University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.
EVERYWHERE THE SERPENT UNDER THE VINES.

“Jest as I suspicioned!” quoth the monster, as he slowly
rose and looked about him. “It's her. It's old Travis's
daughter; and hyar, sure enough, is old Sinclair and his da'ghters.
Now, couldn't I make a clean sweep of the whole kit
and biling of 'em! But what's the profit of that? I don't
reckon Sinclair's got any much gould about him, sence he was
on his way down to Charleston; but the gal has a watch and
rings and sich small jugleries. We kin think about them another
time, and I must jest be on the lookout, when he starts
off agin. As for doing anything agin him in that house, 'TWON'T
DO! I kaint face that old woman, onless I'm in a humor to be
doing something good. I kaint stand her eye. I wish I hadn't
had to kill her boy! He was only a boy. I might ha' tumbled
him, suddent, without giving him the knife; but I was rashing
quick that day, all owing to the liquor. And then, to think,
though she knows it all, that she gin me the very book of that
very son!”

He reseated himself and took the book out of his bosom.
Turning to the fly-leaf, he said:—

“Thar's his name in handwrite! It's mighty strange.
Hyar's a boy now that reads this handwrite and tells me the
name of the very man I had killed; yet this boy never knowed
him, and never knowed I killed him. I had a mighty strange
feeling on me when I haird him read that name. 'Twas
strange! And he could do — he a mere sarcumstance of a boy
— a leetle hop-o'-my-thumb — could do what I couldn't do, a man
full grown, and strong as a horse! It stands to reason that a

man who hain't got edication, must be doing bad things! Ef
the boy was a rogue, he could cheat me out of my eyes, by the
l'arning of handwrite only. And me, a great overgrown big
man. It's the want of l'arning. I reckon I might ha' been a
gentleman born — a regilar harrystocrat — ef so be they had
given me the book-l'arning like this boy. But it's no use to
talk. When a man's forty, he kaint l'arn much; and the more
I looks at this printing, the more it seems jest like a great
mountain that I kaint climb. It's worse than this mountain
hyar”— and he turned to one of the pictures — “Yes, a mighty
deal worse! I could go up that, though I had jest such a
bundle on my back as that crooked leetle old fellow has to
carry! Ha! and hain't I got a worse bundle than ever he
toted, ef so be that's a bundle to signify his sins, I reckon!
But it's an ixcuse for a pusson like me that hed a sinful edication,
and never l'arned the good things in print and handwrite.
I kaint help doing what I does. It's the needcessity of a hard
life, you see.

“And thar's more to be done of the same business, so it's
no use to look into the book about it.” And he restored the
ancient volume to his bosom. “Thar's more to be done! Let
me see!” And he laid himself down on his back, and appeared
to meditate — after awhile:—

“Yes, the first thought is the best a'ter all! I must carry
off this gal to Muddicoat Castle. That's the how! First, you
see, bekaise the cappin ain't altogether as scrumptious with me
now as he used to be; he's a leetle suspicious, I reckon, that
old Travis has mounted my weak side with a leetle bag of gould
guineas. He's put Rafe Brunson in my place, and Rafe watches
me pretty much as close as he watches his prisoners. Rafe
Brunson to watch me! But he's sot to do it. The cappin's
gin him his orders. That shows that he suspicions me, which
ain't so sensible, Cappin Inglehardt, for a pusson that knows so
much as you. Now, ef I kin carry him this gal that he's so hot
a'ter, I make all things square agin. That's the how. That'll
show him he wasn't quite so wise when he put Rafe Brunson
ahead of me.

