University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
OLD TRAILS TO NEW LABYRINTHS.

After twelve hours farther wandering, Ballou got clues at
Herrisperger's to the route taken by Willie Sinclair, and he
came up with the command at night, on the edge of Sadler
swamp. His appearance filled Sinclair with new hope, such
were the acknowledged abilities of the scout. He could hardly
wait to hear out his narrative.

“So, Inglehardt has taken possession of 'Bram's Castle, and
Captain Travis and Henry are there, in his clutches, prisoners,
but safe — unhurt, you say.”

“Yes, but how long they'll stay there is a question. They
didn't seem to have made much provision for keeping the garrison,
and it's hardly reasonable to expect them to keep long in
one of our old harboring places. I tracked and treed 'em
there, but they may have gone off an hour after I left; I've
been looking for you ever since Monday last.”

“That's true — that's the danger. Still, we must strike at
Inglehardt, there, or anywhere. We must try and follow up
his track. But we must first have your judgment, Ballou, in
respect to the disappearance of Mrs. Travis and her daughter.
We must—”

“Disappearance of who, colonel?”

Sinclair told the story.

“In the carriage?”

“Yes; old Cato driving. They had but a servant-girl along
with them; and but for an unlucky rencontre with a squad of
the Florida refugees, which diverted St. Julien from the escort
for several hours, there could have been no difficulty.”

“Fegs! If it should be them, now, that Lord Rawdon rescued?”

Here he repeated the narrative of the adventure, as delivered
to him by Benny Bowlegs.

“It is — it must be they. There can be no other. A girl
wounded, you say?”

“Yes, but not one of the party.”

We must now suppose that Ballou went over all the details
even as they are known to us.

“And Rawdon, with a hundred men, is even now at the
Barony.”

“Was yesterday.”

“Oh! that St. Julien were here. I have but thirty men with
me. I must send to him. If we can strike Inglehardt, rescue
Travis and Henry, then unite with him; and dash down upon
the Barony. But no! no! How divide myself? What is to
be done? If I pursue Bertha and her mother, we lose the
chance at Inglehardt. He may leave the Castle; and if we go
thither we may lose them.”

The subject was one to annoy, with its dilemmas, an older
soldier.

“And where's Captain St. Julien now, colonel?”

“Scouring the neighborhood of Belleville. He went off only
yesterday. We have both been daily on the road, almost night
and day, ever since I left you.”

“All owing to your not taking tracks of the carriage at first.”

“But we did.”

“Well, a carriage is not so easy to hide. You couldn't have
taken the right track or you'd have found it. How was it, and
where, colonel?”

Sinclair described it, the region.

“I know it like my prayers. I can see how 'twas. You
didn't see whether there was any blind trail through the
swamp. The old causeway at the mill's broken up, not passable
for a carriage, and most like there's another through the
swamp, which they could easily cross in this dry season.”

“But we tracked the carriage back into the road.”

“Ah! did you? That's the question, and if you did, how
long did it keep the main track, and did it go up or down?”

“Up! We tracked the wheels obliquely upward into the
road; saw the marks plainly.”

“Yes; but did you see whether the track was of the carriage
going forward or backward?”

“No! we never thought of that.”

“Ah! that was the first thing. It's a very easy trick these
fellows played on you.”

“But how could you have found it out?”

“Easy enough. You follow the track of the wheels going
into the woods. Well, did you follow any circuit, any sweep
wide enough to show the gradual turning of the horses, when
they came out? Did you see that it wa'n't a short turn, so”—
and here he described the sort of figure upon the ground —
“pretty sharp — too sharp for a fair turn of the carriage?
Don't you see that, if you drive a vehicle into this or that wood,
and you want to wheel out, and get back into the road again,
you require space enough for a sweep like this?” Here he
drew another figure. “Now, suppose these fellows wanted to
cheat you into the notion that they were going up the road
when, in fact, they were going down, they had only to back the
carriage into the upward course. To tell if they did this, you
had to see whether a turn was made, how much, and whether it
wasn't, in fact, a pretty sharp angle, so” — here another figure
in the sand — “then you watch the course of the wheels, which,
in backing, will always run crooked, manage as you will, and
scrape against the trees here and there, one side or the other.”

