'Bram's castle
that they're bound, they've pretty nigh reached it by this
time, and I must take the trail afoot. If they're gone beyond,
why, it's only half an hour's extra work, and I can catch up
with them by an extra start in the morning. I'll give 'em time!

My eyes want another ten minutes' rest. I'll give 'em time —
time! — Rope enough — rope enough!”

But, with the final setting of the sun, our scout started up;
and, having securely fastened his horse in the thicket, he took
the trail on foot. It was a nice and perilous business which lay
before him — that of penetrating an enemy's camp, held by half
a dozen or more, by a single man, afoot, and treading — as he
might be — every step, toward an ambush or a viper!

“But who's afraid?” demanded Ballou, somewhat fiercely, of
that questioner, within his own heart, which had intimated, in a
whisper, the perils of the path before him.

“Who's afraid? There's one to a dozen, may be, but that
one's me, Jim Ballou — Jim Ballou! It's not so easy, my friend,
to take the turn on me. I know my business — foxing, snaking,
moling, cooning, possuming, and, if need be, wolfing! — these
being the six degrees, in all of which, to be worth anything, a
scout's got to graduate! But he's to be born to it, besides.
These are natural gifts. Education can improve 'em, no doubt,
but can't create them! Remember that, brother — remember
that — remember!

“Now, being jest the scout I am, I hope I ain't afraid. And,
then, don't I know this pretty little hiding-place, like a book?
Haven't I turned over all its leaves, page after page, syllable
by syllable, day by day, and hour by hour, for weeks and
months together? Ah! most excellent Captain Inglehardt, and
you Devil Dick, and you Trailer, there are some secrets of that
little hiding-place in' which you are scrooging, which you can't
lay hands on in a hurry; and, by them secrets, I'll hunt you
up, and hear what you've got to say, or there's no snakes within
a thousand miles! — no snakes — a thousand miles!”

In pursuance of this determination, our scout made his approaches
with eminent caution, and finally buried himself completely
in the swamp. Above him, some hundred yards, was
a little hammock or islet of the swamp, upon which stood a loghut,
known to the men of Marion, or rather known to a few of
them, as “'Bram's cabin,” or castle — 'Bram, the former occupant,
being a confidential slave of one of the partisan officers.
We shall probably hear of him in other pages. To this spot

Ballou made his approaches, in a style to make a fox jealous
and emulous. His discoveries finely satisfied himself.

“We've treed the coons; but that's all! They're in possession
of 'Bram's castle. But how long will they keep there?
That's the question. Will they stay there long? No! Why?
Because they know it's one of our harboring-places, and they'll
be naturally looking for some of us to be coming down upon
'em. What then? what's to be done? Can I get back to the
Edisto, find Major Willie, and bring him back in time to smoke
the beasts in their hollow? It must be tried! But can't I get
at their counsels — get on the hammock itself, and snake about
for discoveries? Why not? It's a ticklish business — ticklish
— but what isn't ticklish, in the way of business, in these times?
Ticklish — ticklish; but no trying, no doing! They don't reckon
on pursuit jist yet. They hardly think me so soon upon
their haunches. Devil Dick's drinking, no doubt; the Trailer
helps him, thinking his work's done for the day! They're supping
and drinking, I reckon, under some tree; and I can snake
round 'em, and listen — snake and listen!”

He did so! On the extreme upper end of the islet he found
Devil Dick and the Trailer, with two others, busy, by a bright
firelight, at the fragments of a supper. Ballon worked around
them with wonderful dexterity. He listened for a while to
what they had to say; but their talk was that of the reveller
— or rather the marauder — in a maudlin and half-drowsy
mood.

“Nothing's to be got from them. I must see now after Inglehardt
and his prisoners.”

Crawling, creeping, gliding, he made his way to the rear of
'Bram's cabin. A light gleamed from the fireplace within. He
heard voices, and stopped beneath the eaves to listen.

“That's Captain Travis. It's too quick for Inglehardt.”

Inglehardt's answer was too faint, too low of tone, to inform
the listener. He looked up to the poplar that stood just beside
the chimney of the cabin. The chimney was of clay, the nozzle
barely shooting up above the gable. Quick as thought.
Ballou leaped up and threw his arms and legs about the tree.
He climbed like a squirrel. He was up in a few moments, and,
perched on one of the boughs, could look over, down into the

very fireplace of the cabin. The place was favorable to hearing,
when Travis spoke; but the subdued tones of Inglehardt
baffled him. He vainly tried to catch the syllables. He could
only hear a buzz. Let us assert the privilege which our scout
may not, and enter to the conference boldly. We shall be sure
to remain unseen.