University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW THE SOLDIERS WENT ONE WAY, AND THE LADIES ANOTHER
— HOW HELL-FIRE DICK TAKES TO LITERATURE.

For full half an hour, the alarm continued. Shots and shouts,
and screams, and blasts of the trumpet, now approaching, now
receding, indicated a sharp passage at arms between the parties.
In all this time, great was the alarm and excitement in the
household. War was already brought to the doors of the barony.
Old Sinclair, hardly able to lift a leg, was furious at his
own imbecility.

“Oh!” he cried, “what a cursed fate is this. That I, a military
man and no rebel, should be compelled to cling to my
cushions, when rebellion is shouting about my house. It is time
to be gone. It is time to die, when we can no longer make use
of life. Ha! those shots are sharp! To think that Lord Rawdon,
general of the British army should be beleaguered in my
own house, and I able to do nothing — to strike no blow — to
prove my loyalty in nothing but empty words, vaporing and
worthless!”

“You have done your duty already, my dear father. You
have proved your loyalty by long and faithful services. In
the Cherokee war—”

“D—n the Cherokee war! What was that to this, in which
I am able to do nothing. Hark! the sounds die away. No!
they are approaching. What if my Lord Rawdon is beaten.
If they bring overwhelming numbers upon him. If he is slain
and taken captive. Get me my sword, Carrie — my pistols. I
can do nothing with the sword! Ah!” as a sharp twinge took

him by the foot and wrung it as in a vice — “Ah! I can do
nothing with anything.”

And he sank back in his chair, pallid and exhausted.

The skirmish continued. The veteran roared aloud:—

“And where is that bowlegged rascal, Benny? He should
be here at this time to defend the citadel. He has no gout.
He is an old soldier. Why is he not here? And Little Peter —
the overgrown giant — what is he good for that he is not here?
With a dozen of these rascals, I could keep the house against a
squadron. And who knows but that we shall be compelled to
stand a siege. The black rascals to desert me at this moment.
Where can they be.”

Carrie suggested that Benny Bowlegs was probably at his
own house, as the hour was late — that the affair was a surprise
— that, in all probability, neither he, nor Peter, nor any of the
hands, could get to the house, with a host of foes skirmishing between.
It was only prudence with them to lie close, and keep
in the shelter of their cabins.

“Prudence! while you are about to be massacred! The cowardly
rascals. And don't tell me of a surprise. The troops of
his majesty are never surprised. To be surprised, Carrie Sinclair,
is to be disgraced. It is next, in shame, to cowardice.
Tell me not of any surprises. Lord Rawdon is too good a soldier
for that. The enemy was simply beating up his quarters;
that's all; but will find him prepared. He will go off, if he
gets off at all, on a lame leg. Lord Rawdon, Miss Sinclair, is
a soldier. Lord Edward Fitzgerald is a soldier. There is nothing
to fear, I tell you. We are as safe here, as if within the
walls of Charleston. Don't I know that; but the curse is that
I can do nothing. I am a poor, old, worthless, miserable, invalided
cripple, and feeling as I do, I begin to doubt if I were
ever in the Cherokee war at all — if I ever crossed the mountains
with Grant and Middleton — d—n Middleton — he too is
a rebel — all the Middletons are rebels — and more shame to
them, too, when they could send into the field, a fellow, with
the ability to lead a regiment in the Cherokee war. Hark, my
child, do you hear anything?”

“The sounds seem to have died away, my dear father.”

“To be sure. I knew they would. The rebels are dispersed.

What nonsense was it that entered your head? Did
you suppose that British regulars could be defeated by these
skirmishing rapscallions? Taken by surprise, marry! and by
these renegades. British soldiers taken by surprise! A soldier
like my Lord Rawdon caught napping! No, Carrie, my dear,
you are too ignorant of war, to understand that war is a peculiarly
British science; Britons are born to it — born to it, and
the bayonet is their natural weapon.”

And the veteran began to sing even as he writhed — “Britons,
strike Home!”

Carrie, sotto voce, murmured — “I'd much rather, they should
go home,” but she took care to let no senses but her own, catch
the accents of so impudent a speech.