“And where'll be the harm of that? 'Twon't hurt the gal.
What if she don't affection the cappin, and likes Willie Sinclair

better? Well, I reckon all this liking of woman is jest as the
notion takes 'em. To-day it's one man; to-morrow it's another.
Everything goes by the eye while the gal's young; and they
judge of men only by the eyesight. But that's only before
they cut the eye-teeth. A'ter that, and when they gits a leetle
usen to it, they don't care much about the looks of the pusson.
It's the man himself. Well, the cappin's a good-looking pusson
enough; not so handsome, prehaps, as Willie Sinclair in a gal's
eye, and thar ain't quite so much of him; but he'll do; and a
young gal mustn't be onreasonable and ixpect too much. Ef
she gits a husband, that's young enough, and well looking
enough, that kin purvide agin the needcessity, that's all she's
got a sensible right to, and no woman ought to grumble ef she
gits that. Well, that's what I gives this gal ef I carries her
off to the cappin. He'll marry her like a decent white man, by
a regilar parson, and make all things right in the face of the
sun; for he wants to hitch her by law, honest and regilar.
Well, what more kin she aix of any white man? Suppose she
don't like it at first — what then? She'll hev' to like it at last,
and make the most of it; and then she'll not find it hard to
carry on business as a married woman. So that's calkilated!
I gives the gal a husband — a good-looking young fellow, that's
able to manage her affairs, and purvide the needcessity; and I
puts it out of the cappin's head to mistrust and suspicion me.
I reckon nobody ought to complain of the thing ef it's done up
decent.

“But to think how he should put Rafe Brunson over me, to
watch me, and keep me from knowing too much, and putting a
finger into his pie, when it's a-baking! Ha! ha! ha! Rafe
Brunson over me. That's a leetle too funny to be quite sensible.
And that shows how a man may be a leetle more cunning
than sensible. Why, with a single look of my eye, I kin
drill through the very soul and witals of Rafe. I kin see
through all his hollows and dark places. He kaint fool me.
But I kin fool him out of his seven senses. He's great for
scouting, and kin find a'most everything in the thickest woods;
he's better than me at that; for I'm not so good at sneaking.
What I does, I likes to do with a rush. But, ef I kaint sneak,
I kin s'arch, by a way of my own. I knows one secret; and

that is to flnd out where another man hides his secret. I kin
guess pretty nigh what my inimy is thinking about. I hev a
sensible idea of what he's a guine to do; and so I makes ready
for him, and sets an ambushment in the right place. Now,
that's the sort of sense that Rafe Brunson ain't got, let him be
never so great as a trailer. Well, Rafe's put over me, and the
keys is in his pocket; but I hev the power to feel my way into
Rafe's head, and when I gits thar, I jest handles his pocket like
my own; and I will handle it, by the powers, jest as long as I
kin, and jest as if I had a natural right to use it. And hain't
I? When a man kin tame a horse, or an ox, and make it do
jest what he wants, aint it his'n? And when a pusson has the
power to do the same thing with another pusson, ain't he naterally
his'n. And ain't Rafe Brunson my own property, by
nateral right and training, and won't I use him, by the powers,
jest so long as he's able to go — let Cappin Inglehardt, or Cappin
No-heart-at-all — and that's jest what he is — app'int jest
as he pleases.

“So that hash is about cooked right. We sees what's to be
done — the why and the wharfore — and done it shill be! It's
as good as done, sence it's sworn to! I'm to carry off the gal;
the cappin marries her; and the boy is let out of prison! Darn
the fellow, how I likes him! I don't know jest why; but he
reads mighty sweet. It's like singing jest to hear him. And
he's full of spunk and sperrit, too, like a young tiger, when he's
got the chaince: and he had me under the very knife and didn't
stick! I wonder why! Not another inimy of mine, that I
knows on, would hev given me time to say `God help me!'
Yes, ef his sister marries the cappin, then all's right. He gits
cl'ar of captivation, and his daddy git's cl'ar, too, and, though
I shouldn't feel a shiver, or snort oneasy, to see him a-swinging,
yet, for the boy's sake, I'm agreeing he should get off. All's
right; I knows what's to be done; and then, for that other
business!”

Thus ended the self-communing of Dick of Tophet, carried
on in the thickest coverts, near the Widow Avinger's dwelling.
What is the other business to which he alludes? On this subject
his talk gives us no clues. He has not sufficiently meditated
the matter for utterance; or, rather, he forbears meditating

until the time shall arrive for action. Dick of Tophet is one
of those persons who usually think best in action, or in compliance
with the growth and pressure of the occasion. At all
events, he rarely suffers one performance to interfere with another.

