University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE SPY IN PERIL.

And the poor fool, soliloquizing thus, his head turned with
Jamaica and that “run of luck,” rode on exultingly, never
once seeing or dreaming that the fates were even then busy
upon that “run of rope” the terrors of which his poor sister had
been striving to keep before his eyes.

She timed his paces, and followed his steps. He reached in
safety the den where old Rhodes had cornered himself, and
quietly threw himself down for sleep in one of the wigwams.
His potations had rendered this proceeding necessary. Old
Rhodes and one of his gang were absent. They too were scouting,
possibly in search of Travis also — certainly, in the pursuit
of some outlawry. They did not return till after night, when
they found Mat Floyd in a condition of stupor, the result of the
mixed influences of drink and a too long slumber, but awake.
Rhodes was in a tolerable good humor, though disappointed at
Mat's failure. The latter made a full report of all that he had
discovered or failed to discover, while in and about Orangeburg;
but said nothing, however, of his adventures after leaving
it; of his sister and the Jamaica he mentioned not a syllable.
Rhodes, however, suspected the latter, and charged it home
upon the offender, not exactly as an offence against good morals,
but as disparaging his chances of success.

“You've been drinking, Mat, and that's the reason you ha'n't
made out better. I reckon you were too boozy to see Cappin
Travis ef he was a-standing right afore you. I reckon he was
all about among the offsers in the village.”

“I worn't so drunk but I could see the gallows!”

“Oh! that gallows! You ha'n't been hafe a man, ever sence
that fool sister of your'n had her wision.”

“Look you, Jeff Rhodes, talk of the gal decently ef you
wouldn't see fire flash from your eyes and claret too.”

“Boys, git out the kairds, or we'll hev a foolish quarrel to
patch up. That's the worst fault I find with whiskey and
Jamaica. They're mighty fine drinks; but they makes the
best friends fall out. Git out the kairds, fellows, I reckon I've
got some money that I kin lose to any boy that's bold enough
to front the pictures.”

“I'm your man for that,” cried Mat eagerly. “But no more
Orangeburg for me. As you ain't afeard of the wision of a gallows,
Jeff Rhodes, you kin go for yourself next time.”

“And so I will, Mat; but ef I do 'twon't be for you then to
be axing after a share of the plunder. Ef the hands won't do
lawful duty, they kain't expect lawful hire.”

“We'll see to that, Jeff. In captivating these ladies we was
all consarned, and I reckon I had the most risk in doing it.
For that matter I hev the most risky business put upon me
always, and I'm not guine to stand it; so, look to it next time.
I jest give you notice in good season. Who's for play?”

The party seated themselves about an old table in that dark
hovel, not one of them withholding himself from a game at which
the common people of the South were great proficients seventy
years ago — “old sledge.” Money was produced in moderate
sums, and all the party was soon deeply interested. Jeff Rhodes
was one of those rare magicians who work wonders at the gaming
table. He soon began to assess his neighbors. As they began to
grumble, he put in exercise one of his arts of soothing, by producing
an unexpected bottle of whiskey. They all drank deeply,
and the play went on; and with the drink and play, Mat
Floyd, with others, soon began to grow garrulous. He talked
over the matter of his fright in Orangeburg, and the awful feelings
which he suffered at so suddenly confronting the gallows
upon which hung another.

“Lord,” said he, “I felt as ef I was the man that was hitched
up, and 'tworn't ontil I was safe buried in the swamp, that I
could git easy about that wision of poor Nelly; and when, suddently,
she come a-riding out of the woods upon me this morning,

I thought it was a whole troop of the red-coats in chase.
And she know'd all about the mutineering and hanging in Orangeburg
— same as ef she'd seen it; and she tells me she seed
that same wision about my hanging more than once sence.”

“What! you seed Harricane Nell this morning, Mat, and
never said a word about it?” demanded Rhodes.

“Yes, I never thought about it till now.”

“And whar did you meet her?”

“By Pyeatt's bay, tharabouts.”

“Why, that ain't five miles off from hyar! Well, whar did
you leave her?”

