University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE TIGER RAGES IN THE SHEEP-COTE — THE VULTURE CARRIES
OFF THE DOVE.

It was a warm night, but not oppressively so for the season.
The stars were bright, the winds were whisht. The great forests
slept profoundly all about the dwelling. One would
think that Peace harbored here in perfect security; but why
do those dusky stealthy forms glide from cover to cover, through
the grounds, and about the porches? Why do they hold whispered
consultation in the shadows of yonder clump of cedars?
Why do they now gather beneath the eaves? Such Indian
stealth would seem to argue hostility.

Marjoribanks could not sleep. He had drank too much wine
for sleep, and he lay listless upon his couch, indulging in delicious
reveries, which were not less so because of the vagueness
of the hopes which filled them, and the shadowy doubts that
are ever a burden to the blessedest hopes. His room was in a
wing. The main building had a piazza in front which did not
extend to the wings. Sam Peter Adair and his wife occupied,
as a chamber, one of the rooms in the main building, a single
window of which opened upon the piazza. The house stood
upon brick pillars six feet high. This ascent was overcome by
a flight of steps which conducted into the piazza, and thence,
by a central passage, into the house.

As Marjoribanks lay upon his bed, undressed but not sleeping,
he could see a corner of the piazza, and a bit of green tree
here and there, and, occasionally, a star dropping off to bed
after a long night's shindy in the skies. But he saw nothing

more. How long he may have lain thus, he knows not, nor do
we. He does not think he slept. We have our doubts. He
admits to a drowsy feeling, at last, after a protracted vigil;
from which he was startled by a crash, and, he fancied, by a
cry or shriek, proceeding from the chamber of the ancient
couple.

To start up, snatch his pistols, and dart his head through the
window, were all the work of an instant only. There he caught
sight of a dusky figure in the piazza, handing a bundle, or basket,
to another on the steps. In a moment Marjoribanks guessed
the whole mystery, and he deliberately fired on the more conspicuous
robber and brought him down. The other, half seen
on the steps, darted away. Our major sent a second bullet
after him, as he ran, but apparently without effect. To sally
out, sword in hand, leaping through the window, was the next
performance of Marjoribanks, but he soon found that such pursuit
was idle. The ruffians, few or many, were soon covered
in the thickets.

To return to the house, rouse the servants in the kitchen, get
lights and survey the premises, consumed some time; and, in
the meanwhile, the wounded robber made a desperate effort to
crawl off; he had crept down the steps into the yard, but had
fainted from loss of blood, and, when picked up, was quite insensible,
with a severe wound in the thigh.

It was with feelings of trembling horror and apprehension
that, having gathered the servants, with lights. Marjoribanks
proceeded to the chamber of his host. Everything was silent
in that quarter. The villains had entered by the piazza window,
which had been left open, with only a light muslin curtain.
The crash which had startled, or awaked, our major, was that
of the sash, which seems to have fallen, was perhaps torn out,
by one of the robbers while making his exit. They had done
their work as thoroughly as terribly. Though their object was
robbery only, it involved the murder of both Adair and his
wife. They had been awakened, it would seem, to a consciousness
of the presence of the robbers, and Adair had shown fight.
His gold-headed rapier was still griped fast in his hand — the
blade broken beneath him, where he lay, stark, stiff upon the
floor. He had been stabbed by a knife, two wounds, both upon

the breast. His wife had been strangled, evidently choked
down by muscular fingers, as she offered the vain efforts of her
woman strength to the rescue of her husband. Her gray hairs,
usually concealed by a wig, were torn out and scattered upon
the floor. Her face, neck, and body, were black with bruises,
but there had evidently been no blow, which could have produced
her death. But the marks of the fatal fingers were prominent
enough upon her neck. Both were dead when they were
discovered.

And there, and thus, were ended the chapters of a most egregious
mortal vanity. So Marjoribanks thought as he viewed
the ill-fated couple. When he thought of the poor, silly dreams
and anticipations which possessed their feeble souls, but a few
hours before, the event grew more and more horribly dark and
awful. The thing was so sudden, the disproportion of penalty
to desert, seemed so disgusting as the work of Fate, that Marjoribanks,
though shuddering, could scarce believe the horrors
which he beheld. Such frail, feeble, butterfly natures to be
broken on the wheel! It seemed to him the worst sort of murder;
like crushing an infant between the jaws of a crocodile.

