University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.
THE TORTURO — APPLICATION OF “THE QUESTION.”

The military employment of Inglehardt was of a nature to
suffer him to use it incidentally for his own purposes, and he
was by no means the patriot to reject such opportunities. The
necessities of the British garrisons at Orangeburg and Charleston
made them greatly dependent upon the loyalist lighttroops.
They constituted, in fact, the best if not the only cavalry
of the army; and, though generally mounted gunmen,
rather than dragoons, they served to cover the flanks, to press
pursuit, to go on sudden and secret expeditions, and to do the
general work of foraging. A service like this left them a large
discretion, and it was accordingly that which the loyalist rangers
most preferred. Hence the perpetual outrages committed
by small, irresponsible detachments; hence the frequent encounters
of small bodies; and hence the cruel civil war that raged
everywhere, and was so fearfully illustrated by the most atrocious
crimes. And the British generals, though they knew of
these atrocities, dared not rebuke them or restrain them. The
criminals were too generally useful, too necessary, not to enjoy
some peculiar immunities, which laughed at all wholesome military
as well as moral restraints.

Inglehardt was not the person to forego any of his privileges
or opportunities. He took his own course at will, whenever he
was fairly without the garrisoned place. He rode in and out
at pleasure; his absences were more or less prolonged; and his
own reports were never too critically scrutinized. But for the
danger of such sharp encounters with such well-mounted cavalry
as Sinclair commanded, the service would have been a

grateful one in every respect, even if it brought no promotion.
It brought its profits. It had done so to Inglehardt, as to a
hundred others, in very considerable degree. But the field was
daily growing more and more circumscribed, as well as dangerous.
The profits were decreasing; the chances lessened, and
the mischances were proportionally increased. The hot passage-at-arms
with Sinclair and St. Julien had cut off a score of
our loyalist's most vigorous emissaries, and it seemed to Inglehardt
that Sinclair found or sought no other employment than
to watch for him. There seemed a fate in it! In fact, we are
not unprepared to believe that Sinclair had come to the conclusion
that the best mode of extricating Travis and his son was
to conquer, capture, or destroy, Inglehardt.

This was the conviction of the latter; and, loathing Sinclair,
and regarding him as the true obstacle to his success with Bertha
Travis, Inglehardt longed for the opportunity to take deadly
vengeance on his head. But he was in no condition to face the
body of men whom his rival led; and he gave all his efforts
now so to recruit his own force as to put himself in condition
for the desperate struggle. He could have obtained any number
of recruits from the ranks of the army, but they were without
horses. He was reduced, therefore, to the one means —
that of picking up, where he could find them, the rangers of the
country, most of whom contrived to secrete their horses when
not absolutely using them, and only risked them, in the sight
of superior strength, when they were incorporated in the ranks
which they might otherwise have been taught to fear. The
employment which he especially assigned to Dick of Tophet,
and to Sam Brydone, alias “Skin-the-Sarpent,” was that of
recruiting from among these people. Inglehardt himself had
succeeded in incorporating with his own corps the remains of
the Florida refugees of Lem Watkins — that fierce ruffian having
perished in an encounter with the troop of Captain Coulter
of Edisto. Thirteen horses and men were picked up from this
source; and Andrews and Brydone were busy along the swamp-margins
of the Cooper and the Santee, in making further additions
to his command. We have seen Sinclair dispersing one
of these cohorts, which Dick of Tophet had just got together,
and which he was exercising for the first time. The affair

added not a little to the capital of rage and hate which Inglehardt
and his lieutenant had been long accumulating, to expend
upon the enemy's head whenever the chance should offer.

These employments of Inglehardt, during the scenes we have
been describing of late, suffered him only a single opportunity
of getting down to “Muddicoat Castle” — as the region where
the Travis's were confined had been appropriately styled by
Dick of Tophet. He arrived late in the evening. Brunson
and Blodgit were on duty. Dick of Tophet was on the wing.
Inglehardt did not bring his troop with him into the swamp-fastnesses.
Of its secrets they were allowed to know nothing.
He made them bivouac in a thick wood, two miles above,
leaving the command in the hands of his lieutenant — a cool,
shrewd, circumspect loyalist, named Lundiford.