But Ballou's explanations are a few days too late.

“I see it now,” said Sinclair. “Ah! if you had been with us.
But it's not too late. We must push down after them now.”

“But what about the captain and Master Henry?”

“Ah! there's the trouble again. There's but one course. I
will send off to St. Julien at once, and appoint a rendezvous at
Ford's — three miles below the barony. I will warn him of
Rawdon's presence there, and his numbers, though, I fancy, he
will be gone below before we can reach him. It is an even
chance that he falls into Sumter's hands. He is probably pushing
down to see to his posts at Eutaw, Wantoot, Monk's Corner,
and other places, and he looks upon us, as all beyond the
Wateree with Greene. We may catch him. If St. Julien gets

to the rendezvous in season, we may make a glorious dash at
his lordship. We can bring seventy tried troopers, on the best
horses, into the field against his hundred. Now while St. Julien
is pushing down to this rendezvous, I will strike directly across
the country to the Four-Holes, overhaul 'Bram's Castle, and,
whether we find Inglehardt or not, push immediately after to
the rendezvous. This will bring us both upon the track of the
ladies, who are no doubt pushing for Nelson's ferry. If they
have luck, they can get there before we can possibly reach the
rendezvous. If not, we will be at hand to give them any succor
which they may need, and see them safely across the river.”

“That's the plan, major. I see no other way you can fix it.”

The preparations were soon made. The despatch was sent off
to St. Julien, and an hour before day next morning, the troop
of Sinclair was pushing, at a trot, through the woods in the required
direction.

But the first act in the performance was a failure. They
found the nest, but the birds were flown. 'Bram's Castle had
not had a tenant for several days. So far, then, as Captain
Travis and Henry were involved, the scouts were at sea again;
and while Ballou was left to take the tracks of Inglehardt, if he
could find them, Sinclair turned about and pushed for the place
of rendezvous.

What, meanwhile, of Inglehardt and his captives?

The very morning after the night when Ballou took his departure
from 'Bram's Castle, Dick of Tophet departed also. A
long conference with Inglehardt enabled the two to lay their
plans for the future. Dick departed, and was absent the better
part of two days. With the night of the second he returned
bringing with him a new follower — a scoundrel of his own
livery whom he had known before.

“All right — all ready, cappin,” said Dick, “and the sooner
we set out the better. We kin start afore day.”

The two conferred together. And a little after midnight,
Captain Travis was aroused by his captor.

“Get up, Captain Travis,” said Inglehardt, in his sweetest
accents, “I must trouble you to rise. You health suffers from
this confinement. I must give you some exercise and fresh air.”

The manacled man raised himself up in his straw, and said:—

“What would you with me now?”

“I would have you ride a pace with me?”

“Where is my son?”

“He is still in the safe keeping of that excellent person, Joel
Andrews, whom they call Hell-fire Dick.”

“Am I not to see him?”

“You will see him as we ride. I have no reason to suppose
that Andrews will deny you this privilege.”

“Captain Inglehardt, why persevere in this idle mockery?
Why talk to me of this ruffian having rights over my son, or
power against your will, in respect to his keeping? What good
can accrue to you from this cruelty — this most wanton and
profitless cruelty?”

“Nay, Captain Travis, it is evident that you are in no condition
for argument, or you would scarcely fail to see that it is
not profitless. You will grow wiser after awhile, and we will
then confer upon the subject. It lies with you, sir, at any
moment, to release your son from captivity, and obtain your
own release.”

“But by what sacrifice? Never! never!”

“Ah! well! I said you were in no proper condition for argument.
But rise, sir, and let us travel.”

“Suppose I will not.”

“That would be unwise, captain, since it will avail you nothing
— and only compel us to hard usage.”

“Hard usage! Ha! ha! ha! Hitherto, I am to suppose
that your usage has been tender. Why, sir, I am half starved.”

“That, I am sorry to think, is the condition of the army commissaries
themselves everywhere. It is not easy to command
supplies in this quarter, and for this, among other reasons, we
are about to remove.”