Of course, our major of brigade did his duty in the premises.
He sent despatches to the commanding officer both at Wantoot
and Pooshee, and soon had a detachment of horse to guard the
property, take possession of the prisoner, and scour the woods.
But our purpose is not to follow the history of this transaction,
and it is only an episode in our narrative, which would not have
been introduced at all, but for the fact, that one of our dramatis
personæ is involved in the affair. The captive robber, whom
Marjoribanks had wounded, is the silly, restless, purposeless,
thoughtless, young scapegrace, Matthew Floyd, brother of our
forest girl, Harricane Nell!

He had sworn to his sister that he should always carry a
knife which should defeat the rope; he had assured her, that,
in the regular service, he possessed immunity from this latter
danger. And he did carry the knife; and, even when crawling
down the steps, wounded, the blood gushing at every movement,
he thought of the boast that he had made to her; and,
feeling for the weapon in his bosom, he congratulated himself
that he had it in reserve for the occasion. But, even at that

moment he swooned into utter apathy, and when he again
opened his eyes to consciousness, he was manacled, a prisoner,
and his weapon gone. That security lost, we shall see what is
the virtue in being registered a king's man, on the muster-rolls
of Captain Inglehardt's loyal rangers. But of his fate there
will be time enough hereafter. Let us bestow our regards on
more important personages.

Our friends, lying perdu at the widow Avinger's, had not
yet missed the presence of 'Bram, the scout. His roving commission
so authorized his coming and going, without beat of
drum, so justified his prolonged absences, that, unless with some
special reason, his disappearances occasioned no apprehension.
He was regarded as one of those persons who can always take
care of themselves, and for whom nobody feels any anxiety.
Twenty-four hours therefore, passing, in which he does not present
himself, only led to the conviction that he was making
profitable discoveries elsewhere. Meanwhile, our baron of Sinclair
was recovering his insolent strength. He could now swing
his leg of his own will, and without succor, off and on his cushions;
he talked more freely; laughed; made merry with the
widow, and jested with Mrs. Travis, still as Mrs. Smith, as if
she were a widow also; never heeding the grave visage with
which she entertained his jibes, nor the sly, significant glances
with which Carrie looked to Bertha, and the eyes of the two
girls smiled in mute converse together. He kept them singing
for him when he could. He was fond of music, and taxed their
frequent practice in this exquisite domestic accomplishment.
He was fortunately quite good-humored in the exercise of his
growing strength; and, speaking in the language of his recovered
authority, his despotism was yet of an affectionate order.
He chucked Bertha Travis under the chin, drew her to him and
kissed her between the eyes; swore she was quite too fine a
girl for any of the Smith family, vowed that he wished he were
again a young man for her sake, and never once heeding the
awkward constraint which her manner exhibited, or disposed
to ascribe it to the modesty peculiar to the Smith family, he exhibited
such a fondness for the girl, such a cordial regard for
her, as, under other circumstances, it would have been eminently
her anxiety to inspire in the bosom of her lover's father. His

improving condition naturally led to the determination to return
at once to the Barony, and as soon as possible; and this determination
just as naturally brought back Bram to his recollection.
He was the proper person to send to the Barony for
horses. Sam was too timid — too old — too deficient in resources.

“Who has seen that rascal Bram for the last two days?
He is never here when wanted. Willie has ruined the fellow.
He has now such conceit of his abilities as a scout, that
he fancies it a sort of abuse of his talents to be put to any other
duties. He will get knocked upon the head, some of these days,
with all his cleverness, and go the way of all that race of fools
whose mere vanity leads into danger from which their valor
would be apt to shrink. Now, he is the only fellow whom I
can safely venture to send up to the plantation. Sam would
poke along, never using ears or eyes, and be sure to be gobbled
up and carried off by some of these refugee rascals. Do, my
dear little Smith” — Bertha was the only person present when
this soliloquy was spoken — “do, my dear little Smith, prettiest
and sweetest of all possible Smiths — do summon Sam, and see
if he knows anything of 'Bram!”

But Sam could only answer, non mi ricordo — that is, “I nebber
knows, maussa, whay 'Bram day.”

“Get out of my sight, old terrapin! You never know anything.”

The expression of the baron's purpose, to take his departure
as soon as he could get his horses down from the plantation,
naturally led to Mrs. Travis's avowal of her own intention to
depart very soon also.

“But why, my dear madam, will you go before I do? And
where do you mean to go?”

“Across the Santee, to my sister near the `Hills.'”