It was quite dark when Inglehardt entered the log-cabin
where Captain Travis was still kept, and in irons. The latter,
as if too depressed by care — or as if he knew already, by sure
instincts, who was his visiter, never asked a word — never raised
his head from the pillow of pine-brush upon which it lay.
There was no light in the apartment, and Inglehardt called to
some one without, to bring a torch. This was laid in the fireplace,
a few brands added to it, by Inglehardt himself, and the
blaze soon lighted up the blank and dreary chamber, so, at least,
as to exhibit all its cheerlessness. Blodgit, who had brought the
torch, now lingered — when Inglehardt, suddenly and sternly,
bade him depart.

“To your own house, my good fellow,” said our loyalist captain
to skulking Peter — who was even then meditating a plan
of espionage — “to your own house; and, remember, if found
here, when not called, or needed, you may forfeit your ears.”

Pete limped away — he always grew very lame when threatened.
The mild, slow accents of Inglehardt, uttering such
words, were as full of terror, as if poured forth in the thundering
accents of Dick of Tophet; and the effort was such, that, for
the present at least, his purpose of espionage was forgotten.
When he had gone, Inglehardt closed and secured the door,
wheeled a bench beside the fire, and having quietly seated himself,
suffered his eye to steal round the apartment until it rested
upon the sleeping place of Captain Travis.

But Travis did not sleep. His eye, bright as that of a wolf,
looking up from the deep dark hollows of his den — as wild and
savage — encountered fearlessly that of the loyalist.

“Well, Captain Travis, I am glad to see you. I hope my
fellows make you quite comfortable here.”

No answer to this dulcet expression, which was made in very
sweet measures, and with amiable emphasis.

“I see they do. Your eye looks bright and cheerful. I
trust you enjoy yourself. Solitude is the great field for contemplation.
You lived too much in the busy world when you
were abroad. It made you prematurely old. It was a life of
care, and such a life gnaws into the heart, and saps all the
vigor of the soul. Here, in seclusion, free from the anxieties of
strife, one might grow young again. The peace, the peace of
the solitude, how sweet are its securities. Verily, your thoughts
must have been very grateful in the unwonted quiet of your
present abodes.”

Inglehardt paused and pulled out his snuff-box, a new one by
the way, which he had recently bought, or found, or procured
by the usual agency of military appropriation. He fed his nose
with gingerly delicacy, as if he specially considered the peculiar
claims of the member. After a pause, Travis showing no
disposition to reply to the remarks made by his captor, the latter
resumed:—

“You do not speak, my dear captain. I trust you have no
childish humors growing upon you in the solitude. Beware of
such. The solitary must choose such subjects of contemplation
only, as will sweeten his humors, subdue his querulous moods,
and vexing fancies, and bring him finally into such peace with
all the world, that his reason may have free play, conducting
him gradually to all the fruits of wisdom. Nor, because you
have temporarily withdrawn from the vexing anxieties of the
world ought you to show yourself wholly indifferent to its
progress. Such indifference would be quite inhuman, not to
say unchristian. The great point to obtain, is that condition of
freedom from a world, in which we still entertain an interest —
in the struggles of which we still sympathize — and after the
health and progress of which, it is still pleasant to make an occasional
inquiry. Now, it strikes me, that you should like to

hear something, however small in import, of that busy life from
which you have withdrawn in disgust. You must not, my dear
captain, because you have nothing now to gain or lose in society,
be wholly regardless of the gains or losses of society. The
world is in progress, I assure you, though you leave it and think
little of it. There are men and women everywhere still striving
in their pretty, petty plans, of self and their neighbors; and,
by the way, the war is still pending between his majesty's
forces, and those of rebellion — not exactly as when you withdrew
into retirement — but with some fervor still. How long
it will continue, it may not be difficult to predict from what we
know. Perhaps you would like to hear something of its progress
since you left the field.”

Here the amiable captain of loyalists paused, to give his
prisoner the opportunity to reply. But Travis never answered,
but still kept a bright, stern eye fixed on the face of the
speaker, intense, with almost serpent-like intensity.

“You are curious, I know, though you do not like to confess
it,” resumed his tormentor, “and I am indulgent to your
curiosity, though you may little deserve it. Know then, my
dear captain, that the army of our rebel-friend, Greene, has
just been completely annihilated at Murray's ferry. Greene
has had to take refuge in the Santee swamps with Marion, while
we are rid of Sumter for ever. He was mortally wounded, and
by this time, I suppose, is laid up in lavender for ever. The
rumor has just reached us also that Lafayette has surrendered
with all his army to Cornwallis, and that Washington is
hurrying with all his remaining regiments, to make himself safe
at West Point, giving up Philadelphia without a struggle to our
friends. This intelligence, to a good loyalist like yourself, must
be particularly grateful.”