“Go to bed, my child — you and your young friend. I could
have told you that there was no occasion for alarm — that, as
to surprising a British force, under Lord Rawdon — under any
British officer — the thing is impossible. Go to bed, go to bed
— but see that the liquors are put forth. In abundance do you
hear? Let Polly bring out a demijohn of the Jamaica. These
brave fellows will need refreshment, and every man who wears
an epaulet shall drink when he returns.”

He was obeyed. Edisto Polly was put in immediate requisition,
and the liquors were provided in readiness, any quantity,
for the refreshment of the British officers. Meanwhile,
Carrie Sinclair and Nelly Floyd retired to the upper chambers,
and for awhile, our baron sat in solitary state, waiting anxiously
for his returning guests.

They came at last, Rawdon and Fitzgerald, looking very
much tired and somewhat angry. It is a very unpleasant thing
to be disturbed so suddenly in the midst of pleasant avocations.
To be called upon abruptly, by trumpet, to harness for battle
with rough customers, when one is swallowing his tokay with
a friend, or just on the eve of whispering dulcet suggestions to
his sweetheart, will ruffle the best temper in the world. Fitzgerald,
in particular, felt how great were his grievances when
he looked round, and saw no female sign in the ascendant, and
felt, from the lateness of the hour, that the curtains of the night
were drawn between himself and the maid whom he was about
to woo so earnestly.

He, following Rawdon, was followed in turn by Major Jekyll,
of the British army, who was instantly introduced to Colonel
Sinclair. The old gentleman took the opportunity, immediately
after, to introduce the Madeira.

“You have had some warm work of it, my lord; will you be
pleased to take a glass of Madeira. Gentlemen, will you be
so good as to grace us in a little Madeira.

His lordship filled, and the other gentlemen followed. Rawdon
bowed to the colonel and said:—

“We owe this brush to your son, colonel. It is he who has
been beating up our quarters!”

“My son! ah! my lord, spare me. This is a great humiliation
to a father.”

“Never a bit, colonel; however much it is to be regretted
that the boy is on the wrong side; it is quite creditable to him
that he can do honor to it. A brave, high-spirited, enterprising
fellow. I can only repeat, that the same shows of talent and
spirit under the banner of his king, would have secured him
much more elevated distinctions. But, with your permission, I
will hear the report of Major Jekyll.”

“Perhaps, I had better retire, my lord,” said Colonel Sinclair,
twisting uneasily on his cushions.

“No, sir; not unless you please, and prefer to do so. There
is nothing, I fancy, which may not be delivered in the hearing
of so good a loyalist as yourself. Now, Major Jekyll.”

“You remember, my lord, that Captain Inglehardt, of the loyalist
mounted men, was despatched with his command, on a foraying
expedition. He took with him three wagons; and in an
encounter with Captain St. Julien, he found himself compelled
to abandon his wagons, after a smart skirmish, in which he lost
four men. He succeeded, however, in reaching camp in safety,
and brought in with him a countryman from the Congaree, who
reported the whole of the American army to be in motion, about
to move below, and on both sides of the river. This rendered
Colonel Stewart uneasy for the safety of your escort, knowing
it to be small, and he immediately ordered out a detachment —
three companies of light infantry; in all a hundred men, and
the mounted men of Captain Inglehardt — all of which he confided
to my command. Five miles above, a demonstration was

made upon us by Captain St. Julien, whom we succeeded in
beating off; but, scarcely had his troopers found cover in the
woods, when we were again assailed by another body of mounted
rifles, and cavalry, under the lead of Major Sinclair. In both
commands, there may have been a hundred, or a hundred and
twenty men. They united, in a renewal of the action, and,
plying the attack on front and rear, avoiding close action —
recoiling at our advance, and resuming the assault, whenever
we resumed the march — the fight has been continued during
the progress of the last four miles. I did not venture to turn
about and pursue, since I knew not what ambush might be encountered
in the woods. My force was too small to suffer me
to be venturous, and I contented myself with just the degree of
effort which was necessary to keeping them at bay, bringing
them down to where I knew, reinforced by your escort of
cavalry, we could turn upon them with safety. They made a
rush upon us, as we entered your camp, some score or two actually
pressing in with us. The rest you know, my lord. Your
people were upon the alert, and the enemy reaped nothing from
the rashness of their last charge.”

