University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
SHOWING HOW THE SCOUT, BALLOU, DID NOT CATCH NELLY
FLOYD, AND HOW HE CAME NIGH TO BEING CAUGHT HIMSELF.

Lord Rawdon, before leaving Monck's Corner, re-established
the post at that place; strengthening the force of Coates with
a portion of his own detachment. He also re-established the
post at Wantoot, and put the small body of royal rifles, under
Lieutenant Nelson, at Pooshee — an old Indian settlement, like
Wantoot and Watboo — all of which are Indian names. On
his way to Charleston he re-occupied Dorchester, and sent from
the city a strong body for this garrison. The guards at Goose
creek, and Four-Holes Bridge, and the Quarter-house, were
replaced also. He thus restored all the posts of which our
“forayers” had so recently dispossessed him; and, satisfied now,
that, for the present, Greene was not prepared to move from the
Santee hills, and that the raid of our partisans — which had
been as sudden, and as swift in passage, as the fire in the grassy
prairies — was over for the dog-days — he took for granted that
all these points could be easily maintained so long as Colonel
Stewart kept his ground at Orangeburg, or at any point above
Monck's Corner. He had thus done all, within his power, to
put the British cause in good condition in Carolina, before he
left the country. We have already shown what were his own
fortunes by sea; and how he returned, only to behold one of
the last desperate struggles of the royal army to maintain itself
in the colonies, finish in disaster.

But, while such was the progress among the partisans, and
such the progress of Coates, and the proceedings of Rawdon,
we are not to suppose that the rest of the world, not engaged

in these events, was idly looking on. The world shall be in
commotion everywhere — states and systems threatened with
overthrow and convulsion — yet you will find thousands busy
in their small economies — dressing their steaks and eating them
— taking good heed to their own petty, selfish strategics, without
troubling themselves one instant about the disorder among the
planets. Perhaps, after all, there may be a certain wisdom in
not suffering the sympathies to spread over too broad a surface.

And so, Captain Inglehardt worked in his small empire, undisturbed
by the commotion in bigger spheres. His duties were
ostensibly heavy. He had to do a share in the foraging business
of the camp of Stewart at Orangeburg — no easy matter,
we assure you, to supply food and forage to two thousand hungry
soldiers cantoned on the Edisto at this season; particularly
as few of the Bull family can easily be persuaded to find the
chicken snake a delicacy, the alligator a bon bouche, or the frog
nutritious. Captain Porgy would have been a rare commissary
at such a juncture. If Arnold was worth ten thousand guineas,
for his unprofitable treason, our partisan epicure should command
thrice the amount for his services in art. His ingenious
capacity for the cuisine would equally improve the resources
in the department, and the tastes which the soldiers fed. He
would have raised the standards of the British morale, by inculcating
a higher order of kitchen sentiment.

But, hard as the work appears at this juncture, of foraging
for the wants of the British army, Captain Inglehardt takes
good care not to suffer it to press too heavily upon him. He
takes it easily. He gives it only so much of his leisure as he
can afford from his own pursuits. Occasionally, he drives a
score or two of lean cattle into the shambles of the garrison, and
thus maintains the credit of his office. And these he strips from
whig and tory, without troubling himself with any nice discriminations.
In doing this duty, he does not overlook other game.
All's grist that goes to his mill. Inglehardt, not to deal too
mincingly with our subject, is only a reputable sort of picaroon.
He does not disdain his share of profitable plunder. He has
contrived to pick up a few negroes in his rambles, which he
conveys, under cover, to the sea-board. He has a score of
fine horses, for which he never paid a copper; and he does not

despise even smaller profits. Inglehardt has a taste for gems
and jewelry, and is nursing a collection — for study possibly —
and for these, we venture to affirm that he never expended a
sixpence.

But among these small cares and performances, our captain
of loyalists, has larger calculations — landed estates rise before
his vision, which the triumph of British arms, may even render
baronial. The coldest lymphatic in the world has his dreams
and fancies. Tributary to this dream — if not object — is his
action in respect to the family of Travis. He does not forget
the fair bride whom he has chosen to bring him to a large landed
inheritance. He does not forget the peculiar arts of conciliation,
by which she is to be won. In brief, he does not neglect the
care, if he does the comforts of his prisoners.