“Oh, I cut off her discourse mighty soon, and told her to be
off, and not meddle with men's consarns; and I shook her a
little, for the Jamaica was pretty strong in me, and I driv the
poor gal off with a flea in her ear.”

“And whar did she go?”

“Lord knows! — into the thick somewhar.”

“Lord, Lord! Mat Floyd, you're as great a fool as your sister.
Why didn't you look after her, and give her a wrong trail?
She'll be on our track, by blazes, and will find out all about
our prisoners. She'll never rest tell she does, and you knows
it!”

“Well, I never thought of that!”

“'Twas the Jamaica. Lord, Lord, why will you boys be
drinking when you're on an ixpedition? Why kain't you put
it off tell we all git safe together, as we air now, after the day's
work's done?”

“But Nelly don't know nothing about the place. She never
was hyar.”

“Yes, she was, years ago,” interposed the keeper of the den;
“she stopped here once with old Mother Ford, when she come
up from the Collinton country.”

“The devil she did! Then she'll be sure to track us out;
and ef she does, she'll be jest as sure to bring down some of the
dragoons, red or blue, don't matter to her, and warm us up hyar
at midnight with sich a blaze as will make every skin crackle.
And, ef she didn't know the place before, won't she take Mat's
track, I wonder? Nelly is as good a scout as any in the British
army, and she's got a heart as bold as any dragoon in both

armies. She'll be doing, I tell you, while we're a-drinking and
a-sleeping. She's a most fearsome cretur.”

Old Rhodes was indignant — Mat Floyd rather chopfallen.
The party played on, however — the old man sullen, moody,
thoughtful, but never forgetful of his games. Suddenly, after
raking up the spoils before him, old Rhodes said:—

“Boys, you kin play on, but I'll take a peep at the stairs.
I've hearn that dog barking now a good bit, and it's jest as well
to take a look around to see that all's right. But you kin play
on. Ef I wants you, I'll blow the horn.”

The door was closed — well fastened. There were no windows
in the hovel. In going out, Jeff Rhodes did not disturb
the fastenings of the door. Stooping down, he lifted a trap
under the table upon which the group continued to play, and
let himself through it upon the ground, some four feet below.
He had caught up, unseen by most of the party, his pistols and
hunter-knife — the latter a most formidable weapon, only inferior
in size and weight to the modern “California toothpick.”
He crawled out quietly from beneath the house, and was soon
hidden among the bushes that grew thickly all about it. His
soul was full of murderous intentions.

“Ef it's her,” he muttered, “I'll cut her throat for her if
thar's hafe a chaince. She's spiled our sports more than once,
and sha'n't spile 'em agin ef I kin help it.” And, so speaking,
he crept away.

The barking of the dog guided his footsteps. The animal
was baying, a few hundred yards above the settlement, on the
edge of a boggy thicket. To this old Rhodes made his approaches,
with infinite caution. As he neared the dog, he gave a
slight chirrup, which the animal seemed to recognise, for he ran
to the spot where Rhodes was in cover, rubbed his nose against
him, then darted off and renewed his baying more urgently
than ever. Rhodes crept up, and at length discovered the object
of the dog's clamors. This was a horse, with saddle and
bridle — not fastened, but quietly engaged in browsing about
among the long grasses of the miry slope. It required but a
single glance to satisfy Rhodes that the beast was that of Nelly
Floyd — her favorite pony Aggy.

The first impulse of the outlaw was, to cut the poor beast's

throat. He had nearly done it — the knife actually being made
to flourish in the eyes of the unconscious Aggy. Nothing but
a suggestion of cupidity saved the animal's life.

“It'll sarve a more sensible rider,” quoth Rhodes, “if we kin
only git rid of her.”

Thus coolly did the old scoundrel calculate the profits of
throat-cutting.

“And whar's she? In and about them cabins, I reckon —
poking everywhere — feeling and finding out what she kin.
That dog's been a-barking a good hafe hour. She's been all
the time in our 'campment. It'll worry her, I reckon, to find
out anything; but I'll do what I kin to find her. Only, I must
quiet the dog, or keep him hyar.”