“What casualties?” demanded Rawdon.

“I fear, my lord, that they are greater than we know. We
lost nine men, slain outright, on the march; there are some
fourteen wounded, and, thus far, we have a report of eleven
missing. The enemy's loss, I feel sure, must be much greater.
We saw several drop under our fire, but they carried off their
slain and wounded into the woods as fast as they fell. I should
estimate their loss at fifty, at least, in the course of the two encounters,
first with St. Julien, and afterward with himself and
Major Sinclair.”

Sinclair would have called Jekyll's estimate of his loss an
amusingly and amazingly extravagant one; but British estimates
of an enemy's casualties, are usually of this magnificent
description.

“I see nothing to reprove in your conduct, Major Jekyll;
you seem to have behaved with proper conduct, valor, and prudence.
But of this we shall speak hereafter, and when we
have had leisure for a full survey of the field. I will thank
you to see that your posts for the night are taken carefully — in

positions which allow of no cover for the approaches of an
enemy. In an hour, I will myself make a tour of inspection.
Your men will sleep on their arms. We shall march an hour
before day.”

As Jekyll was about to retire, Colonel Sinclair arrested him.

“One moment, Major Jekyll; one moment. My lord, I have
had a demijohn of rum put in readiness, thinking you might
desire to serve out a ration of it to the brave fellows in your
escort.”

“Thank you, my dear colonel; it will prove grateful enough,
I warrant.”

“And, if you will permit me, my lord, I should like to join
yourself, my Lord Edward, and Major Jekyll, in a much better
liquor.”

“I can answer for it, colonel, that my two friends will be as
well pleased as myself to do justice to your Madeira.”

They drank, and Jekyll at once retired. The Lords Rawdon
and Fitzgerald lingered an hour later, and the bottle was
emptied; unobservedly, by all parties, as a very interesting
conversation ensued, upon the affairs of the war.

But this dialogue we need not report. At the close of it,
Rawdon said:—

“To return to a subject, my dear colonel, which we had under
discussion before this alarm. You perhaps see with me, in the
occurrence of to-night, and in the report brought by Major
Jekyll, additional reasons in support of the propriety of your
leaving the barony for a season. Go to the city by all means.
You will find no security here, for some time to come. The
city will laugh a siege to scorn, by any force that the Americans
can bring against us; and, whether we finally triumph, or abandon
the contest, it can not in any way affect the results to you.
My advice is to proceed to the city as soon as possible. It is
my purpose to go thither, as soon as I have made all proper
arrangements at Orangeburg.”

The colonel groaned at the idea of a fatiguing journey in the
slow and heavy coaches of that day, cabined, cribbed, confined,
without proper resting-room and place for his game leg. But
he felt the force of the advice from the lips of Rawdon.

“I will make my preparations to-morrow. I hope, my lord,

that we shall have pleasanter themes for contemplation when
we meet in Charleston.”

The conversation was protracted a little longer. At length,
Rawdon, who had vainly urged the old man to retire — alleging
the necessity for his remaining up some time himself, in order
to take the camp rounds — gave the signal to his aid, and the
two rose, and went forth in the execution of their duties.

Scarcely had they gone, when Benny Bowlegs, and Little
Peter, showed themselves at the entrance, prepared to wheel
or lift the baron to his chamber. The look of Benny was exulting
— his whole air was singularly lifted and self-satisfied.
That of Little Peter strove in admiring emulation of his superior.

“And where the d—l were you, Benny, all the time this
skirmish was going on? How was it, sirrah, that I had to
scream for you in vain? We might have been all murdered
by these rascally rebels, for any aid you could have given us.”

“Oh, psho, maussa, I bin know all de time, dere was no sawt
of danger for you, and Miss Carrie. 'Twa'n't no rascally rebel,
'tall, maussa: 'twas Mass Willie hese'f, Kunnel—Major Willie
Sinclair — dat was making de scatteration 'mong de red-coats.”

“What, rascal! have you turned rebel too?”

“Me! me, rebel? No, sah! I goes wid Mass Willie, sah!
— da's all! Lawd! maussa, ef you'd ha' seen how he mek de
fedders fly, in dat las' charge he mek up by de ole field?”