These divide his time with his public duties and private
desires. After rendering a small herd of cattle to the commissary
at Orangeburg, he rides forth with his troopers, dashes
down the Charleston road along the Edisto, till he gets fairly
out of whoop and sight of the garrison, then wheels about on
an easterly course, and makes for his secret fastnesses, where
the Trailer holds his captives. He has sent a squad in advance,
under the command of Devil-Dick, carrying supplies of grist
and bacon. They have preceded him by a day. It concerns
us to mention one additional fact only, in connection with this
statement; the obscure, unstable, profligate boy, Mat Floyd,
accompanies this detachment. It finds its harborage in the
old camp, near the swamp refuge of Inglehardt. Need we say,
that close at its heels, Nelly Floyd, our “Harricane Nelly,”
faithful to the last — faithful to a mere superstitution — follows, on
her little pony, on the heels of her profligate brother.

And what of the inmates of the swamp — our Captain Travis,
and the brave boy, Henry, his son? They have fallen into
worse hands than those of Dick of Tophet. Ralph Brunson,
the Trailer, is not of such warm blood as Devil-Dick. He has
no such impulses. He is, therefore, the more proper instrument
of Inglehardt in a work of cruelty. His prisoners feel the
difference!

Dick of Tophet, as his name implies, is a sulphurous customer.
Brunson, the Trailer, rather fears than loves him.

They have been long allied in wickedness, and know each
other thoroughly. Dick of Tophet, at all events, knows his
man. Hardly had he arrived at his old cabin in Muddicoat
Castle, than he summoned the Trailer to his presence.

“Well, Rafe, how air you gitting on here in the bog? Up
to your eyes in the miseries of good living, eh?”

“Hairdly that, sence you've a'most starved us. You was a
mighty long time a-fetching that meal and bacon.”

“Well, it's come at last, and so there'll be feasting after the
starvation. But that 'minds me to aix how the prisoners git on?
Hev you starved them into consenting yet?”

“Why, we ain't starving them at all. We feeds them rigilar
every day.”

“Psho! Don't I know what that feeding means? Hain't I
done a leetle of it myself, till I was ashamed of it? I wish you
luck of the business. I tell you, Rafe Brunson, none of the
mean, wicked, rascally things I ever did in all my life, ever
went so hard agin the grain — agin my conscience — as the
putting that poor boy on short 'lowance; and seeing the hunger
in his eyes, like a ravenous wolf, ready to roar out whenever
he but seed the sight of bread or meat. I'm glad, ef that business
is to be done, that it's put into anybody's hands but mine.
You're the man for it, Rafe. You kin cut out the very heart of
a man — that is, when you've got him flat of his back — and his
eyes looking up to your'n, and begging for marcy all the time.
And that, too, when you've got no eenmity agin him. But gi'
us the key, Rafe; I wants to take a look at the boy, and hev a
word with him.”

Brunson hesitated.

“But the cappin said I wa'n't to let any body see him.”

“To be sure not. But that anybody don't mean me. Gi' us
the key, old fellow.”

“Well, to be sure, Dick; but you see—”

“I see you're a born fool! — that's what you air — and hev
your head a leetle turned by promotion — that's it — and yet, you
bloody fool, ef it hadn't been for a word of mine, where would
your promotion ha' been? I've been the making of you, you
born sneak! and now you've got your tail up for a start away
from the very hands that's showed you how to run! But, you

ain't out of the hairness yet, Rafe, and I'll hev to put a new
and a bigger kairb in your jaws. Gi' us the key!”

Dick of Tophet knew his man, as we have said. Ralph
Brunson was bullied out of his trusts for awhile. He gave up
the key misgivingly, saying, entreatingly, as he did so:—

“Now, Dick, you knows I trust you. But don't let out to
the cappin — eh?”

“Teach a cat how to lap milk,” said the other. “Don't you
be afeard, Rafe. I cut my eye teeth, when you was a-trying to
chaw on the naked gums. I knows the cappin jest as well as I
knows you.” And, taking the reluctant key, he disappeared.

In Blodgit's cabin, he found the respectable rheumatic mother
of that amiable cripple.

“Well, old woman, how gets on? How's the rheumatiz?”