He rose from his position upon the ground, and, with the
habit of the wolf, he worked his way around and about the
settlement, wherever the thickets afforded him a cover, prowling,
in the vague hope of gathering up some unconsidered prey
or spoil. Suddenly, he sinks back into cover. He sees the
negro 'Bram emerging from the settlement, and taking his way
into the woods.

'Bram, since his return to the widow's, has been busy scouting
as before. Like the hound, who hunts for his pastime,
though he never hears the horn blow, he took the woods, and
“looked for sign” without any orders from his master. He has
been somewhat surprised at the closing up of Griffith's old establishment
by the roadside, but, in his frequent compasses in
the woods, he has made some other discoveries which keep him
active and excite his curiosity. He has a purpose now, in taking
the woods, just as night is coming on. He goes forward
boldly, never once dreaming that another dog of fiercer species
than his own, is following upon his track with the keenest nostrils.
How 'Bram went forward, and Devil Dick after him,
need not be detailed step by step. Enough that Dick, with
some surprise and disquiet, tracked the negro to the secret place
of Griffith, in the deep thickets where he had left his little
squad. He had readily recognised the negro, knew his merits
as a scout, knew his relations with Willie Sinclair, and began
to apprehend that the latter might be about. It did not occur
to him that Sinclair might have assigned him to a temporary
service with the Travis's. But Dick's disquiet did not make
him heedless of the profit which might accrue to himself from
his own discovery. He kept as close as possible to the heels
of 'Bram, prudently however, and carefully timing his progress
so as to avoid discovery. It was something in his favor, that,
though a good scout, 'Bram was always a little too easily assured.
The negro nature did not suffer him to take any precautions
which involved much trouble; and the tedious preliminaries

of feeling his way out, at the start, always a first necessity
with every good scout, were but too apt to be dispensed
with by our son of Ethiop, in spite of all teaching and experience.
He went forward, boldly enough, never once seeming to
recollect that it was not quite dark, till he had got beyond the
widow's precincts. Then, as he drew near to the public road,
he began to peer out cautiously before him, ere he ventured to
cross to the woods opposite. He could still distinguish objects
in the dusky light, though at no great distance, and here his
precautions began. They were duly increased as he approached
the hidden cabin of Griffith. At this stage of his progress, no
snaking could have been better done. So Dick of Tophet
thought, compelled to observe the most singular precautions
himself, to escape discovery. But 'Bram never once looked behind
him. The poor negro never dreamed of the wolf-dog at
his own heels. But neither now could see. The reliance of
both was now necessarily upon another sense. The vision of
the negro, by night, is usually better than that of the white
man, but his hearing is commonly more obtuse. Dick of
Tophet's ears, bored as one of them was by Travis's bullet,
were worth a score of 'Bram's. But 'Bram was not dull in this
faculty. Suddenly, as he neared the house, he heard a movement.
He had startled some other scout from a place of watch.

“Who' da' dat? I yer somet'ing move.” A country negro
is given to soliloquy, and these words, though in a whisper to
himself, were distinctly uttered. He had scared our poor girl
Nelly Floyd from her perch. She was loitering about the cabin
in the hope to see her wilful brother, and if possible to speak
with him: but she had failed that night. She fled on the approach
of 'Bram, deeper into the covert. The negro soon forgot
the rustling sound which had reached his ears, and finally
made his way under the eaves of the cabin.

The squad of Dick of Tophet were — to use the expressive
idiom of the vulgar — at “high jenks,” as usual. Drink and
play — “tipsy dance and jollity,” in abundant variety, relieved,
for them, the tedium of hours not employed in strife and spoil.
They commonly led to both. Very soon, the ears of Dick of
Tophet enabled him to distinguish the drunken shout, the bacchannalian
song, the blasphemy and brutal speech.

“Thar's no having good sodgers out these fellows, do what
you will,” quoth he. “Now hyar's a spy onder their very
noses and they never smells him out; and, ef he had the power
wouldn't he give 'em blisters! Ef he had but three fellows
with him, and they had the we'pons, he could jest now scalp
and massacree the whole kit and b'iling of 'em.”

And as negro 'Bram heard the uproar, and peering through
the crevices beheld the condition of the crowd, he too had his
soliloquy.