“Ha! he fought well, did he?”

“Put me in mine ob ole times, maussa, when you dash in
'mong dem red-skins, up by Etchoe. Lawd, maussa, it fair did
my ole heart good, for see Mass Willie splurging 'mong dem
red-coats. I shum [see 'em] cut down two ob dem dragoons
wid my own eye. I tink, maussa, so help me God! he bin cut
one fellow fair in two! Oh, he's a slasher wid dat broad-swode!
You nebber bin do better, maussa, youse'f, in you best
days. He's a chip o' de old block.”

“Ha! and he slashed away, did he?”

“Right and leff, maussa — up and down — out and in — he
mek a clear track ebbry side wid he broad swode.”

“Ha! ha! you saw it? He is a powerful fellow, Benny —
monstrous powerful — just what I was in my young days — at
his time of life! I'd give fifty guineas, by the Lord Harry!

to see Willie Sinclair on a charge! What do you grin at, you
rascal? You are abetting this rebel son of mine! Do you
suppose, you rascal, because I am glad to know that my son is
a brave and powerful fellow, that I approve of his conduct? —
that I justify him in this unnatural warfare against his natural
sovereign? Heh, rascal!”

“Don't ax wedder you 'proves or not, maussa; all I got for
say, is dat Willie Sinclair is all h—l wid de broad-swode.”

“Ha! ha! ha! all h—l with the broad-sword! Benny Bowlegs
this is not the sort of language you should use in my hearing.
But — Benny, help yourself and little Peter to some of that
rum — there, in the big decanter! Help yourselves freely, rascals;
you need something to quiet your d—d stupid excitement!”

This duty done, the two helped the veteran to his chamber, in
the recesses of which, little Peter having been dismissed, the
colonel contrived to get from Benny a more copious narrative.
At the close of it, he said:—

“Benny, boy, I'm afraid you've had a hand in this business!
Rascal! you smell of gunpowder! Have you been shooting
down any of his majesty's subjects?”

“Ki, maussa! wha' for you ax 'bout tings dere's no needcessity
yer for know? Benny fight for old maussa, enty?—”

“Yes, Benny, you did, faithfully!”

“Maussa, dis Willie Sinclair is jest as much like he fadder,
when dere's fighting guine on, as ef you bin spit 'em out o' your
own mout'. He's h—l for a charge!”

“Begone, you rebel rascal, and see that the house isn't robbed
to-night by some of your rascally dragoons!”

“I guine watch, maussa. Go to bed, and be comfortable, ef
you kin. All safe wid Benny.”

“And see that the stables are watched, and that none of my
horses are stolen. We shall want them all pretty soon.”

“Ha! see dat de rebbels t'ief not'ing, enty?”

“See that nobody steals, rascal! Do you suppose that a rascally
dragoon, in a red coat, is any more honest than in a blue?
See to it; and on the first sign of trouble, go to Lord Rawdon
— with my respects, you hear!”

“I yeddy, maussa! God bress you, maussa, an' de bes' ob
sleeps!”

We need scarcely report that the long interval, in which the
father was kept waiting for the attendance of the faithful Benny
and Little Peter, was consumed by these two favorite sons of
Ethiop, on the edge of the thicket, in a close conference with
their master's son. Touching their share in the skirmish, we
shall be as chary of our revelations as Benny himself. We
half suspect, however, that the ancient hound was simply a
looker-on. It is quite evident, nevertheless, that he was not
unwilling that his old master should suspect him of a more active
participation in the game. Benny Bowlegs had his vanity
as well as his master.

There was no further alarm that night; though, from the enterprising
character of Willie Sinclair, Rawdon had his apprehensions.
He prepared for an attempt at beating up his quarters.
But Sinclair's policy was more profound. He calculated
upon the preparations of the British, and felt that he could gain
nothing by an assault upon a superior force, under a veteran
general, who counted on his attempt. By withdrawing from
the scene, and suffering the enemy to march without molestation
for five miles the next day, he succeeded in effecting something
like a surprise when he dashed at their rear, which he
did at that distance from the barony. And, bold and confident
in the superiority of his cavalry, he continued to harass the enemy
until they were in sight of Orangeburg, when he drew off
his squadron coolly, and retired into the thickets at a trot.

