University of Virginia Library

45. CHAPTER XLV.
SINCLAIR PENETRATES MUDDICOAT CASTLE.

The vision was upon her — and such a vision! But she was
silent. Oh! what a world of past, present, future, was crowded
in that vision — was locked up in that voluminous silence! But
she went forward — all went forward — in the same mute and
rigid purpose — still as death! But what were her anticipations,
her fears? We must not ask at present. We are required
to shift our ground, and abandon these, for other parties to our
drama. We must now return to Inglehardt, and report his progress
which necessarily anticipates that of Sinclair.

Our tory chieftain, as we have seen, has been something more
than unlucky. He has been discredited before his men; mortified
by defeat; and, which was the most humiliating reflection,
been seen to shrink in battle from the uplifted sabre of that
very enemy and rival whom he had avowed it to be his first
and dearest desire to encounter! Nothing saved him from the
keen edge of Sinclair's sabre but his own rapid recoil from the
stroke, and the subsequent confusion occasioned by the falling
of the tent. In shame and confusion, and with the full conviction
that the field was utterly lost to the British, he had fled incontinently,
too soon — with hundreds more — had found shelter
in the swamp thickets, and harbored in them closely, while
he stole away noiselessly to his own deeper hiding-place. A
slight wound, which rather stung than hurt him, added to his
mortification; and he fancied that his troop had all beheld,
and felt the momentary failure of his heart when he was confronted
by the weapon of Sinclair. He never asked himself
if any of them knew the special reasons which he had for not

refusing the fight with Sinclair. It was enough that Dick of
Tophet knew and understood them all, and he could not mistake
the impudent leer in the eyes of the latter, when they
dashed away together from the field of battle, followed by as
many of the troop as had survived the conflict. They were
now reduced to twenty-one men, all told. Dick had fought
like a Trojan; never showing fear for a moment; and had carried
off an ugly cut upon one shoulder, and a deep graze of a
rifle-bullet in the same arm, as proofs of his own exposure.
These hurts were rudely bandaged up as soon as they found
safe shelter in the woods. They did not need much surgery.
Surgery, properly speaking, there was none at that time, in the
irregular or militia service.

But Dick did not care for surgery. He was a bold, hardy
rascal, and could grin over his mischances while he reviewed
the case and conduct of his superior. When about six miles
from the field of battle, the party halted for awhile, to rest some
of their number, and attend to the hurts of others. Then it
was that Dick got his own wounds dressed, while Inglehardt
submitted his thigh, scathed by a bullet, to the examination of
Dick himself, who officiated as an assistant in the rough surgery
of the times. An hour's rest and the bugle sounded, and the
squad resumed its flight. Inglehardt was impatient to go forward.

Dick of Tophet, as far as he dared, expostulated against this
timeless haste. He had his doubts about the result of the battle.
Dick was an old soldier, not unable to detect the radical
blunders made by the Americans. He, besides, gave full credit
to the positions held by Marjoribanks and Sheridan.

But Inglehardt would admit of no argument. He had seen
the British regulars in full flight, making for the brick house;
nay, had he not seen hundreds of them flinging away their
weapons, as impediments to their flight, and pushing, with
headlong speed, for Charleston? He could not doubt the result!
He dared not delay. If caught by the Americans, he
had no hope of escape from the halter! He had put himself
out of the pale of mercy. He had now but one hope; and that
was to bind Travis to his interests. He must compel Bertha
Travis to submit — to take him for her husband in season — to

have the knot inevitably tied, so that he should have the path
opened to him, for making terms, through her father, with the
Americans, should they continue to triumph — which he now
began to believe they certainly would. To put himself in safety
— to secure the spoils already won — he had no mode but that
offered by the alliance with Travis. He must force that measure,
and quickly; that very night if possible.

On this point he is determined. He is now as morose and
savage as impatient. He is prepared to urge his power to extremity
— to any extreme — rather than forego his only remaining
policy, and to escape the necessity of exile; and he was
rousing himself to the exercise of the darkest moods of his nature.
His orders were given in brief, stern, savage accents.
To his Lieutenant Lundiford, he said, as they rode:—

“You have ascertained that the old Dutch parson, Steinmeitz,
is still at Frink's?”

“Yes, sir; he's teaching Frink's children.”