“Ah! you have a sister near the `Hills'? But, will you not
accompany Carrie and myself to the barony, and stay a while
with us — stay, at least, until you can be better sure of the
safety of the road? We must have you with us for a while,
my dear Mrs. Smith. I can't do without my little Smith petling
here. I must see more of her. I can't part with her so
soon; and, if there be no pressing necessity carrying you across

the Santee, then I must insist upon taking you both captive, for
a week or two, at all events.”

“Thank you, Colonel Sinclair; we are very grateful, and
should like nothing better at some other season; but, just now,
there is a pressing necessity. There are, indeed, some serious
cares overhanging me at this juncture, and the time already
lost by our forced delay has added to them.”

“Serious cares! I hope not. What have women to do with
cares? Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Smith? Don't be
shy, now, in speaking. Say the word. Let me know in what
way I can serve you, and, believe me, I shall prefer to deny
myself than deny you. You have done a good service to my
children and myself. You have succored me in my sufferings,
and they have been great. I do believe, but for your assistance,
your own and your daughter's nursing, I should have
died. Now, let me show myself grateful. I don't mean to
show myself restiff under obligations which I can not requite;
for where the gratitude really exists, the obligation is already
satisfied: but I wish you to afford me some opportunity of serving
those whom I love and honor. Let me know what sort of
cares are these which trouble you, that I may help you as I
can.”

“I thank you, my dear Colonel Sinclair, and do not hesitate
to say that if you could, in any way, help me, I should not for
a moment pause to show you how it might be done.”

“That's right, my dear madam; that's the right spirit. But
how do you know that I can not help you? I have wealth—”

“In that respect, Colonel Sinclair, we suffer no want.”

“Nay, do not think me so impertinent, my dear Mrs. Smith,
as to—”

And our baron felt an unusual awkwardness in finishing the
sentence. The lady came to his relief:—

“A few words, dear Colonel Sinclair, will save further speech
on this topic. My anxieties, and those of my daughter, do not
arise from any pecuniary difficulties. They result rather from
the condition of the country, and from some painful relations
which affect a very dear portion of our family. But these
things are of a nature which do not suffer me to speak of them
at present. We are unfortunate, but not poor; anxious and

suffering, but hopeful, and not conscious of any undesert; we
are fugitives, but only because we are wronged: in brief, my
dear colonel, there is a mystery about our house, at this moment,
which I am not allowed to unveil even to the eyes of one
whom I so much honor and esteem as Colonel Sinclair. Let
this suffice. You shall be the first to know the truth, hereafter,
whenever it shall be safe and proper to take off the seal from
our mystery; and I promise you that, when I may need such
service as you can bestow, I shall deem it a duty which I owe
to your generous offer to seek you out among the first.”

“That's right, ma'am. That's what I like, and I thank you,
and shall remember this promise. I don't feel toward you and
your daughter, Mrs. Smith, as if we were strangers. It seems
to me that I have known you both, Heaven knows how long.
You are both as natural to my thoughts and heart as if you had
served in the training of both. As for that girl of yours — but
where the deuce does she keep? I have not seen her since
dinner, nor Carrie either.”

Here little Lottie Sinclair, who had just entered the room,
answered: “They went out to walk, papa, and sis wouldn't let
me go with 'em. I wonder why?”

“Went out to walk, and not home yet? Why, it's dark!
Certainly, my dear Mrs. Smith, these damsels are a little too
adventurous. I hope they have not wandered far.”

Mrs. Avinger here made her appearance with a light.

“Have the girls come in, Mrs. Avinger?” was the query of
Mrs. Travis.

“Not yet,” was the reply, in subdued and grave accents.
Her tones struck Mrs. Travis. She drew the widow out of the
room, and said —

“Is anything the matter, Mrs. Avinger?”

“I hope not,” was the answer, “but it is now quite dark, and
I confess to being a little uneasy about the girls. They should
not have gone far. I warned them not to do so; and they
should not have stayed so late. They may have wandered
down to Cedar creek, and in their chat have not observed the
lateness of the hour.”

“We must send after them.”

“I have already despatched Cato and Sam.”

An hour elapsed. The uneasiness of all parties increased.
Colonel Sinclair was particularly restless. It was found impossible
to keep the matter from him, and he was chafing with his
fears and impotence, while professing to have no apprehensions.
He tried to reassure Mrs. Travis, alias Smith.