He had done a handsome thing in these passages-at-arms, and
had really lost few men, not more than half-a-dozen in all, and
as many wounded. Jekyll had reported wishes rather than
facts in this matter. But the affair had cost Sinclair much time,
which was precious to him in the chase after Bertha Travis and
her mother. Still, the event was not to be avoided. Opportunity
came in his way, and, as a soldier, he was bound to seize
it. Inglehardt had crossed the path of St. Julien, and, in worsting
and pursuing him, the latter had failed at the rendezvous.
Sinclair had become anxious on account of his lieutenant, and
had ridden up, to find him engaged in the work of harassing
the far superior force, including that of Inglehardt, which was

led by Jekyll. It was not in the nature of a bold dragoon to
forbear “a hack” at Rawdon's escort, particularly with the prospect
of killing or capturing that nobleman himself. Some mischief
was done to the enemy — a few more victims gleaned from
the saddles of Inglehardt and the infantry of Jekyll — but the
march of his lordship was too compact, his flanks too well guarded,
and all too vigilant under his fine military eye, to suffer our
partisans to make any decided impression. They were sufficiently
well satisfied with what they had done, and only withdrew
from the pursuit when a reinforcement from Stewart was to
be seen marching out from Orangeburg to the succor of the wearied
and vexed escort of Rawdon.

And now to seek and recover the Travis's — husband and
wife, son and daughter. But how — and where? Had the
ladies reached Nelson's ferry in safety, or were they wandering
still — in what direction — how baffled — surrounded by what
dangers? A breathing-spell from the actual pressure of conflict
brought all these queries painfully to the mind of Willie Sinclair.
He had no doubt that the two ladies, of whom he had
heard, as rescued by Rawdon from the Florida refugees, were
Bertha and her mother; but three days had elapsed, and where
were they now? What, too, of Captain Travis and Henry?
Where were they? Inglehardt, he now knew, was with Rawdon.
He had tried very earnestly to make a swoop especially
at him, but the cautious policy of Inglehardt himself, and the
strength of the British infantry, had defeated all his well-meant
endeavors.

Hardly knowing where to turn, it was still necessary that
Willie Sinclair should keep in motion, if only to quiet or stay
the annoyance of his obtrusive doubts and fears. He posted
once more down the road for Nelson's ferry, thinking it possible
that he might hear of the safety, at least, of the ladies he pursued.

It is time that we, too, should look after them. We have
seen them refusing to accept the hospitalities of Sinclair barony,
and continuing their progress without any present prospect
of interruption. But the ocean was not quite smooth yet, though
the storm, for the time, was over; and our fair travellers were
destined to a protracted denial of their objects. They had

probably left the barony some two hours, and were beginning
to meditate the question of their sleeping-place at night, when
they suddenly encountered a horseman at full gallop, bearing
toward them. As he drew nigh, it was seen that he was a negro.
A nearer approach made Cato the driver uneasy with a
sentiment of delight.

“Ha! I know dat pusson! He is! I know 'em” — he muttered;
then loudly — “I does know 'em for true.”

“Who is it, Cato?” The ladies began to grow uneasy also.
The fellow answered his own thought rather than the query of
his mistress.

“Yes! da him for true. Da 'Bram, Mass Major Sinclar's
sarbant.”

“'Bram!” exclaimed the ladies with one breath. They were
as much delighted as they would have been at the meeting with
a friendly regiment. It was with equal joy that 'Bram recognised
the party.

“Wha'! da you, Missis Trabis? da you, Miss Bert'a? I so
glad! But whay you bin? whay you guine?”

“To Nelson's ferry, 'Bram.”