“Ha! if Mass Willie bin yer, wid only five, t'ree or seben
ob he dragoon, wouldn't he mak' de fedders fly!”

Poor 'Bram! In less than twenty minutes after this reflection,
his own feathers were clipped. He was suddenly startled
into consciousness, at a moment, when his eyes were greedily
watching our ruffians over a portly jug of rum, by the weight of
a mountain on his shoulder, which bore him flat upon the earth,
face downward. The gigantic limbs of Dick of Tophet were
over him, straddling him, as the old man of the sea straddled
Sinbad, and his struggles against the unlooked-for enemy, were
just as impotent for escape as those of the Arabian adventurer.
He howled, and kicked, and strove, manfully enough, but in
vain; while, shouting to his followers within the cabin, Dick
soon brought them forth, quite able, however drunk, to secure
the captive which their chief had taken. To rope him and lift
him into the hut was an easy process. Poor 'Bram, prostrate
in a corner of the cabin, was effectually humbled. His scouting
was all at once put to shame.

“Ef I hadn't ha' been see dat rum,” was his first reflection,
followed by another. “I 'speck I mus' been grunt. Jim Ballou
bin tell me 'bout dat grunt befo', but I nebber tink I grunt.
And, oh! Lawd, now I in de han' ob dis Hell-fire Dick!”

That he was a gone coon, was his natural reflection. He
took for granted that he was to be scalped, hung, and slaughtered.
But Dick of Tophet had some small economies present
to his mind, which effectually shut out such sanguinary ideas as
were conjured up by the fears of our captive.

“That's fifteen guineas cl'ar gain,” quoth he, as he saw the
negro fairly wrapped up in hemp. “Hark ye, boys, why the
h—l kaint ye watch as well as drink. Ef play and drink was

the business, as I reckon it always will be, why the — don't
you jest set one of the party to snaking round, and take it by
turns at the business. You'll be sarcumvented, and every
scalp will feel the knife some day, when you're all soaked
to the very soul in liquor. I doesn't say you shain't drink
and you shain't play, but d—n your livers, kaint you do
some watching at the same time. Ef you was in the regilar
sarvice now, whar would you be? At the halberds,
every mother's kaif among ye, and gitting his thirty-nine
lashes! — But put up your kairds, and put up your liquor.
You've been putting it down pretty freely. I wants three on
you. You, Gus Clayton, you, Sam Jones, and you, Mat Floyd.
Git up, all three on you, and hyar to what I says.” When
they had risen he drew them aside. “It's three guineas in
your pocket — one apiece — the business I'm guine to send you
on. In two hours, you set off with that nigger, take him behind
one on you, and trot down to Griffith, and deliver him to
Griffith, and each of you shall git his guinea, in the hand. In
two hours, mind you — and — a guinea a-piece. But, ef you
drop him by the way, your heads shall pay for it. No drink,
you hyar! No stopping to play! Square up to the work, and
do it, onless you'd see blazes.”

And, while poor Nelly Floyd, sleeping soundly, exhausted
by long watching and hard riding, was oblivious in her thickets,
her wretched brother was riding off, with Gus Clayton and
Sam Jones, on their way to Griffith's “Swamp Hellery!”— as
they had already learned to style the precinct, each of them
nursing an eager appetite, which the commission of Dick
of Tophet had instantly suggested to their minds. Even as
they rode, Gus Clayton spurred his nag to the side of Jones,
who carried the negro, and said:—

“Sam, you haird what Griffith said to Old Brimstone” — an
irreverent mode of naming Dick of Tophet — “about a rich
fellow named Adair, living near about upon Pooshee?”

“Reckon I did. And—”

“Mighty rich old chap — and—”

“Yes! — and—”

And in this way, the three compared notes in their progress.
We need not report their dialogue. Enough, that the subordi

nate villains very soon concocted a scheme among themselves,
by which to anticipate one of the purposed crimes of their
superior.