“Bad enough, Joel Andrews; I only wish I was out of this
alligator country. I shall never be a well woman in these
parts.”

“Don't think you ever was a well woman anywhar. Ever
sence I heard of you, you've been ailing and out of sorts — always
sick as a buzzard, and sour as a hawk.”

“That's what you knows. I could tell. But I'll never be
well agin here. I only wish I war back again to the Sinklar
place. Ah, we had fine times thar; but that poor fool son of
mine, he couldn't be easy; and you come, with your pack of
roaring housebreakers, and routed us from the best place in the
world.”

“Psho! you routed yourself, with your hankering a'ter
Willie Sinklar's guineas; which you didn't know how to keep
a'ter you hed 'em. I could ha' show'd you. But the chaince
is gone, this time, and you'll never hev another like it.”

“I'll try for it. I'll git out of this alligator-hole as soon as
I kin.”

“You won't. You're hyar for life, old woman, and for death,
too; for when your last kick's over, we'll drop you in one of
them same alligator-holes, leaving it to them to give you Christian
burial.”

“In their cussed stomachs you mean?”

“Jes' so.”

“You're a hateful scamp of a sinner, and no better than a

born son of the old devil himself, Joel Andrews, and ef ever I
git a chaince—”

“Look you, old woman, don't be cutting any shines now.
Cappin Inglehardt ain't the sort of pusson that Willie Sinklar
is. It's a short cut with him to the consekences. Ef you, or
your son, starts off from hyar, without aixing leave, you'll both
of you limp a great deal worse than ever. You'll come to a
dead halt, I tell you.”

“And what right has he to keep me hyar, I want to know,
whar thar's no gittings or airnings? Pete ain't seed the shine
of Cappin Ingl'art's guineas yit.”

“Pete lies!”

“What! the cappin's paid him, and he ain't let me see a
shilling? And to tell me such a broad, barefaced lie about it
too! 'Twas jest so with Sinklar's guineas. Instead of giving
'em to me to keep — me, his own mammy — he digs a hole and
sticks a post over 'em, jest to show people whar to look.”

“Well, give him the hickories. I kain't talk to you now. I
wants to see this boy-pris'ner you've got hyar. How's he gitting
on?”

“Well, he's poorly. He don't eat much.”

“Does he git it to eat, much?”

“Yes, his 'lowance is rigilar; but Rafe Brunson says he's not
so well, and mus'n't hev too much. But it's the want o' eating,
I thinks, that makes him poorly. 'Twould kill me, I'm sartin.”

“You're a wise woman, in spite of them rheumatisms. But
git off now to your shakedown. I'm going to examinate the
boy for myself.”

And he pushed the crone aside, opened the door, and passed
into the dark and cheerless dungeon of poor Henry Travis. He
could see but little there, until he brought in a torch of lightwood,
and kindled a blaze upon the hearth; then he looked
about him, and spoke — “Well, my young sodger, how does
the wolf gnaw by this time?”

Henry roused himself, as if from sleep or stupor, or both together,
and looked upon his visiter with a languid, spiritless indifference,
which sufficiently declared how he had suffered.
When youth, full of blood, hope, enthusiasm, is thus subdued,
the suffering is not to be described. That it is borne, endured,

without the party sinking under it, is guaranty for large natural
resources, of physique and mind. The boy was wan of aspect,
and evidently very feeble. After a brief space, his eye brightened,
as if in recognition of his visiter. “Ah!” he said, “is
it you? I'm glad to see you.”

“Did you miss me, boy?”

“Oh, yes! I'm so lonesome. It's so dark here; and I'm so
hungry!”

“Hungry! I reckon so. Hist, boy—” and the wary Dick of
Tophet went to the door, opened it slightly, looked into the
hall, and closing the door, returned quickly. “Hist, boy,”
said he, “I've brought you something to mend your appetite.”

With these words he drew a small sack from under his coat,
the contents of which, when unveiled, made the eyes of Henry
Travis glitter with a wolfish brightness.