“When you get to camp, despatch one of your men to bring
him. It is but three miles off. He knows for what I want
him. I have seen him already. Say that I have sent, and let
him come off at once. Bring him by force if necessary!”

Dick of Tophet heard the order. He smiled grimly, and muttered
to himself apart.

“Force! It's come to that, is it? He's thinking, now, to
force his happiness! He's just now in a mighty fine sort of
temper to be a happy man, ain't he? Well, he'll do for the gal
jest the same as a better man, prehaps; and my little sodgerboy
will get out of his captivation! And that's jest all that I
cares about it!”

And so the party rode, till, reaching a certain well-known turning-point,
Lundiford led the main body of the troop forward to the
old camp-ground, while Inglehardt, Dick of Tophet, and one
other person, a common soldier, took their way along one of the
secret passages conducting to Muddicoat Castle. They penetrated
this domain some two hours before the arrival of Sinclair
and his dragoons in the same region.

Having reached the refuge, Inglehardt at once proceeded to
the prison of Captain Travis and his daughter, while Dick of
Tophet and the soldier turned into the wigwam occupied by

Brunson. Brunson was absent at the house of Blodgit — the
prison-house of Henry Travis. The soldier went out to look
after him. He did not return directly, nor did Brunson. The
latter had met Inglehardt, who took him with him to Travis's
keep. Dick of Tophet remained alone, and by no means happy.
Never the man to be happy when alone. He was sore of body.
He had gone supperless, and was wounded. He was, besides,
uneasy of mind — he knew not well why — but the proceedings
of Inglehardt; his desires, his designs, the condition of the hapless
family in his hands, and most of whom had been entrapped
by Dick himself — all these things combined to produce some
disquiet in the thought of the latter. What if things did not
turn out as he hoped and expected? What if the girl spurned
her captor. If the boy perished? Dick of Tophet saw that
Inglehardt was in a terribly savage mood. He well knew in
what variety of ways the latter had been mortified; and he felt
an oppressive apprehension, that he could not shake off, that the
tory chieftain was prepared to do some desperate act should the
resolution of Bertha Travis prove superior to his arts and
threats. He was uneasy, we say — an uneasiness, by the way,
which would not have troubled him greatly, but that he had recently
received, in some tender part of his conscience, a barbed
shaft of truth, which had stuck, and worked, and rankled —
keeping him sore and thoughtful! We have seen that the fellow,
deep-dyed as he was in crime and blood, and every sort
of sin, had yet some lingering seeds of humanity in his bosom,
which, long dormant, had under curious circumstances — an old
woman's Christian meekness — a child's soft birdlike tones in
reading — a rude woodcut in an ancient volume — a quaint
allegorical history of sin, itself — had begun to sprout afresh, in
some spot not wholly sterile of his heart! Dick of Tophet, in
the loneliness and silence which environed him — sore of body
besides — and he had no drink meanwhile to quiet reflection —
had become thoughtful; and his thoughts made him uneasy.

He took the book out of his bosom — poor Pilgrim, striving
up the mountain with that more than mule bundle on his back!
He took out the book, and squatted down upon the clay hearth
of the hovel, and pushed a fresh brand to that which was
already burning, and as the resinous pine flared up brightly, he

prepared to turn the pages which he could not read, and fancy
the legend which he had scarcely begun to fathom.

But the volume had hardly caught his eyes, when he started
to his feet, and cried out, while his whole frame shivered under
the sudden convulsive motion of his soul. What had he seen?
What heard? What shocking discovery could he make?

He dropped upon his knees. He laid the book reverently
down upon the hearth. He clasped his hands as if in prayer.
But he spoke not. His lips seemed rigidly sealed. He had
never learned to pray. He knew not how to begin. He could
only ejaculate, after his barren, savage fashion:—

“Great Gimini! Oh, the Lord! It's a providential marcy,
this! It's the woman's blessing on the man that murdered her
son!” And he took up the book, and pointed to it, precisely as if
showing to a spectator, the thing which had staggered and confounded
himself.

A bullet — a musket bullet of an ounce weight — was buried
in the book: had passed through the centre of the cover, and
was still nestled, midway, among the leaves of the volume; and
that volume had been stuffed into his bosom, right over the
region of the heart!