He called the dog to him in low accents, put his cap down
under a bush, pointed the animal to it, and saw with satisfaction
that he laid himself down with nose upon it, understanding
an old lesson readily.

“All right, so fur. And now, Miss Harricane Nelly, we'll
see and settle your accounts by short reckoning, ef the devil
ain't more on your side of the house than on ours.”

And, with this resolve, “fetching a compass,” he proceeded
to scout after the spy. We need not say that, being experienced
at the business, knowing the ground thoroughly, he was
able to do this understandingly, and with the sly, stealthy movement
of a wild-cat on his way to the hen-roost.

Meanwhile, what of our poor captives in their dark and miserable
dungeon, held only by fastenings which a stout trooper
could burst with a single blow of the heel, not more than a mile
or two from a highway, with powerful friends seeking them,
and resolute hearts ready to peril life for their rescue?

“Oh, this is too horrible, mother!” was the moaning exclamation
of Bertha Travis, as they sat together on the bedside in
one corner of their hovel. They knew it was night, for supper
was some time over, but they were allowed no lights. Saving
one another and the servant-girl, they saw nobody but the uncouth
woman who brought them food. Days had passed in this
captivity, and not a ray of hope, not a voice of encouragement,
had entered their cell. The mother tried her best to soothe

and inspirit the daughter. The latter was in despair, and threw
herself down, sobbing, upon the bed.

At that moment, they heard a distinct rapping beneath the
house. They started up and listened.

“Surely that was a rapping, mother.”

“Yes,” said the other in a whisper; “I was listening in expectation
to hear it again.”

It was repeated, slowly, as distinctly as before — three several
raps. Bertha leaped from the bed upon the floor, and,
stooping, spoke in articulate and regular tones, not loud but
clear and sharp:—

“Does some one knock below?”

The quick answer thrilled them with a sudden joy:—

“Yes! Are you women? — are you in trouble?” The voice
was that of a woman.

“Oh, yes!” answered Bertha, “we are women, and we are
kept here in unlawful captivity. Who are you? Can you
help us?”

“I am a woman like yourselves,” was the answer, clearly but
somewhat mournfully expressed, “but I would serve you as far
as a woman can.”

“What can you do toward getting us out of this wretched
place? Oh, we shall thank and bless you for ever!”

“I know not exactly what to do yet, but God will teach me,
and I will think. I have no friends near, your door is fast, and
the place is kept by a small body of people—”

She was about to say outlaws, but she remembered that Mat
Floyd was one of the party.

“What do they keep us for?” demanded Bertha.

“To extort money for your ransom, from your friends. Can
you give me any clues to them, so that I may find them, and
let them know where you are, when, if they have the strength
and courage, they will be able easily to rescue you?”

“Do you know Major Willie Sinclair?” demanded Bertha,
eagerly.

“Or Captain St. Julien, or Captain Travis, of Holly-Dale?”
added the mother, her thoughts misgiving her as she uttered the
name of her husband.

“I have seen Major Sinclair and Captain St. Julien. They

were looking for you, above, some days ago, but then I did not
know that you were here. Now, it is impossible to say where
they are, as the whole American army has moved up the Congaree.
There are none now about but the British and the loyalists.
The people who keep you profess to be loyalists. They
used to belong to the Florida refugees—”

“Oh, mother, those vile outlaws!—”

“As for Captain Travis, there's no telling where he is. His
place at Holly-Dale has been burned down by the tories, and
everything carried off.”

“Ah, mother! Holly-Dale, our dear home, in ashes!”

The voice from below continued.

“Can you mention any other persons who would be likely to
serve you?”

Mrs. Travis was reluctant to refer to British succor. She
remembered, with a tender conscience, the equivocal relations of
her husband with the British, and feared to say or do anything
which might compromise him — feared, especially, to put herself
and daughter into the hands of those, who, at Inglehardt's
instigation, would be very apt to keep them as hostages for the
reappearance of Captain Travis. There was, accordingly, a
pause. A whispered conversation took place between the
mother and daughter.

“Better, my child, that we should remain here, in confinement,
darkness, discomfort, than peril everything in a rash
appeal for help to the British.”