“Hyar's some ham and biscuit. Thar, take a bite and a biscuit.
Eat! And now, jest you listen to me. I'll leave all of
these with you. But you must hide 'em away; and promise
me, honest now, only to eat three of these biscuit, and a slice or
two of the ham a-day; for, you see, 'twon't do to waste. I
don't know when I kin git, and bring you any more. You
must make these last as long as you kin. Thar's another reason.
'Twon't do for you to be looking too well! Jest now, try
and look as bad as you kin. Thar's good reason for it. You
must promise me—” and he gave the boy another biscuit.

“I will promise!” cried Henry, munching greedily. “I will
promise: but what's the reason? Why does he starve me?”

“Oh, he don't want to starve you edzactly: jest keep you
down in the flesh, and sick-looking. It's to work on your
daddy.”

“My father! what! are they starving him?”

“No! I reckon not — not edzactly; though, I reckon, the
cappin's for keeping him down in the flesh too. Now, look
you, boy, I'll show you a hiding-place, for the rest of these biscuit.
You mus'n't eat no more now.”

“Oh, give me but one more!” was the piteous entreaty of the
boy.”

“Not a bite, my lark. You've had enough for one devouring,
and you must solumn, like a pusson of honor, promise me

not to eat more than three of these biscuit a day. I knows
you; and ef you say, `I promise,' I'll b'lieve you.”

“I do promise; but give me one more now!”

“Not a bite. 'Twould do you hurt. You've hed enough for
one time. To-morrow, take three, and two bits of ham. You'll
find all cut up, and ready for you to devour. See, hyar's a hole
in the logs. Look at me, whar I put them in. Hyar, you see,
ef you'll only work on this peg, you kin take out this block, and
you see thar's a sort of box in the wall, alongside the floor.”
And, showing him the hiding-place, the inflexible Dick of
Tophet, who would not give our young hungerer a single additional
“bite,” yet supplied him with a stock to last several
days, meted out by his prescribed limits. Oh, how Henry
hungered to break those limits! But he bravely overcame the
temptation.

“You see, boy, I didn't forgit you, tho' I hed enough besides
to think upon. But you're a fine fellow. You hed me under
your knife, and you didn't stick! and you read to me in that
book. I've got that book yit, and, may be, I'll come and git you
to read a bit in it to-night. May be. Jest you now be strong-hearted,
and don't turn milk and waterish, like a gal, and you'll
be a sodger yit.”

“But, my father?”

“Oh, don't talk to me 'bout him! I kaint tell you nothing.
He ain't in no danger, I reckon, though he's captivated jest like
yourself.”

“But they starve him too?”

“I don't think. It's you that the cappin's a-sperimentin'
on.”

With these words, Devil-Dick hurried away. He did not
forget his politics in his friendship. He rejoined his camp,
which, as the reader will remember, was usually established in
the woods, about a mile from the secret fastnesses of Muddicoat
Castle, the recesses of which none but a favored few were permitted
to penetrate.

About half a mile from this encampment, in a still deeper
thicket, Nelly Floyd made her encampment also — she and her
pony, Aggy. It was tending toward three o'clock, in the afternoon
of the same day on which the interview of Devil-Dick with

Henry Travis took place, when Nelly, seated upon the grass,
was partaking of her simple forest-fare. She too had biscuits,
and some bits of dried beef. Where she got them, we know
not. But Nelly had her friends in sundry cottages, and, where
known, she was always a favorite. Aggy was browsing about,
apparently quite as well satisfied as her mistress, and, like her,
totally free from all the cares of ambition. Nelly Floyd ate
with appetite. Though slight of frame, she was vigorous in
high degree. Her health was excellent, though she rode by
day in the sun, and slept by night in the cool glow of the stellar
heavens. She was an elastic creature, mind and body elastic;
and her sunburned cheek had a certain plumpness about it, and
her bright eye never drooped a lid, even when her soul was
drooping most. Fed on pure thoughts, she had never a fear;
though she had sorrows and apprehensions in abundance. She
ate heartily of her simple food, and drank the waters of the
brooklet afterward, with the relish of an Arab, who has just
reached a fountain in the desert.