“Oh, I so grad I meet you, jest de right time! Tu'n back;
tu'n into de woods — any whay. De inimy is in de pat'! Dat
etarnal varmint, Hell-fire Dick, 'pon de road below. I dodge
'em, t'ree mile back, by short cut t'rough de woods. I lucky
for see 'em pass, 'fore he kin see me. He's down at leetle ole
tabern day 'pon de road — him and tree, fibe more black, infarnal
varmint like hese'f. He da drink whiskey — all ob 'em
drink — and dey jes' been a-gitting ready for mount de hoss —
only dey stop for talk and 'noder drink. Dey was coming up.
Das wha' mek me, soon as I kin git t'rough de woods and head
ob dem — das wha' mek me heel it at fast gallop. Tu'n out
yer in de woods. Yer! I know de way. Der's de fiel' yer.
We guine t'rough dat. Dat'll carry we to de ole neighborhood
road yer, down t'ree mile off to de old widow Abinger. He
bery good woman dat — frien' to we party. I know all 'bout
dis country. Why, jes' a mile or two back is de place of my
young missis, Carrie Sinclar; but he all bu'n down, 'cept ole
house we bin let Pete Blodgit lib in. Tu'n 'bout, Cato — you hab
no time for loss. Hell-fire Dick ride like mad when he drunk.”

“Oh, yes, Cato! follow 'Bram's directions. Do not suffer
that monster to see us, or suspect our neighborhood.”

Cato did not like to be tossed about under other guidance
than his own, and he would have paused for other and fuller
explanations, but 'Bram cut him short.

“Oh, tu'n in, nigger, and no more talk! 'Tain't no time,
jest now, to hab de eel skin. Take de trute wid de skin on,
jest as I tells you. Tu'n about, jest t'rough dat crack in de
woods. I show you de way.”

And the fellow went ahead. Cato growled, but followed;
and, as soon as they had turned out of the sandy road and into
the thicket, 'Bram jumped from his horse, ran back to the road,
and rolled over repeatedly where the carriage-tracks had been
made. You would have supposed the impressions to be those
of a dozen well-fed hogs. But the wheel-tracks were obliterated.
The performance consumed only a few minutes, when
he rejoined the carriage; and, after crossing an old indigo-field,
they found themselves in a road which was seldom travelled,
and was now overgrown with oaken bushes. This they pursued
for two miles, when they came into a clearing, evidently
that of an old place. The fences were in decay, the fields had
been abandoned, and were grown up in weeds. No sound of
lowing steer, or bleating calf, or crowing cock, indicated life.
The region appeared a dreary solitude. But, at the opposite or
lower end of the clearing, our travellers discovered a dwelling
emerging from among a dense clump of oaks and cedars.

Thither they drove, keeping along the edge of the wood, under
'Bram's guidance. He, meanwhile, described the widow
who inhabited the place, Mrs. Avinger, as a person highly respected,
a devout Christian, a sad, broken-hearted woman, but
strong, calm, stern — one whose age, peculiar character, and
sorrows, had saved her somewhat from the brutal usages of such
a war as the country had witnessed. 'Bram described her also
as a true patriot, upon whose faith and friendly offices they
could confidently rely.

“You guine stay here, Missis Trabis — you and Miss Bert'a,
till I kin scout about, and see ef de pat' is clair. But 'twon't
do for you to risk anyt'ing so long as dat bloody varmint is
about.”

They reached the house, and found the matron at the door, a
stately gray-headed old woman, in a mob-cap, in the plainest
blue homespun, wearing a face of the most remarkable gravity
— serene and grave — very sad withal — but with something so
sweet in her voice, and so winning as well as commanding in
her eye, that our two ladies were sensibly influenced in her
favor in the moment when they saw her. They craved only
present shelter, reserving their explanations for another moment.
They were welcomed, and, when they had alighted, entered the
house, and taken in their luggage, which was necessarily in as
small a compass as possible, 'Bram said to Cato:—

“Now, Cato, my boy, fuss t'ing, we must hide away de carriage
and hoss in some good tick [thick, or thicket], for we
doesn't know, any minute, who's aguine to come 'pon we.”

'Bram was too good a scout, not to suggest a like warning to
the two ladies.

“You see, Mrs. Trabis, de house hab two 'tories; bes' you
and Miss Bert'a keep up 'tars, so long as you guine 'tay yer.
Dar's no knowing wha' we hab for 'speck [expect] sence dese
varmints is about; and then dar's some red-coats 'long de road
besides. I bin pass 'em dis morning.”