The eyes of Travis watched those of Inglehardt more fixedly
than ever. He did not seem moved by the intelligence In
fact, he knew Inglehardt too well, not to feel very sure that
the whole narrative was an invention, designed for his own selfish
purposes.

“What! do you pretend, my dear captain, that your philosophy
makes you superior to these tidings? Are you really so
indifferent to the world's wholesome doings? Or, are you really

less comfortable than you should be in this sylvan retreat? Answer
me, my dear captain, and tell me how they serve, how
they provide — how, in brief, they feed you.”

Travis answered, at length:—

“You see! I live!”

“And I'm glad to see it! I couldn't spare you just yet, and
trust that I am properly solicitous to have you kept comfortably,
as well as closely. But now that you have found your tongue,
be pleased to indicate the subject upon which you would converse.”

“My son! I would see my son! I would speak with him
— hear his voice — see if still he lives!”

“Ah! well! I suppose there can be no good reason why
you should not see him, and if the worthy sergeant who claims
to be his keeper, has no objection—”

It rather surprised Inglehardt, cool as he was, to find himself
interrupted by a wild hiss of scorn from the straw where Travis
lay.

“Nay, my dear Captain Travis,” said Inglehardt, “you must
not be rash and hasty. It is too much your wont to be altogether
consistent with the mood of a solitary. What I tell you
is the truth. Your son is the special captive of Joel Andrews,
otherwise Hell-fire Dick; and Joel has his own notions of what
should be the privileges of his captive, as I of mine. He is, I
frankly tell you, resolved to keep your son strictly private, unless
you are willing to exchange him for your daughter. The
truth is, Hell-fire Dick has a most singular affection for his captain,
and knowing how much my happiness depends upon Bertha
Travis, he has come to the resolution that nothing but an
exchange of this sort will serve his purpose. And he has a notion,
that the less you see of your son, the better likely to attain
his object. There, you have the whole amount of his policy.
Does it not strike you as rational?”

“My son! shall I see and speak with my son?” was all the
answer of the captive.

“Well, I am amiable of mood to-night, my dear captain, and
I will step out for awhile, and make the necessary inquiries.”

And with leisurely step, Inglehardt went forth, closing and
fastening the door behind him.

“O God!” cried Travis when he had gone, “Oh! for five
minute's grapple with that monster!”

Monster in human shape he was. But is there any cause of
marvel in this? It is not possible to conceive how great a monster
a man may become, who is utterly swallowed up in self.
Of course, we know, as Travis knew, that Joel Andrews was
but the creature of his employer; and that, whatever treatment
Henry Travis received, was due wholly to the commands of
Inglehardt. No wonder that the scorn of Travis found its only
expression in a serpent hiss.

Dick of Tophet was absent; but Inglehardt simply contented
himself with asking after him. He then gave his orders to
one of his constables, and himself returned to the dungeon of
Travis.

“Joel is not unwilling that you should see your son, Captain
Travis, and has ordered that he be brought to you. It appears
to me, Travis, that you could not do more wisely than properly
to entertain the affectionate idea of Joel. Exchange your son
for your daughter, and Joel will consent that I shall become
her sole custodian. Joel has perfect confidence in me, I assure
you, as a good keeper of a fair prisoner.”

He had hardly finished speaking, when Brunson appeared,
conducting Henry Travis. When he perceived him at the entrance,
Inglehardt threw more brands upon the fire, which enabled
the father to behold the son distinctly. With a sort of
famishing howl, Travis rose up in his manacles and straw, and,
with difficulty, struggled to his feet. The boy was brought up
to him, and grasped him sobbing about the neck. Then, after
a moment, the father pushed him away and surveyed him where
he stood.

What a change did the appearance of the boy exhibit, from
that which he was but a few weeks before. Where was the
elastic bound of footstep, the cheery, birdlike music of his voice,
the eager aspiration in his eye, the laughing, gay humor of his
heart? all gone! In place of these, he was wan, thin, feeble;
his eye seemed to lack lustre, was at once dull and humid, his
voice was feeble, the tones spiritless, the whole aspect languishing.

“Oh! Henry, my son. What have they done to you?”

“Done to me, father? Nothing. But I am so hungry, and
I never see the light.”

“God of Heaven! Darkness and starvation.”

The boy let himself down languidly upon the straw of the
dungeon. The father cried:—

“Captain Inglehardt, is it really your purpose to murder that
boy by starvation?”