“I shall see my son?”

“Yes! yes! you shall see him. He travels with us.”

“My boy, my poor boy!” murmured the father, as he raised
himself up from his straw, and prepared to submit quietly to
the commands of the petty despot.

A torch was held at the door of the hovel, by the new recruit,
whose name was Halliday. The horses had been already saddled
and brought forth. They stood without in waiting. A

pile of lightwood burned brightly on an open place of the hammock.
Captain Travis saw at a little distance, as he came out
of the cabin, a group of three or four persons. From among
these he heard the voice of Henry:—

“Where is my father? You said that I should see him.”

The voice of the boy seemed to the ears of the father at once
hoarse and feeble. They had not been allowed to see each
other since that night when we beheld them separated. The
father, conscious of the treatment he had himself received, trembled
to think of that of his son. He cried out to him, advanced,
and would have hurried to where he stood, but that Inglehardt
interposed.

“Nay, Captain Travis, they will bring the boy to you.”

But Travis did not seem to heed. He went forward and met
the boy approaching. The latter no longer wore his handcuffs,
and he rushed to his father throwing his arms about his neck,
and sobbing. Neither could speak for awhile, but their tears
mingled, and their sobs. Inglehardt looked on with complacency
or indifference, as he beheld their sorrows. They were
not of a sort to touch his cold and selfish nature. In the bright
light of the fire, Travis saw that his son must have suffered like
himself. His eye was spiritless, his limbs appeared feeble, his
cheek was wan. When he spoke, he confirmed all his father's
fears.

“Oh! my father,” he cried, “they have starved me.”

“My boy! my poor boy!” were the sobbing utterances of
the father. “O God!” he cried aloud — “dost thou look
down and suffer this cruelty! Captain Inglehardt have you
anything of a human heart in your bosom?”

“Not much, my dear Travis, not much. What there is of it,
has been closed to all pleading save that of your daughter.”

“And do you hope to please her by subjecting her only brother
to torture?”

“My hope is not to please her at all, my dear captain. You
yourself have taught me to despair of any such hope. My hope
is to persuade her, captain, only to persuade—”

“Compel, you mean.”

“Well, if you prefer the phrase; but dealing with young damsels
of condition, my dear captain, it is one that I dare not use.”

“Oh! would you were less daring in more substantial matters.
Man! man! if you be such, and not a devil, how can
you dare such inhumanity as this! To starve a boy like this.”

“He ain't starved at all,” put in Dick of Tophet — “only on
short 'lowance, that's all. We gives him a good-sized hoecake
a day, and any quantity of water. We don't 'lowance him in
the water.”

“And look here, father, at my wrists,” said the boy, holding
up his hands, and showing the abrasion and sores upon his
wrists, the effect of the handcuffs.

“God of Heaven! Have they tortured you thus, my child?”

“'Tain't no torture,” cried Dick of Tophet; “'tis only that
the handcuffs was a leetle too tight. Ef you had known what
it was to be scorching over lightwood blazes for hafe an hour,
to git yourself out of a hitch, then you might talk of torture.”

“Wretch! you will suffer in hell's blazes for this, you and
your master,” cried Travis.

“Come! come! Don't be impudent, cappin, or it'll be only
the worse for you. But we hain't got time for talking, Cappin
Inglehardt. We're all ready for a mount.”

The boy was put upon a horse; the father was helped upon
another; they had companions each, ready with sword and pistol,
and Inglehardt followed up the procession. In twenty minutes
they had disappeared from 'Bram's Castle, moving across the
country toward that region of interminable swamp and thicket
which lies about the first springs and heads of Cooper river —
near the line which subsequently marked the route of the canal,
by which the waters of the Santee and the Cooper have been
united. This extensive range of flat country is everywhere intersected
by streams and swamps, offering retreats almost inaccessible
in that early day to any footstep save that of the veteran
hunter. The Revolution, with its terrible necessities, soon
taught the value of these retreats to the wandering patriot.
They unluckily yielded a similar security to the marauder and
the outlaw. Families, driven from their ancient homesteads
disappeared wholly from sight in fastnesses of this description,
and found hammocks and little islets, buried in wildernesses of
swamp forest, within a few miles of the very homes which they
had been compelled to fly. They could see, frequently, from