They reached Griffith's in safety, delivered the negro, and
received three guineas, one apiece. They loitered and drank a
little, Griffith being an indulgent publican. In the meantime,
Clayton picked up all the information he could touching the
whereabouts of Sam Peter Adair, the rich old gentleman, dying
of liver complaint or consumption, and occupying, temporarily,
the deserted dwelling of one of the Devaux family. It was
easy to pick up this intelligence. Griffith, himself, was garrulous,
and some soldiers, who had stolen off from duty at Wantoot,
coming in at midnight, gave an account of a great dinner
that very day, which Adair had given to the officers of both
Pooshee and Wantoot, from which most of them went home
drunk. Drunkenness, in those days, be it remembered, was not
a military offence, except when on duty. Our ruffians drank in
eagerly everything that was spoken, then quietly took their
departure, a little before daylight — but not to go very far.
They simply retired to the neighboring woods, and compared
notes. The robbery of old Adair was determined upon, to be
executed the ensuing night. They were to tax their invention
for a lie, by which to excuse themselves for not returning
promptly, the next day, to their officer. All this was easy.
And the next steps were so to ascertain the actual condition of
Adair's household, as to arrange the details of the burglary.
We need not attempt to gather up these details.

Sam Peter Adair, that day, entertained a single guest, in a
person who, in South Carolina, enjoys a certain amiable reputation,
as one of the few British officers who exhibited traits of
courtesy, tolerance, and magnanimity, in dealing with his foes.
This was Major John Marjoribanks,[1] a fine-looking gentleman,

of middle age, then commanding a flank battalion, and stationed,
for a time, at Monck's Corner, which post Rawdon had re-established.
His duties calling him to the neighborhood of Wantoot
and Pooshee, Adair eagerly sought out Marjoribanks, and made
him his guest while in the vicinity. Hence the dinner-party of
which Griffith has told us; the officers at Wantoot and Pooshee
being invited to meet with Marjoribanks. He remained, after
they had gone, and though but a portion of the guests suffered
from the wine, in the manner reported at Griffith's, yet all of
them were made sufficiently to approve of the host's old Madeira.

Of Sam Peter himself we have been able to gather but few
particulars, and these, probably, would have been lost to us,
but for the terrible character of the subsequent events. He
was, apparently, a man of fortune, having claims of considerable
extent in the precinct where we find him, which he derived
under alleged conveyances of Sir John Colleton. He had
spent a portion of his life in the precinct, and had a liking for
it. This taste, and the hoped-for satisfaction of these claims
were, it seems, the motives for returning to the country from
Florida at this juncture. The climate seemed to suit his condition
as an invalid, and the British influence was essential to
his claims. It was, perhaps, for the better assertion of these
that he had a land-surveyor with him, a person named Moore,
of good convivial habits like his own. Sam Peter was a bon
vivant; a trifler; an old beau, very fastidious about his costume,
always wearing the biggest gold shoe and knee buckles,
the most capacious ruffs at bosom and wrist, the biggest buttons
to his coat, and a shock always starched and stiffened into a
solid mass by pomatum and hair powder. He was a little
bilious, dried-up, red-herring sort of body, who might have
passed for a Spanish grandee of the genuine blue blood. And
his wife, Mrs. Sam Peter, was very much like her liege; quite
as ugly and as bilious, as insignificant of person, and as careful
of her person. With the free use of cosmetics she had brought
her face to the perfect aspect of the whited sepulchre, from the
blankness of which her keen, fine, bright black eyes peered

out, like a couple of rare jewels, burning at the bottom of a
well. Her husband and self were equally vain. They travelled
with a trunk of silver plate, which they sought every
occasion to display. He gloried in a dinner-table exhibition, and
wasted himself and wines freely, in the hope to secure the homage
of those who preyed on both. She, meanwhile, coquetted
with all her guests in turn, as sillily as the poor little girl of
fifteen, who is feeding, for the first time, on the arch flatteries
of young wolves in sheep's clothing. Between the vanities of
these two poor old creatures, both on the threshold of eternity,
Marjoribanks found that his three days' quarters with them had
required a greater outlay of lying civilities, than he had ever
been required to expend in three years' service in any other
household. Their exactions were inordinate. The lord was
very tenacious about his wines, every bottle of which had its
history; about his seals and crystals, of which he had a collection;
about his sterling plate, which was not only massive, but
elaborately wrought and ornamented by the graver, in a style
which he thought worthy of Benvenuto Cellini; about his
sword and pistols, gold-headed cane, and snuff-box;— his ox,
his ass, and everything that was his — except his wife! He
made no sort of boast of her. He challenged no man's admiration
to that commodity. But her challenge was not to be gainsayed.
She taxed our British major at backgammon. She
held a good hand at whist. She played on the harp — badly
enough — but the attitude enabled her to display her attenuated
figure; and she sang with a loud, cracked voice, that knocked
every sentiment on the head the moment it began to breathe.
But as vain people are apt to be good-humored and amiable
while you keep them well served with the aliment they seek,
so it was not difficult, except in the case of very conscientious
people, to tabernacle with them for a short season.