“Starvation! eh! no! How can you conceive such an idea?”

“Look at him! The boy is famished.”

“Well, he does not look so buoyant quite as when he flourished
in the charge of Sinclair's dragoons; but a little dieting
will, perhaps, be of service in subduing him to a little necessary
humility. The loss of one's liberty is apt to press sorely at first
upon high young blood; but it is very beneficial in the end.”

“But why starvation?”

“Pshaw, there is no starvation! Don't you feed the boy,
Brunson?”

“Gives him his 'lowance reg'lar, cappin; what Hell-fire
Dick says.”

“Ah! you have your orders from Andrews?”

“Yes, cappin, jest as he says. The boy gits his reg'lar 'lowance.
He's only got the pip, as I may say.”

“The pip!” cried Travis, “my chick! my child! my poor,
poor boy! But I see your purpose, Captain Inglehardt. You
would torture me into compliance with your demands, by the
torture of that young innocent.”

“Oh! you mustn't call it torture, my dear captain. A denial
of his old luxuries — you were spoiling the boy, Travis — making
him tender; and the coarse food of camp, at a time of
short commons, may imply a hard training, but not a cruel one.
As for any torture, the notion is idle; and the charge of starvation
positively slanderous. But, do you not see, my dear captain,
that it is in your power, alone, to loose his bonds and your
own? Why will you persist in this cruelty to him and to yourself?
Here, I have brought you a paper; it is addressed to
your daughter; re-write it, sign it; I will send it. I have an
opportunity at this very moment, in the Santee country — write;
and the event proving as I wish, your discharge follows instantly,
and — his.”

“Ah! you have the power to treat for his discharge also,
though not your prisoner!” cried Travis, with a bitter sneer.

“Precisely, my dear captain. There is nothing in this inconsistent
with what I have already said. My excellent lieutenant
gives me to understand that, one condition complied with
by you, I am then permitted to release the boy. My own
heart will prompt my release of you in the same moment.”

“Your heart! ha! ha! ha! What a mockery. But read
the paper — read the paper. Let us hear these fine conditions.”

“You have already heard them, captain.”

“Oh! I presume so; still, I would hear you repeat the damnable
requisitions; I would like to see how you frame the base,
cruel, and horrible terms in language; how you disguise their
enormities for the ears of the sister, by which you hope yet to
compel her self-sacrifice, for the safety of her brother's life.
Read, man of heart — read!”

“You are positively satirical, Captain Travis; but I am fortunately
clad in meekness as in a garment, and your sarcasm
shall not vex my humility. It is permitted to the losing gamester
to be angry. Brunson, lift one of these brands from the
fire, that I may read this paper.”

It is evident, by the way, that Inglehardt knows no more of
the whereabout of Bertha Travis than her father. Both believe
that she and her mother are across the Santee.

Meanwhile, Travis, with his handcuffed hands, was feebly
clasping his son's cheeks, and kissing his face, every now and
then sobbing huskily:—

“My boy — my poor, poor boy!”

“Do they give you bread, father?” asked the boy.

“Yes, such as it is, my boy; more, I believe, than they give
you — Inglehardt!— let them give me but half of the food
which they allow me, and give the rest to my son.”

“You forget, my dear captain, that I can not interfere with the
captive of Joel Andrews. In feeding you, I take due care of
my own captive.”

“Oh!”— Travis was about to utter a bitter curse, but he
checked himself. He felt how completely he was in the power
of the tyrant, and he feared to irritate self-esteem into rage.
“Oh! — but read your precious paper — read!”

“Father,” said the boy, in under tones, but still audibly to
Travis, “have you any bread left? I am so hungry.”

“There is! there is!” cried Travis, about to rise; but he
stopped in the effort, and pointed his son to the corner of the
room — “There,” said he, “there, Henry, my boy, you will find
some fragments. Go: get them; eat, eat, my poor famishing
boy!”

The fragments were in a wooden tray, and stood upon a low
table in one corner of the room. The boy's eye turned in the
direction to which he was pointed, and, with eager appetite, he
started up to seize upon the spoil, when, at a motion from Inglehardt,
Brunson strode between, seized upon the tray, and lifted
it above his head as the boy grasped at it. Henry grappled
him with a return of the fiercer mood of youth, which starvation
had not yet subdued. But a rough push of Brunson threw him
down upon the straw, where he crouched, sobbing bitterly in his
disappointment and mortification.