“Gimini! Lord! Ef 'twa'n't for this book, whar would I
be now? Kaint say! May be, mighty oncomfortable in some
hotter country! Who knows! Ef them preachers say the
right thing, I'd be kivered, jist this minute, with brimstone
blisters, from the top of the head to the bottom of the feet.
That book has saved me from that blistering. 'Twas gin to
me with the blessings of that woman, that old widow! And
'twas my knife that did the butchering of her only son. And
he only a sucking kaif — a sarcumstance of a boy, that I could
hav' tumbled with a single lick of the back o' my hand. I was
rashing drunk that day, and marciless, and I butchered him!
And hyar, his own mammy, giv' me a sawt o' protection from
the bullet! It's cur'ous — mighty cur'ous! Thar's sperrits, I
reckon, in the world. And thar's a God over all! And ef so,
thar's a blistering hell o' brimstone somewha! Hain't I had a
narrow chaince to-day? And what a difference in the hearts o'
people. Hyar's this old woman widow, blesses and pertects me,
and I butchered her only son; and he a mere sarcumstance of

a boy! And hyar's another sarcumstance of a boy, that I
knocked over and captivated — he and his daddy both — and
pretty much starved besides; and he reads to me — and he has
the whip-hand of me — and he has my own knife over me —
and me a sleeping — and he don't stick! It's mighty cur'ous!
I reckon there must be sperrits in the world! And thar's a
God over all, that watches! Oh, Lawd God! I reckon thar's
no chaince for me gitting out o' the brimstone, onless I hed a
thousand years for it. I've got a bundle on my shoulders, a
thousand times worse, I reckon, than ever this poor old leetle
fellow carried up that mountain!”

He shook the bullet out from among the leaves where it had
been closely bedded. He turned it over narrowly. It was
flattened, but still heavy.

“An ounce bullet, I reckon; pushing with dead aim at the
heart! The Lawd bless the old woman and her book! That's
the good of larning and edecation.”

And all this time, Dick of Tophet was on his knees. He
had forgotten his position. Possibly, his novel mood of humility,
and awe, and growing reverence — nay, superstition — kept
him in it. He was thus surprised by the sudden appearance of
Brunson.

“What! down on your marrow-bones, a-praying! Well!
what's next? What's the world a-coming to?”

“I praying!” and the other, ashamed of his humility, rose
indignantly. “I was jist a blowing up the fire.”

“But that's a bible, ain't it — or a prayer-book?”

“It's a book of sin and temptation, and I was jist a trying to
take a new lesson in sinning; for my l'arning, that hay, ain't a
huckleberry to your persimmon, Rafe! And what's it you
wants now?”

“Well, it's to stir you up to watch, and not to pray. The
cappin's busy. He's wolfish, I tell you! I'm to send Gorton
off to camp, and you're to watch the crossings till he gits
back.”

“Well! that's easy! But what's he about?”

“He's with the gal and her daddy. They're all talking at
the same time; though I'm a thinking old Travis don't altogether
know what he's a talking about. He doesn't seem to

hev any right idee how the cat jumps. He talks wild and
foolish.”

“But what about the boy?”

“Oh! he's to be a sawt o' grindstone, I reckon, that the
cappin's guine to sharp his we'pon on.”

“Eh! — how sharp?”

“Well, I don't know. But I'm jubous, the cappin's guine
to scalp the boy jist to make the daddy and the gal sensible!
I'm to carry the chicken now to the coob.”

“Eh! you air!” and Dick of Tophet moved about uneasily,
then approached the Trailer, and said:—

“Look you, Trailer, don't be too quick, to do what the
cappin says in his passion. He's wolfish now, and hain't got
the right sense and the wisdom to know altogether what he's a
doing; and it's fifty to one, that he calls you to do the thing
now that he'll be sorry for to-morrow; and when it's done, and
he sees the worst of it, he'll be calling you to account, and he
won't believe that he ever giv' you the orders, and all you say
won't stand in the argyment with anybody; they'll all believe
the cappin sooner than the scout! So, you be sensible; and
easy; and don't be too quick to do the thing that you kaint
mend easy when it's done.”

“Look you, Dick, see to that!” and the Trailer displayed
five gold pieces. Dick, with a groan, admitted that the reasons
for Brunson's obedience were very potent; but he renewed his
counsels, until they grew into entreaties — to the surprise of the
Trailer. At last, when they separated, each to proceed to his
post, the latter was a good deal mystified by the direct petition
of Dick: “Not to hurt the boy, any how; give him time, and
give the cappin time; and only let me know, Rafe, what's a
guine on. You shain't lose by it, though the guineas goes out
of my own pockets to make you whole agin!”