their hiding-places, the smokes of their enemies' fires, rising from
their own patriarchal hearths. Sometimes, a dense swamp
thicket, only a hundred yards wide, separated the fugitives from
a British post, such as Watboo and Wantoot. These places of
refuge were wonderfully secure. Their approaches were so many
webs of Arachne. Their avenues might be likened to those
of the Egyptian or Cretan labyrinths. Dark mystical woods,
deep dismal waters, creek and thicket, fen, bog, quagmire, and
stream, all seemed to blend harmoniously in shutting out humanity
with the sun of heaven and the breezes of the air. The stars
trembled when they looked down into abysses which they
dared not penetrate. The winds flung themselves feebly
against the matted walls of forest. The waters crept sluggishly
and stagnated everywhere. It was a realm that seemed consecrated
to death. Here the owl and bat had their homes; the
serpent and the cayman; the frog and the lizzard. Its terrors,
and glooms, and difficulties, constituted the guaranties of safety,
on which the fugitive, patriot, and outlaw, could most confidently
rely. And in thousands of such regions they reared their rugged
cabins of logs, the crevices filled with clay; fires were made
in clay chimneys, and never a window gave light to the hovel.
For better security, these cabins were made with moveable logs,
and trap doors, leading beneath the house, as described already
in the dens where the Travis's were kept captives. And where
streams were at hand, the traps sometimes opened above a
water-course, and canoes of cypress were kept conveniently below,
for the escape of the fugitive by the creek, when the avenues
above were watched by the enemy.

It was in such a province as this, that Inglehardt found a new
hiding-place for his captives. The place was an old refuge of
Dick of Tophet, and a good deal of art was employed in increasing
its securities. There were several little hammocky ridges
that rose out of the swamp near each other, on each of which
was one or more cabins. There were secret methods for keeping
up the intercourse between them, and the little creeks that
ran between the hammocks was all more or less employed in the
general design which had converted the fastness into a fortress
— at least a labyrinth.

Dick of Tophet knew the region thoroughly. It was his castle.

And here, through his agency, we find several of our old
acquaintances. Here, in one of the cabins, the one nearest the
highland, we discover, as inmate, the venerable Mrs. Blodgit,
an ancient rheumatic and sinner; and her son, Pete Blodgit,
something of a cripple, and something more of a scamp. In another
of the dens we discover two gallows-birds, of the worst
color, one of them rejoicing in the descriptive title of “Skin-the-Sarpent”—
or, for brevity, “The Sarpent”— the other content
with the less ambitious name of Ben Nelson. Each of these
parties was fairly individualized by his vices, which included
as many deadly sins as the church calendars deem fit to describe
in black letter. They were a haggard, wretched, scowling, reckless
set, the whole of them, branded with lust and murder, gaming,
drinking, cheating, lying, without even the rogue's virtue, of
keeping faith with one another! They were all fit followers for
such a wretch as Hell-fire Dick, and for such uses as were needed
to the policy of Richard Inglehardt, captain of loyalists,
&c., in the service of his Britannic majesty.

“He's come!” said Pete Blodgit, that night, as he entered
the cabin of himself and mother.

“Who's come?”

“Why, the new cappin, Inglehardt. He's come.”

“Well, and what's the good of his coming, Pete Blodgit, to
you or to me, so long as you keeps the poor, mean-sperrited
critter and fool that you've always been? That's what I wants
to know! Here's me, a poor old critter, broke down with the
rheumatiz, and hardly able to git in and out of the bed; and
thar's yourself, a cripple, and not able to hold a plough, or do
nothing manful, I may say: and yit, though you sees how we
stands, poor, and lame, and rheumatic, and mean-sperrited, yit
you lets slip every chaince you gits of feathering our nests comfortably
agin old age and bad weather. I feels old age a-beginning
to creep 'pon me, and I reckon it won't be twenty years
before I'm broke down quite, and not fit for nothing!”