This was said in the presence of the widow Avinger, who
added: “The advice is good, ladies; I sometimes have very
wild visiters. They do not trouble me, since I have nothing
much to plunder; and they know me — my age protects me.”

And she might have added, “her known virtues,” for she was
the good Samaritan of the precinct who poured balsam equally
into the wounds of friends and foes — who ever needed. Our
lady-travellers soon understood her character. Her natural
dignity of bearing, free from pride or insolence, compelled
respect; her mild regard, manner, and language, won it; her
tones of voice secured it; and, altogether, the strangers felt
themselves quite as much at home with her in twenty minutes,
as if they had known her for twenty years. Her house was
kept in excellent order. The hall was whitely sanded: a little
book-case of pine, without doors, stood upon a shelf, and held
a dozen volumes, but of what sort Bertha could not say, though
she noted them at a distance, as she felt, at that moment, no
curiosity to look into books. And when they went to their

chamber, which they soon did, in compliance with the suggestion
of the widow herself, they found everything clean and
tolerably comfortable. But the same prudent caution which
prompted them to retire early, and keep up-stairs, denied them
any light. The widow herself brought up supper, which they
partook together in the twilight; and thus they sat conversing
in the growing darkness, while a bright fire was blazing in
the chimney below.

An hour had not passed before they had proof of the wisdom
of all these precautions. They heard the gallop of a horse
approaching the house. The widow hurried down stairs, and
took her knitting in her lap by the firelight. Her eyes were
good. In these days spectacles were scarcely known in
America, except among speculative philosophers. They had
not grown into a luxury and ornament at least. Thus quietly
busied, the widow was prepared for the unknown visiter, while
the ladies kept mute as mice up-stairs.

The door was thrown open, and who should appear upon the
threshold, but the very person who was so much dreaded —
Hell-fire Dick himself.

It would be idle to say that the widow was not terrified. She
could not but regard such a visit as coincident with that of the
two ladies whom she had in her house, and who had expressed
such apprehensions of him. He must have found and followed
their tracks in spite of 'Bram's precautions. But, concealing
her real alarm — though it sounded the drum of terror in her
heart, whose beatings she felt and fancied that she heard, she
received the unwelcome visiter with a grave and serene aspect.
She was not surprised to see him doff his cap as he entered.
He had always shown a greater degree of reverence for her
than for anybody else. There was a reason for this of which
we shall hear presently. She spoke to him civilly, and he
walked in and seated himself by the fireside; and he did this
as courteously as it was possible to such an untutored monster.
It was not in his power to subdue utterly his rough tones, his
harsh and unseemly utterances, and his rude and vulgar bearing.
Besides, he was drunk. That the widow perceived in his rolling
eye, and the thickness of his voice, yet he managed to walk
steadily.

“Well, Mrs. Avinger, you're well, I see; and I'm glad to see
it. Here: I've brought you a little sack of salt — I thought
you'd like it. It's a mighty scarce article.”

“I thank you very much, Mr. Andrews. It is a very scarce
article. I have tasted none for months.”

“You'll like this the better then.”

There was an effort at civility and decency in the fellow's
voice and manner, which, though it only served to distinguish
his roughness, was a surprise to the widow, no less than his
presence. The whole affair was a surprise.

“But,” said he, “I ain't come for a long visit, and I s'pose
you don't much care to see much of me. I reckon not.”

The widow could not gainsay this.

“And,” he continued, “I don't bring you the salt for nothing;
I wants to trade on it.”

“I have no money, Mr. Andrews. You know my poverty as
well as I do myself.”

“'Tain't money I'm awanting. I wants one of your books
there. I know'd you had books, and I come for one of 'em;
and ef you're not for giving, I'll hev to take it, whe'r you will
or not.”

“Oh! that you shall not do, Mr. Andrews. I will cheerfully
give you one of my books — a good book — one of the best I
have.”

Well, I don't care which. I'm not a reader — had no larning,
and am so much the worse for it. But I s'pose a good book
is better than a bad one, and I'm for the good always, by—”

“Through God — by God's mercies — I suppose you mean,
Mr. Andrews.”

“Well, d—n me, ef that ain't a nice way to turn an oath into
a prayer; but we won't quarrel, ole lady, 'bout that. Hev it as
you will. Only give me the book.”