Poor Bertha moaned, but said:—

“You are right, mother. Let us perish rather than put my
father into their ruthless hands. We will wait on providence,
and bear up, as God appoints.”

The mother kissed her child, while the big tears fell upon her
cheek. The daughter resumed the dialogue with the stranger.

“We are at a loss to mention any other persons who would
be likely to help us. Major Sinclair, Captain St. Julien, or any
of the officers of Marion's brigade, if you could meet with them,
would do so; but — can you suggest nothing.”

“I! I am a woman, as I told you, with nothing but the will
to serve you. I have few friends and no money; but I am
young and active, have a horse, know the woods, and have few

fears to trouble me. I will think and pray for you, and work
in your behalf, as God shall teach me to-night. Only be of
good cheer, and do not suppose God forgets you, because he
requires you should wait his time and will.”

“How well that was said, mother,” whispered Bertha. Then
aloud:—

“Oh! we shall thank and bless you for ever, whoever you
are, even though you should fail to succor us. Your words are
full of encouragement, and—”

A scream from below silenced the speaker above. Jeff
Rhodes had grappled with the kneeling girl, and now dragged
her from under the house. He had completely surprised her —
had crawled in behind her where she had been kneeling, for the
house was too low to suffer her to stand, and had grappled and
drawn her backward, drawn her out into the open air, before
she could scream thrice. But scream she did, wildly, fiercely,
and with noble lungs. He sought to stifle her screams with the
skirt of his hunting-shirt; but she struggled vigorously and
had almost broken away from him when he knocked her down
and put his knee upon her. The knife flashed before her and
involuntarily she shut her eyes.

Even in that moment, with a prayer rising in her soul, unuttered
by her lips, she was saved. Rhodes was torn from her
by the vigorous arm of her brother, who now confronted the
ruffian with a weapon like his own.

“You old villain, did you mean to murder Nelly?”

“Murder her! Oh, no! I only meant to give her sich a
skear as would keep her off from spying about our 'campment.”

“It looked mighty like it, Jeff Rhodes.”

“Psho! 'twas make b'lieve, Mat.”

“It was sich make b'lieve that I came pretty nigh giving you
the knife afore I laid hands on you. Nelly, air you hurt?”

“Hurt!” said the girl, who had already risen to her feet.
“No!”

“Well, you'd better stop with us to-night.”

“What! to have another scare!” said the girl scornfully.

“No! he sha'n't skear nor hurt you while Mat Floyd kin
lift a we'pon. But where will you go to-night?”

“Where God and the good angels please; I have many homes.”

“She's in one of her tantrums, when she sees sperrits,” cried
Nat Rhodes, with a laugh. The girl eyed him for a moment,
and said:—

“Ay, and you, too, are among the doomed. Your race will
soon be run, but neither by rope nor bullet.”

“Oh! if you're for a prophesying I'm off,” and the fellow
retreated. The whole party had left the gaming-table a little
before, simply as the money of two of them had given out — a
portion having first found its way into the pocket of old Jeffrey,
while the good fortune of Mat Floyd had enabled him to gather
up the rest. But for this lucky result of the cards, Mat had
never conceived the policy of “Looking after old Jeff,” in order
to resume the contest with the largest banker of the party.
We have seen how opportunely he found him.

Old Rhodes lingered uneasily, while Mat and his sister spoke
together.

“Don't press her to stay, Mat. We ha'n't got any place for
her, and she's no business here at all. Make her promise to say
nothing to nobody of what she knows.”

“I promise nothing,” said the girl. “I owe you no pledges
— no faith. I demand that you give up these unhappy ladies
whom you've got confined. Yield them up to me, or I will
seek for those who will make you do so, even if I have to go
to the British garrison for it.”

“You see, Mat,” said old Rhodes.

“Look you, Nelly,” said the brother, “this won't do. You
mustn't come here to spile your own brother's business.”

“His business is sin, and its wages death! Oh, my brother!
why will you rush thus desperately upon shame and danger?
Why continue with this murderous wretch, who, only a moment
ago, had his knife at my throat?”

“Only to skear you! I swear, Nelly—”

“Oh! hush, man — monster, would you put another perjury
upon your soul. Leave him, Mat. He is conducting you to the
halter.”