The old hag was already nearly seventy, but with a natural
dislike to the idea of age, except as a very remote possibility.

“Now, ef you, Pete, don't change in your ways, and pick up
a leetle more gumption and sperrit, what's the use to us ef there
is a new cappin? Have you seed him? Is he worth picking?

Is thar anything to pick? Is he saft? Will he let you? — for
I reckon you don't want to be told, at this late time in the day,
that the world's given to us poor critters, to make the most we
kin out of it — to pick whar we kin, and strip whar we kin, and
carry off all we kin! Now, is you guine to do any better than
when Major Willie had you — when you let him strip you of
that same hundred goulden guineas — yis, after you had 'em all
fast hid away, as you thought — sich hiding! — strip you to the
skin, when we mout ha' run for it afore he come; or, when he
did come, worked a button-hole in his buzzom with a pistol or
a knife; and you did nothing, but gin up all, like a sheep guine
to the slaughter; so that, when he was driv off, we hadn't but
the clothes on our backs, I may say, and a poor twenty-odd
Spanish dollars — and got nothing for all our hard sarvice with
the Sinclairs, but curses, and starvation, and poor poverty!”

“Oh, psho, mother! we got a living — we got a house over
our heads, and we got a plenty of bread and meat, and as much
clothes as we wanted, and had eggs, and chickens, and pigs;
and brought off the dollars, and a little gould besides, and other
pickings.”

“Oh, you mean-sperrited person! — as ef these things, bread,
and meat, and clothes, was enough to pay us for wearing out to
old age in their sarvice.”

“Psho, mother, you had nothing to do, you know! And you
forgit — you brought off the nigger-gal that Willie Sinclair lent
you.”

“And what's the good of her, I wants to know — a mean,
lazy, sleepy-head, and, I'm jubous, a runaway? I'm sure she
ain't worth the salt to her hom'ny.”

“Well, they'll be after her, I reckon, some of these days.”

“And you don't think I'm guine to give her up, do you?”
almost screamed the old woman. “How kin I do without her,
I wants to know, and I so lame with the rheumatiz I kin do
nothing for myself? Sooner than give her up, I'd dig her heart
out with a knife — I would!”

“Well, I reckon so long as we keeps her out of sight, we
sha'n't lose her. And I don't see what you hev' to growl about
now. We're in the dry; we've got a plenty to eat, and something
to drink, and clothes, and everything we wants.”

“But whar's the money, Pete? We ain't a-gitting that, and,
so long as you're a-sarving that Hell-fire Dick, he'll never let
you hev a chaince at the money. Now, thar was a chaince
with Major Willie.”

“Ay, but we wor'n't content with it. We was wolf-greedy,
mother, and made too much of the chaince. We was for getting
on too faist.”

“Well, will you do any better with the new cappin? Kin
you play him sly, Pete? Is there any pickings, boy, that you
kin get at? — for the food, and house, and clothing, ain't enough
except for to-day. We must put by for to-morrow; and the
gould guineas are the best to keep, and after them the silver
dollars. Now, don't you be a fool, Pete! Hev an eye in your
head, and don't be mealy-mouthed for the axing, and don't be
slow-fingered for the taking, and larn to keep and hide what
you gits, and let me hide it for you. I reckon 'twon't be me
that'll be making a hiding-place of the post in the stable.”

“I wonder how the major ever come to know of that?”

“Ah! you'd been a-poking at it, and a-counting the guineas,
Pete, when somebody's been looking through the chinks. That's
the how.”

“Well, I don't see what's a-coming. Here we is; there's
a house over us, and we've got corn and bacon a plenty, and I
reckon there's some chaince for us, sence Devil Dick says you're
to keep a prisoner, and I'm to be his keeper.”

“Ha! is that it? Well, we'll see, Pete. Ef the cappin —
what do you call him?—”

“Cappin Inglehardt.”

“Ef he's not the thing, why, it's like the prisoner is, may be;
so, either way, Pete, there's pickings to them that ain't too sap-headed
and too slow. Jest you listen to me always, Pete, and
I'll show you how to feather the nest.”