The surprise of the widow had grown prodigiously; but she
arose, calmly, and having seen from the fellow's face that he
was really serious in his request, she went to the little book-case,
and brought him a well-thumbed volume — dingy of aspect
— clumsy of shape — antique of type — altogether a very
rusty sample of a very rusty edition.

He took the book from her hands rather hastily, and opened it.

There was a rude engraving in front, apparently from a wooden
block. It exhibited a weary traveller ascending a hill with an
enormous pack upon his back. On the hill was a castle; and
in front of the castle, a terrible giant armed with a club. Dick of
Tophet examined this plate with silent wonderment for awhile.

“It's a hard fight that old fellow has ahead of him, I reckon.
He won't make a mouthful for that big chap with the club; and,
with sich a bundle on his back, he kain't hardly git up the hill.
Ef he's to fight, the sooner he flings down the bundle the better
for him.”

“He'd like to do it if he could.”

“And why kain't he, I wonder?”

“Because the bundle contains all his sins. The bundle is
sin! and sin sticks to him.”

“You're not poking fun at me, ole lady?”

“Me!” and the glance which she gave him seemed to say, `Is
mine the face, or mine the tongue, or mine the heart, for merriment?'
And the look subdued him.

“Well, ole lady, what's the book about?”

“It is called `Pilgrim's Progress.' It shows the labors of a
sinful man trying to free himself from the burden of sin, and
make his way to God.”

“Hard work that! Much easier gitting the sin than gitting
free from it you say: eh! ole lady?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“And d — n it, don't I know it? But, you give me the book for
the salt, eh?”

“It should be yours, Mr. Andrews, even had you brought me
nothing.”

She longed to asked him what he designed to do with the
book. He little knew the pang it cost her to part with it. It
had been the cherished volume of a favorite son, and she wept
its loss when the ruffian had gone. But she feared to ask any
questions of such a ruffian; and when she had declared her
assent, he rose abruptly — stuck the book into his pocket, and
thrusting his hand out to her, said:—

“You're a good woman, ole lady. Ef the world was full of
sich good people as you, I'd ha' bin a better body myself. But
it's no use to talk. I tell you, ole lady, I've got a d—d sight

bigger bundle of sin on my shoulders than even that ole fellow
you see guine up hill; and I kin no more shake it off than him.”

“But he did shake it off.”

“Did he! But I reckon he had never been in the dragoon
sarvice. So good night, ole lady. I'm obliged to you, by the
hokies!”

And the ruffian disappeared as he came — no search — no
question about the ladies — no word of hostility, suspicion, strife.
It was evident that he came for the one object only — the acquisition
of a book — it mattered not of what sort.

The widow was never more confounded in her life. When,
afterward, she talked over the affair, up-stairs, with her two
guests, she added — and her eyes filled anew:—

“I parted with a treasure when I gave him that book. It
was my youngest son's. Two sons fell in battle at Camden,
fighting for the country, and the third, my poor Gustavus, a
youth of nineteen only, was, I have reason to believe, butchered
by this same man, Andrews, in a miserable affray at a tavern
below — perhaps the very one where the man has lately been
drinking. My boy was totally unarmed, but he gave some
offence, I know not what, to this outlaw and his associates,
blows ensued, and my boy was stabbed to the heart with a
bayonet. He was brought home to me a corpse. I am alone
in the world; and this man, Andrews, has bereaved me of every
comfort.”

The ladies wondered how she could endure the sight of such
a monster.

“Ah!” she answered, “if God endures it patiently, why
shouldn't I? In his time, and at his pleasure, justice will be
done to the criminal. I wish for no revenge. I try to pray
even for the murderer, though I confess I am still too little of
the Christian, not to feel a sinful bitterness of spirit, when he
comes into my house, as he did to-night, and has the power, as
I know, to butcher me as he did my son. But he feels, ladies,
he feels! It is some little feeling of remorse, that still keeps
alive in his heart, like a coal of fire in the ashes, that makes him
civil and respectful to me, and to no one else. And that little
coal may yet kindle, even in his soul, a saving fire that shall
warm it to life.”