“Oh! d—n the halter! No more of that, Nelly — you
kain't skear me, gal. Not when I'm doing a goulden business.
But come to the house. I'll find you a good sleeping-place.”

“Better shut her up with the others,” growled old Rhodes.
At the suggestion, the girl receded a few paces, as if to get out
of reach, in the event of any sudden attempt being made upon
her liberty.

“No!” she exclaimed, “I dare not. The lightnings of heaven
will fall upon the place where that old man harbors. God!
how wonderful is this madness. An old man, near seventy,
with the grave open at his feet — a bloody grave — and he lies
and laughs, and would drink blood if he could.”

“Drink blood! Ha! ha! ha! only think of that, Mat!
Drink blood! Not when whiskey's to be had, or rum, gal. But
she's in her mad fit, Mat — don't mind her — let her go if she
will. I'm for the kairds agin.”

And the old ruffian turned away, but loitered still.

“Hither to me, Mat! Only a moment,” said Nelly; and she
drew the wretched youth some twenty paces apart, and said to
him, in low tones:—

“Give me your knife, Mat.”

“What do you want with it.”

“A weapon of defence. But for you, to-night, that old man
would have butchered me.”

“Oh! never! He only meant to give you a bad skear, and
you know, Nelly, 'twas not the right thing for you to come here,
a-spying out our secrets.”

“Give me the knife, Mat; it may save me when you are not
near to do so. Let him not see you give it. Here, slip it into
my hand.”

He did so, but hesitatingly.

“Now, hear me, Mat. You told Jeff Rhodes of your meeting
with me to-day — he guessed that I would follow your
tracks. He got you drinking at the card-table; he left you
there, and came out alone to murder me.”

“Why, how the diccance, Nelly, does you find out these
things? It makes me afeard of you myself, when I sees what
you kin find out.”

“Hear me further. It is his purpose to get you back to the
gaming-table, to leave you there again, and to take the woods
upon me. I know it. I see it.”

“Ef I thought it.”

“Needn't think it. Know it yourself. Go with him to the
gaming-table — play, if you will — but drink nothing. Let him
uspect nothing. Only watch him. If he leaves you at the
table, you may know what he's after. Follow him. He knows
hat I will have to sleep in the woods. His purpose now is to
find my sleeping-place.”

“But what's the need to sleep in the woods. Hyar—”

“Here I should be murdered. He will make you drunk —
get you off on some pretext, and when you return and ask for
me, you will be told some wretched story of my getting off.
But you will never see me again. Note what I say. Do what
I tell you. Jeff Rhodes will seek to murder me to-night.”

Mat squeezed her hand.

“I'll have an eye on him.”

“Have all your eyes on him; for if you but wink, he will
blind and deceive you. Oh! Mat, go with me now, and leave
this wretched companionship. Go, for your life's sake, for my
sake, for the sake of Heaven, which is now frowning heavily
upon you!”

“Psho! Nelly, 't don't look so. See thar, my gal; pockets
full! Hyar, I gin you a gould piece to-day. Hyar's another.”

“No! you gave me none, Mat, though you held it out and
said you did. You put it back into your purse.”

“Did I? Fact is, Nelly, I was a little overkim with the
Jamaica this morning. But hyar's two gould pieces to make
up.”

“None will I have, Mat. I see the blood on the gold!”

“Blood!” looking at the coin, in the starlight, and muttering.

“No! none will I have, and could I prevail with you, my
brother, you would fling it away into the woods, and go with
me where we should never see the pernicious bait again.”

“That's jest where I don't want to go, Nelly.”

Her entreaties were, of course, fruitless. A temporary run
of luck had made the wretched boy fearless even of the gallows.
She left him reluctantly, repeating her exhortation to keep an
eye on his associates, and soon disappeared in the woods.

“Well,” quoth old Rhodes re-approaching — “is it all over
between you at last? You see for yourself, the gal's mad,
Matty.”

“Yes, she's either mad or mighty sensible, old man. She
does find out things wonderful; and how she talks.”