Stooping and drinking, Nelly looked up, and was surprised
to discover a stranger — a man seated upon a fallen tree, and
witnessing her performances. Like a fawn suddenly roused in
the wilderness, by the sharp bay of the beagle, Nelly Floyd
started, with a consciousness of danger, as she beheld this unlooked
for spectator. How had he come upon her so suddenly
— so stealthily — and with what object? She prepared to fly,
and edged off in the direction of her pony, who was still grazing
some thirty yards from her on the rising slope from which she
had descended to the brooklet. But as she made this movement,
the stranger also started into activity and threw himself
between her and the pony. He was on foot, like herself; but
he too, in all probability, had his horse at hand. Indeed, we
can answer for it boldly that he had.

“Don't be scared, young woman,” said the stranger. “I
don't mean you any harm. I only want to talk to you about
some business that's of great importance to me and my friends,
and I reckon you can tell me all I want to know — want to
know. I've been looking after you a long time, and followed
your trail in every direction a good many miles — many miles.
And now, you see, I've got you at last; so just you be a good

gal now, and tell me what I want to know — want to know —
and no harm shall come to you.”

“What do you wish to know?” answered the girl timidly.

“Well, I'll come to you, since you don't offer to come to me,
for 'twon't do to be telling what I've got to say to all the trees
in the forest — the forest.”

He was approaching, when she said:—

“No nearer! Speak where you stand. There is no one to
hear you but myself.”

“How do I know that? But what's to scare you? You
don't suppose a big able-bodied man like me would hurt a gal
like you.”

“Perhaps not. Still, as your voice is strong, and my ears
are good, you can speak and I can hear just where we are at
present. I don't know that I can tell you anything that is important
to you, but whatever I can tell, that will hurt nobody.
I'm willing to speak.”

“Hurt! no! It's to help somebody that I want you to speak.
Help somebody. If anybody's to be hurt, it's only them that
desarves the worst that a heavy hand kin put upon 'em. But
I don't like to talk so loud, my girl. Just let me come a little
nigher.”

“Not a step!” said the girl promptly — and as, at that moment,
he began to move toward her, she sprang, at a bound,
across the brooklet, and watched his course with apprehensive
eyes from the other side. The stranger looked at her vexedly
and with a sharper accent, he said — “What's to scare you?
As I'm an honest man, I don't mean to hurt you.”

“Better,” said the “girl, that you shouldn't have the opportunity.
Speak your wishes where you are if you desire me to
listen to them.”

“Well,” said he, in somewhat harsher tones —“The matter
is this. You have been following after the steps of a certain
gang of rascals that harbor about and in them yonder swamps,
where I know they've got a snug hiding-place somewhere, and
I wants to find it out. Now, I'm pretty certain that you know
all about it; for I've tracked you down mighty nigh to the
edge, and I have tracked you away from it agin. I know you
ain't a party with these rapscallion refugees, for I see that you

only follows their tracks and don't travel with 'em. What you
follow them for, I can't reckon; but I'll tell you right out and
about, that I'm following them to try and get out of their infarnal
clutches a man and his wife, and their son and daughter
— a whole family of harmless good people, that a black-hearted
etarnal son of Satan named Inglehardt has got hid away in
some dark hole in the wilderness. So you see, it's to do good
that I wants you to give me help, and just put me in the way
of scouting about their hiding-places. That's all — all!”

“A mother and her daughter!” said the girl, looking unconscious
and bewildered.

“A most excellent good woman, and her most beautiful
daughter, in the hands of the most infernal blackhearted Satan
of a refugee dragoon that ever spiled the vines with his hoofs.
I'm just after saving them, and bringing the outlaw rascals to
justice and execution. Ef I kin once find my way into their
hiding-place, every rascal of the gang shall swing for it. Hang
'em every one — every one!”

The girl looked terrified at these words. A terror possessed
her heart, and made itself apparent in her eyes. The stranger
was surprised at the effect which his words produced.

“What scares you?” said he. “I didn't say I'd hang you,
only them bloody refugee outlaw rascals in the swamp, that's
captivated the mother and the daughter, the father and the son
— the whole innocent family. It's them refugees that's to hang,
and the sooner the better for the good of all innocent people.”

“I can tell you nothing,” said the girl receding — “I know
of no mother and daughter in captivity. I know of no people
that you have a right to hang. I can give you no guidance.”

And she moved backward as she spoke.