That very night, Henry Travis was quartered upon this amiable
couple, in a close room, ten by twelve, of solid logs, without
a window, and with a door that opened into the room of
Pete Blodgit himself. A third room, at the opposite end of
the house to that occupied by Henry, was the den of the old
woman.

“You're to keep him safe, Pete Blodgit,” said Dick of Tophet.

“That's your business. See to it. Ef he escapes, it's as much
as your neck's worth!”

This was said in the presence of the old woman. She was
on the point of asking, “But what's the pay for the trouble?”
— when a prudential scruple suggested to her that, perhaps, at
the very opening of the business, the question might be premature.
Besides, she had a better faith in the “pickings” than in
any vulgar contract, implying the mere quid pro quo. The boy
was locked in his den, and Devil Dick then drew Pete out, to
communicate to him more privately the instructions which he
wished followed. These were all subsequently retailed to the
amiable, rheumatic mother.

A similar den, on a distinct hammock, some forty yards distant
— a creek running between — received Captain Travis. In
the house with him, though occupying distinct apartments, of
which Travis knew nothing, Inglehardt took up his lodgings —
temporarily, it would seem, for he was off the very next morning,
on his route to Orangeburg. A long conference with Dick
of Tophet adjusted the duties of that notable personage, and
instructed him in respect to the performances which were required
at his hands, during the absence of his superior. These
did not sink the adventurous Dick into a jailer. For this office
there were other parties — “Skin-the-Sarpent,” Ben Nelson,
“The Trailer” Brunson, and Jack Halliday — to say nothing
of the redoubtable Pete Blodgit. These, with the exception
of the last, had a cabin to themselves, on the same hammock
with that of Pete, and Dick of Tophet found his quarters, as
he phrased it himself, “promiscus” with these. Their duties
done for the day, the prisoners all secure, supper got ready, this
interesting group assembled in their quarters, resolved, after the
example of more elegant blackguards, “to make a night of it.”
Cards and drink were both produced, the latter in abundance;
and, as all of them seemed to be in unusual funds, they were all
unusually merry.

And as they played, and lost or won, and drank, they conversed
about their past adventures.

“You couldn't git a chaince at the barony of old Sinclair,
'Sarpent,” said Dick, “though I left you in a fair way for it.

I thought you'd ha' gutted it. There's fine pickin's there,
Sarpent.”

“Yes; but you know'd pretty well, Dick, that the chaince
was gone a'ter St. Julien and his troopers come upon the ground.
Why, they scattered themselves everywhar, and we could hardly
stir without showing a limb to a pistol-shot. We did snake up
to the grounds at last, but even the niggers had we'pons, and
war' on the lookout at every fence-corner.”

“Psho! you was skeary, that's all. You had such a fright
in that one skrimmage with Sinclair, that it sweated all the
sperrit out of you.”

“Well, I reckon that did hev something to do with it.”

“Them niggers that you thought was on the watch, with
we'pons, they war'n't nothing but old black field-stumps.”

“Stumps! I had one of 'em to crack at me at forty yards,
and felt the shot whistle by my ears mighty close. It was time
to be off when the very old stumps was able to draw so close a
bead upon my whiskers.”

“Well, I don't believe much in niggers' shooting. But ef
they was so keen on the watch as that, I reckon the chaince
was gone. But ef there was no sodgers about — none of them
slashing dragoons of St. Julien — I reckon the niggers might
ha' been bottled up to keep or laid out to dry. I'd ha' tried it,
by the hokies.”

“But there was dragoons about, though we didn't know it at
the time.”

“Oh! you was skear'd. — There's an ace, Ben. Give us
that Jack.”

“Skear'd! Well, it's you that says it. But, what better
did you do? You went a'ter Sinclair's hundred guineas—”

“And his heart's blood too, blast him!”

“Did you git the blood? — did you git the guineas? Ef you
did, fork up our havings, old Satan, for we goes shares in the
pickings.”

Ah! you hev me thar! Nather blood nor guineas, and I
come pretty nigh to losing my own skelp on the journey. It
turned out a lean cow. Couldn't git a steak off her ribs.”

“Thar it is! So don't talk about our skear. Think of your
own.”