There had been a long session that day. The dinner-table
not spread till four o'clock in the afternoon, was not abandoned
till midnight. The party consisted of the host and hostess, Marjoribanks
and Moore. The wine was freely circulated. The
host dwelt upon his experience in the English fashionable
world. He was one of those poor devils who fancy they rise
into importance by exalting the foreign at the expense of the

domestic. The lady had her early conquests to narrate, to all
of which Sam Peter seemed to turn a deaf ear — perhaps, if
the truth were known, an unbelieving one. Marjoribanks was
of gay, elastic mood, good sense, steady, yet shrewd and observant.
He had his anecdotes of army life, which he told with
spirit. Moore, whenever he filled his glass, spoke to the host,
and looked to the lady, bowing and smirking. He praised the
lands, goods, and chattels of the one, and sighed and gazed
languishingly, when he beheld the charms of the other. He
knew the art of feathering his own nest from the beds of richer,
if less sagacious people. What with cards and music — for the
lady always contrived to prove, before the day was over, that
by no possibility could she ever undergo transformation to a
nightingale — the hours sped till, having reached the extremest
length, they began to contract to the shortest, ere the hostess swept
out of the room with a bow, and smile, waving her hand gracefully,
as if dispensing ambrosial slumbers. Moore soon afterward
dropped off, but not before he had shown some awkward
inclination to drop under the table;— and Marjoribanks and our
host were left together, with the decanter before them pretty
nearly reduced. By this time, the latter had gone into a long
narrative of his own affairs, Marjoribanks hardly able to suppress
his yawns; and was building up a most glorious future of
fortune out of the prospects and possibilities of the present.

“Yes, sir,” said he, “at the least twenty-four thousand acres
of land; a baronet's inheritance! and why not a baronetcy? We
have had such and other titles before this in Carolina. And —
remind me in the morning — I will show you my plan of a castle,
somewhat after that of our lords of Northumberland, but
with very decided improvements. Yes, I think I may venture
to say, very superior improvements, especially in the towers,
which I shall greatly relieve by the interposition of corridors.
I shall park no less than ten thousand acres for deer, and flatter
myself that my scheme of fisheries for these swamps will give
me such reserves as the world has never before witnessed.
They are admirable by nature for the purposes of fish-breeding.”

But we need not repeat the dreams of this vain, poor, feeble,
old creature. The reflection of Marjoribanks, as he listened to
him, will serve our purpose.

“Great heavens!” said he — “what a strange mystery is
man! Here, now, is this vain old fool, making his calculations
for a thousand years, who has scarcely more than one to live.
He can hardly last out another winter! Were there ever two
such old fools? Without chick or child, they calculate as if
their posterity covered a thousand hills; without grace of person,
speech, look, thought, or sentiment, they talk at you, as if
the whole world were eagerly looking on and listening!”

And they thus separated for the night, Marjoribanks observing
that his host gathered up a hand-basket, heavy with plate,
which Mrs. Sam Peter had placed beside her lord before she
left the room. This burden, for it was such, the little old man
was wont to carry religiously to his chamber every night, and
store away heedfully, as in supposed safety, beneath the head
of his bedstead.

“Calculating,” quoth Marjoribanks, “for a thousand years,
yet with scarcely more than one in which to live!”

Little did even the latter fancy that his allowance, short as
it is, was yet too extravagant. Little did the poor, silly old
man, meditating a baronet's escutcheon, ever dream that the
decree had already gone forth — “Fool! this night shall thy
soul be required of thee!”