“Monster!” cried Travis, “will you not even suffer the boy
to eat what his father has left?”

“'Tain't 'lowable,” answered Brunson, with a laugh, “we're
a dieting the young gentleman for the business of the wars, and
the good of his health.”

“Inglehardt, there shall be a day of horrid settlement between
us for this! I ask but a day — an hour!”

“Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. The proverb
comes pat. Shall I read you this letter now, Captain Travis?”

“Read or not! What matters it to me?”

“But your son!”

“Ah!” with a sort of shriek, “my son! my son! Read, sir
— let me hear! And oh! if it be possible to save this child,
by any concession less than the more cruel sacrifice of another,
I am prepared to make it.”

“Why will you call it a sacrifice, Captain Travis? Do I
offer less than marriage to your daughter?”

“God of heaven! As if there could be a worse sacrifice for
the dear child-heart, that is destined to rest for hope, and life,
and succor, upon such a bosom as yours! But read — read.
Let us hear the worst.”

And Inglehardt read the letter, as follows:—

“Truly, a most encouraging statement — one admirably calculated
to secure the affections of a daughter for him, to whom
the father and brother owe such becoming ornaments as these!”

Such was the comment of Travis. But the boy, unexpectedly
to all, had his comment also. He had raised himself up when
the reading of the letter was commenced, and his eye brightened
with attention, while his countenance darkened with indignation.
Scarcely had his father spoken the single sentence we
have reported, when the son, in subdued, but deep and emphatic
tones, said to him:—

“Oh! sir, you will write no such letter!”

“No! sooner than pen such an epistle to child of mine, welcome
the gallows.”

“And hear you, sir,” said the boy, rising from the floor — no
longer sobbing — no longer weak — and addressing Inglehardt,
“hear you, sir, even were my father to write such a letter —
even were my sister to consent to such a sacrifice — it should

never profit you! I should never sleep — never suffer you to
sleep — in the possession of Bertha Travis. Day and night
should I follow your steps, seeking my opportunity; and when
it came, I should shoot or stab you without remorse, even were
you to seek for safety in her protecting arms. Know me, Captain
Inglehardt, boy as I am — feeble as I am — fettered where
I am — know me for your enemy; and if God will permit, for
your fate — sworn for your destruction should you ever succeed
in your designs against my sister!”

The father dragged the boy down to him on the straw, and
kissed him passionately, while his sobs sounded loudly in the
apartment.

“Verily,” was the cool remark of Inglehardt, who could suppress
any show of feeling, even when it was most poignantly
bitter, “Verily, the diet of our lieutenant, Dick of Tophet, is
not so debilitating after all! Pip or not, our chicken still has
the strength to crow! But how long will it last, Brunson, eh!”

“Till the next hungry fit, I reckon, cappin.”

“Take him hence — these passionate greetings help the
health neither of father nor son. Take him away. I would
counsel Andrews to give the lad a little less salt to his gruel.
It hurts the juices.”

The boy clung to his father's neck as he heard these words;
but Brunson was as brutal, in a more sober way, as Joel Andrews;
and it was with violent and unscrupulous force, that he
tore the parent and the child apart, bearing the latter away to
his own dreary fastness.

“Well, Captain Travis,” said Inglehardt, rising, “I trust that
a more prolonged meditation in the solitude — free from the
harassing cares and strifes of the world — will bring you to a
wiser determination. I shall preserve this letter — isn't it a
model? — in the faith that you will yet implore me to make use
of it.”

“Never! never!”

“We shall see,” said the other, as he prepared to depart.

“Inglehardt!” cried Travis, as he went out, “Inglehardt — if
you are born of woman — if you ever had a mother — if you
believe in a God — in a future — in a hell! — let them not, for
your soul's peace — suffer them not to starve that noble boy!

Beware of what you do! Beware of the vengeance which such
cruelty shall bring down upon your head in horrors such as hell
can not surpass.”

“Good-night, Captain Travis, good-night. Light suppers secure
pleasant dreams. May yours be such as will improve your
philosophy,” and vouchsafing no other answer, Inglehardt disappeared,
locking the door after him.

“O God! be with me and the boy, in mercy! Keep him
under thine own eye — save him, Eternal Father of all mercies,
save him — save and protect my poor children, whatever fate
you assign to me!”

The prayer of the father was poured forth in broken sobbing
accents, with his face buried in the straw of his dungeon.

The next morning, with the dawn, Inglehardt was off on a
foraying expedition.