“Like a hurricane. But, come, we're a-wasting candles.
Let's have another sarment with seven up!”

And they adjourned to the cabin; poor Nelly, meanwhile,
gliding through the woods to her pony, which she mounted
and rode away, without heeding the growls of Rhodes's dog,
keeping watch over that old sinner's cap.

She never checked Aggy, until she had ridden at least three
miles from the “camp” of our outlaws. Then she stopped, in
a thick wood in which she had several times made her own rustic
tent, a few sticks crossed and covered with bushes forming a
sufficient shelter, and one easily made. “The groves were
God's first temples.” Poor Nelly had no knowledge of this
beautiful chant of one of our best native poets; but she felt
with him, and the great natural temple in which she proposed
to trust herself with God, always raised her devotional enthusiasm.
Fervently she prayed, the stars and trees her witnesses,
then laid herself down quietly to sleep, with Aggy browsing all
around her.

But long ere she slept, Jeff Rhodes had, as she predicted,
left the gaming-table, Mat in high play with Nat and the rest,
to all of whom old Rhodes had lent sums sufficient to enable
them to keep employed. The old fellow, by the way, was no
small usurer, though on a small scale. His percentage was
always of Levitical regulation.

But though he left the parties all at play, and stole forth, as
he supposed, unwatched and unsuspected, Mat Floyd remembered
and obeyed his sister's injunctions. He made some excuse
for leaving the table also, and found and followed the
course of Rhodes, with a scent as keen as that of a beagle.
The old man led his horse into the thicket, and had reached the
place where Nelly's pony had been haltered, when Mat put
his hand on his shoulder.

“Harkye, old man, what air you a'ter here?”

“I've come for my cap,” he said promptly, though taken by
surprise, and picking up the cap where it had lain safely, up
to that moment, the dog still keeping watch. “You see I left
it here, Mattie, when the dog started at Nelly's horse.”

“And you only come for the cap?”

“To be sure — only for the cap.”

“And what did you bring your critter for?” pointing to the
horse. Old Rhodes's resources failed him.

“Look you, Jeff Rhodes, that gal kin see into your very
soul. She told me jist what you was a-guine to do — said
you'd git me fast at the kairds, and thin sneak off and put out
a'ter her.”

“But I worn't guine to do no sich a thing.”

“You was, Jeff! Don't lie to me, man! I knows it now.
And now, jist you hear what I say, and remember it. Ef any
harm comes to Nelly Floyd, by your hands, or your contrivings,
I'll dig your heart out of your very buzzom.”

“But, Mattie —”

“Don't talk, Jeff! It's no use. You knows me, and I knows
you, and ef you was to swear till all was blue, I'd not believe
you a bit sooner.”

“Well,” said the other sullenly, “I reckon we'll be the loser
by your sister, of all the profits of this speckilation. She knows
we've got the prisoners, and where we keeps 'em, and all h—l
won't stop her now from bringing down the sodgers upon us.
Red or blue, it knocks us out of our gould guineas jest the
same.”

“Yes, if you're guine to be sulky about it. But what's to
hender us from moving the prisoners to another place? We've
got places enough.”

“That's true.”

“And what's to hender us from making a bargain with the
prisoners themselves? That kind of ladies always keeps their
word, and ef they promises us the guineas, I reckon they'll do
the honest thing.”

“Well, that's true. We'll have a talk with 'em in the morning.”

“You do it. I never yet could talk with them grand folks.”

“Well, I'll put a price on 'em. Ef they says they'll give a
hundred guineas, we'll deliver 'em at the place they says, and
take their paper for it. We've got a smart sum from 'em
a'ready, and I reckon they'll be mighty willing to pay a leetle

more to get out into the open air agin. A'ter all, Matty, the
blue sky is a sweeter sight than pine-rafters in a dark room.”

“Preticklarly to lady folks, I reckon.”

“Well, that's the how. We'll work it to-morrow.”

And so they settled it for the morning.

And Nelly Floyd slept the while, as if the starlight were to
last for ever. Oh! sweet sleep of innocence, that finds the
naked bosom of earth soft to your bosom, and rests an easy
head on a rocky pillow!