“They have only strolled too far, and are tired. It is the
case with your sex always, Mrs. Smith. They never calculate
time, space, strength, or anything. Women do not possess the
faculties of calculation, lacking forethought. You are all butterflies,
with a sort of summer life among flowers. But, you
have sent to look for them. Who? Sam's a poke and a
blockhead. I know nothing of your fellow Cato, Mrs. Smith;
but he is old, and a negro, which is equal to saying that he will
drowse on the edge of a volcano in full blast. Where the d—l
is that fellow 'Bram? He is never to be found when wanted.
Ah, if I could only mount a horse!”

And the baron groaned and writhed between his fears and
his imbecility. An hour elapsed — and such an hour! Mrs.
Avinger had the table spread for supper, but nobody ate, nobody
drank. Mrs. Travis kept up a continual progress from
porch to chamber. Sinclair, meanwhile, unable to move, maintained
a perpetual soliloquy of contradictions. All the parties
had reached that period in life when the emotions cease to cry
aloud. But they had their own modes of speech, nevertheless,
in the case of each, and these were sufficiently impressive to
any observer.

At length, and when this suppressed anxiety seemed to be
no longer endurable, there was a sound, footsteps, and a movement
from without. All rushed into the porch except our
baron, and he made a most formidable effort to move also, the
attempt ending only in a bitter groan from the equal pain in
foot and heart. The next moment brought in Carrie Sinclair,
supported by the two old ladies. She had been brought home
insensible by Cato and Sam. She was totally unable to support
herself. They had found her, fully a mile off, prostrate in
the woods, seemingly insensible. This fact, and her appearance,
furnishes a sufficient preface to a fearful history. Her
face was blackened by blows and bruises; her garments torn,
and covered with stains of the soil; her hair was freed from all

ties and combs, disordered, dishevelled, covering face, neck,
shoulders. She had evidently gone through some terrible trial;
but, for the moment, she was incapable of speech. She could
only sob convulsively. Her whole nervous system seemed to
be shattered.

They laid her down upon the sofa, and applied restoratives.
When she had recovered, her first sign of consciousness was to
scream for “Bertha!”

“My child! my child! what of my child?” cried the mother.

“Who is Bertha? What does she mean?” demanded the
colonel, who fancied that Carrie was delirious.

“Miss Smith,” whispered the widow Avinger in the ears of
the baron.

“I thought her name was Annie!”

But, in the meantime, Carrie began to speak somewhat coherently:—

“Where is she? Where have they taken her?”

“Who? my child?”

“Yes, Bertha! She is carried off by ruffians from the woods.”

“O God, be merciful to me a sinner! My child! — carried
off? Why — by whom? Speak, Carrie Sinclair, and tell me
of my child!”

“Oh! how can I tell you? I know nothing more. We
were suddenly set upon by ruffians from the woods — four or
five in number — dark, savage-looking men — all armed. That
horrid creature whom you called Hell-fire Dick was the leader.
I knew him at a glance. They tore us asunder. They dragged
her away. I followed. I clung to her. I strove to release
her, and they struck me down, thrust me back, put a man to
guard me, while they dragged her off to their horses. We
screamed, but no one came. I struggled in the grasp of the
strong man, and see my condition. He smote me as fiercely as
if I were not a woman. His fist felled me to the earth, and I
knew no more, until I found myself in the arms of the negroes.”

Her appearance amply testified to the severity of her treatment.
There had been a terrible blow planted almost between
her eyes. They were bloodshot, and the forehead was completely
blackened by the stroke. Never had beautiful young

woman found so little mercy from the hands of man before, unless
when murdered outright.

For a moment, Colonel Sinclair was erect, on his feet. “My
sword! my pistols!” he cried. But he sank back into the seat
a moment after. His passion was quelled by his own physical
sufferings. He could only groan and writhe in the mingled
tortures of mental and physical agony — could only rage with
impotent fury — the most humiliating of all kinds of consciousness.
His roar of pain and rage; the convulsive sobbings of
Carrie; the screams of little Lottie, who beheld the defaced
visage of her sister with a child-like horror; the clasped hands
and the tears of the widow Avinger; these were evidences of
the grief and terror of the household; but how feeble, in comparison,
with that speechless sense of wo and agony, under
which, with a single shriek of desolation, the mother of the lost
girl sunk down upon the floor, in a heap, senseless for awhile —
mercifully so for the relief of a brain already overstrained too
much. There is a period in the event when the dramatic
painter judiciously drops his curtain over the scene. We must
imitate his example.