“Ay, but you must, my gal. I hain't been on your track so
long to give you up now, just when I've got you at last. We
don't part so quickly. You must let out what you know about
this swamp place of the refugees, and until you do, I'll first take
leave to keep you a prisoner.”

“Me a prisoner!” and the nostrils of the girl seemed to dilate,
as, giving a single glance at the stranger, she at once
moved off toward the woods opposite.

“You don't git off,” said the scout, now starting in pursuit,

and throwing himself across the brooklet at a few bounds.
Ballou, for it was he, was a man of a good deal of power, and
some fleetness arising from plentiful muscle and early training,
and never doubted his ability to run down a girl; and possibly,
were the costume of Nelly Floyd that usually worn by the sex,
he might easily have caught her. But he soon found that his
calculations were sadly at fault. He might as well have chased
the wind in its play with the ocean. The girl left him behind,
and after running a couple of hundred yards, and tripping over
a root which brought him heavily to the ground, he was fain
to give up a chase which promised only such hazards. He rose
panting, and vexed, looking wistfully at the figure of the girl, a
hundred yards beyond him, standing quietly beside a tree, and
looking composedly on all his movements.

“Ay, you're a laughing at me!” quoth he, “but I have the
means to catch you yet.” And so speaking to himself, he
wheeled about, recrossed the brooklet, and made straight toward
Aggy, the pony, who was quietly browsing still and showing no
sort of apprehension. Ballou did not doubt that he should be
able to catch the unconscious beast who never lifted head as he
approached. But the girl had divined the object of the scout;
and at the very moment, when Ballou thought to put out his
hand and seize the bridle of the beast, which was hanging loose,
Nelly whistled shrilly twice or thrice, and Aggy bounded away,
throwing up her heels almost in the face of the stranger. The
pony took the course direct toward her mistress, and looking
after both of them with wonder, Ballou muttered to himself —
“It's like what they tell of the gypsies. Now, all the teaching
in the world, wouldn't make that big beast of mine follow after
me, like a dog, only at the sound of a whistle. But I mus'n't
lose the gal now. She's got the clue and I must hev it. She
can't get off from me, in the long run; and though the pony is
a mighty quick little goat of a horse, yet its legs are too short
to devour much ground, let him do the best with his little legs
that he can!”

Ballou took his way into the thickets in the rear, having first
seen Nelly mount her pony, and trot off, apparently toward the
road running west of the swamp. When he had found and
mounted his horse, and got back to the spot where he had seen

her last, she was out of sight. To stop to look for her tracks
would be only to lose her entirely, and our scout started off
accordingly, taking his course, according to what seemed the
probabilities of hers, and increasing the rapidity of the chase,
in due degree as it seemed to be most objectless. He pursued
an old road, and hurried forward, supposing that the girl had
precipitated her flight over this route, and had only obtained
such a start, from putting her little nag to its utmost speed at
the beginning. In this event, he was sure to overtake her.

To be beaten by such a mere circumstance of a gal-child,”
as he himself phrased it, was a circumstance of mortification
which prompted him to a more determined effort. And so he
rode for a mile or more, when, sweeping suddenly round a curve
in the road, he discovered a party of thirty mounted men, or
more, not a hundred yards in front of him. Their equipment
made them out to be loyalist rangers, and a second glance assured
our scout that it was Inglehardt himself that he beheld at
the head of them.

In a moment he wheeled into the woods. But not before he
had been seen and distinguished. “It is Ballou, Sinclair's
scout,” cried Inglehardt; “after him, half a dozen of you, and
pursue him even to the Edisto. Do not rest till you bring him
down. Five guineas to the man who brings me his ears.”

So liberal a reward would have set our loyalist's whole troop
in motion; but he suffered only five of his best-mounted troopers
to take the chase. But Ballou was luckily well-mounted, on
a stout horse of equal speed and bottom, and, as he felt his
danger, and knew what he had to expect, should he fall into
such hands, he at once sternly braced himself up to the exercise
of all his resources. Leaving pursuer and pursued for awhile,
let us briefly report that Nelly Floyd, no inferior woodsman, by
this time, had, harelike, doubled upon her tracks, and before
night was once more prowling about the tents of the wicked: in
other words, lurking about the camp of Inglehardt, in the hope
once more to confer with her witless brother.