“I had no skear. And ef Cappin Inglehardt had a-left the
business to me, we might ha' rolled up Sinclair, and had the
pickin's of as rich a place as the barony, I reckon. But he had
his own sarcumventions, and that spiled the chainces. I had
hard work, Sarpent, to heel it in that skrimmage.”

“Thunder! it's hard work everyhow, and hafe the time not
even feeding. I've been pretty nigh to starvation more than
once sence you left us. We three hadn't for the whole of us
more than enough grub for a single man, and that for a whole
week, besides having to run, and skulk, and burrow, for dear
life, a matter of a dozen times. It's hard work this gitting an
honest living.”

“Or a living anyhow!” quoth the Trailer.

“Yes!” putting in Dick, quite solemnly — “it's worried me
to think how it is, that working, and riding, and fighting as we
does, thyar's no gitting on — no putting up — no comforting
sitivations, where a man could lie down and be sure of good
quarters, and enough to eat for a week ahead. What's it owing
to? Here, we had the fairest chaince at Willie Sinclair with
them guineas, and we lost 'em; and that lame chicken, Pete
Blodgit, had them guineas in his own hands, and we had him
in our hands, and we lost 'em; — and thar I had old Sinclair in
a fix, safe as pitch, and I lost him, and had to scorch myself
over the fire to git away from my own hitch. And old Sinclair's
rich as a Jew — as twenty Jews — and his son's rich; and this
Cappin Travis here is rich; and I reckon Cappin Inglehardt's
rich. Ef he ain't, he lives jest the same. Now, what makes
the difference twixt us and all these rich people. How's it,
that whatever we does turns out nothing, and they seem to git
at every turning in the road. We works more than they, and
we has all the resks, and trouble, and danger; yet nothing
comes from it, and by blazes, I'm jest as poor a critter this day,
as the day I begun, and something poorer; and I'm now past
forty. And it's so, jest with all of you fellows. Now, what's it
owing to, all this difference? 'Tain't bekaise we're bad, and
they good; for this Cappin Travis is a rogue, I know; and our
Cappin Inglehardt — ef he ain't akin to the old black devil himself,
then the old black devil ain't got no family at all, and no
connections.”

The problem was one to weary wiser heads than Hell-fire
Dick's.

“I'll tell you,” said the Sarpent. “It's all owing to the
books. It's the edication, Dick.”

“Books,” said Dick of Tophet, musing. “May be so.
When we consider, boys, that books hev in 'em all the thinking
and writing of the wise people that hev lived ever sence the
world begun, it stands to reason that them that kin read has a
chaince over anything we kin ever hev. I never thought of
that. And then you see how many thousand things these books
tell about, that we never hear people talk about. For, look you,
Sarpent, and you, Trailer, when we meets and talks, what's
it? Only jest them things that consarn the business that we're
upon. Now, that business we know by heart. You kain't teach
me how to gut a house, or cut a throat, or drill a squad, and
whoop, and shoot, and strike, and stick, when there's a fight
guine on. And I kain't teach you how to take a trail, or make
a sarcumvention in the woods. And we all knows seven up by
heart; and we knows how to swallow Jimmaker without winking,
one man no more skilful at it than another; and that's
pretty much all we does know. But them books knows everything
— all about the airth, and the seas, and the winds; all
about the stars and the sun; all about physicking and lawing;
all about — all about everything in nater! Yes, it's the book-larning
— the book-larning! It comes to me like a flash. And
now I tell you, fellows, that I'd jest freely give a leg or an
airm, ef I could only jest spell out the letters, to onderstand
'em, in the meanest leetle book that ever was put in print.”

Certainly, this was a strange, an entirely new subject for our
rogues to talk about; yet it furnished the fruitful text for their
own rough commentaries through half the night. “Book-learning”
suddenly rose into importance in the estimation of the
scamps and savages — the seed of a new idea in the vulgar
mind, which may possibly have fruit. But, though they brooded
thoughtfully over this theme, it did not arrest their play, nor
can we report that it lessened their potations a single stoup.
Let us leave them to their cogitations for a season.