And the Trailer disappeared. And Dick of Tophet slowly
buckled on his pistols, and restored the Pilgrim to his bosom,
and took his way — still uneasy, still gravelled by thought and
conscience — toward the appointed station; to watch at the
very cypress, which Willie Sinclair was to cross under the
guidance of Nelly Floyd.

Here, not five steps from the inner terminus of the cypress,

he stretched himself out, covered with a clump of myrtle, at the
foot of a mighty sycamore. Gorton disappeared with a message
to Lundiford in camp, and Brunson, withdrawing Henry
Travis from the wigwam of Pete Blodgit, conducted the boy to
that in which his father and sister were confined.

Dick of Tophet, alone, pistol in one hand, and Pilgrim's Progress
in the other, watched the cypress across the creek. He
could use the pistol, but not the book; but the latter seemed to
have acquired a new interest in his eyes, apart from the virtues
in his theory of “edication.” It was now his talisman. He
owed to it his life; and he mused upon the mysteries, so lately
opening to his vision, until he almost forgot that he carried a
pistol, and was on watch across the creek.

But he did not forget Henry Travis in his musings. To the
influence of this boy, our Dick of Tophet ascribed something —
he knew not what — of the virtues of his talisman. He owed
the boy for something, of a moral sort, which he could not define,
apart from the debt of life which he owed to his forbearance,
in his sleeping hour, and when the wronged boy stood over
him with knife above his breast.

He was troubled about the boy. He was disposed to do
something for him. The ties which bound him to Inglehardt
had been growing feebler, from the first moment, when those
had begun to grow which attached him to Henry Travis; and
he was now just in that mood, when a sudden collision of any
sort with his superior — any situation stimulating his present
mood to action — would probably have found him, lifting weapon
openly in the boy's defence and in defiance of his captain!
Were he, for example, in attendance upon Inglehardt at the
present moment, instead of Brunson, and were Inglehardt to
attempt, or require from him, any demonstration against the
boy's health or safety, Dick would have ranged himself beside
the threatened captive, and done battle to the uttermost in his
behalf.

Now, habit interposed — in the absence of overt provocation
— to keep Dick of Tophet at his post; though he could still
fancy the boy's danger, and feel a growing uneasiness in consequence.
He knew the desperate case of Inglehardt; he knew
the hard, cold, brutal, servility of Brunson; and, but that he believed

that the former would aim at nothing more than to frighten
Travis and his daughter into compliance with his wishes, by
seeming to threaten the boy's life, he would, most likely, have
left his post and pushed directly for the scene where the drama
was in progress. But habit prevailed with the old, drill sergeant,
and he crouched under his tree, behind his bushes of
myrtle, and brooded over the mysteries of Providence which
converted his book of the Pilgrim into a shield for his safety in
the day of battle.

Ah! how much more grateful to us now, could we report him
wandering away from his post; forgetting the mere military service,
and, in his new interest in humanity, taking his way to
the succor of the boy, resolved on saving him, or sharing in his
fate! We should then be spared, one terrible passage in which
he is — a blind creature of the Fates — to work once more in
the business of the Furies!

And, brooding where he lay, Dick of Tophet forgot to watch.
Watching, he ceased to be a sentinel. He dreamed. His thought
was far away; foreign to his habit as his duties; when, suddenly,
he was roused to consciousness, by the sound of a falling body.

Sinclair, not seeing, in the dim, misty light, the butt end of
the cypress, which he crossed, made a false step, as he reached
the termination of it, and came heavily to the ground. Dick of
Tophet was brought instantly back to consciousness and to his
duties. He started up, upon his knee; saw several dark forms
passing rapidly over the cypress; and fired his pistol, with direct
aim, at the foremost. A shriek from Nelly Floyd, showed
that his bullet had found a victim: the last, probably, that the
murderer would have chosen!

In that moment, Sinclair recovered his feet; and, while Dick
of Tophet was rising to his, our dragoon rushed upon him,
quick as lightning, and smote with all his might, and with that
terrible broadsword! Dick saw the glittering steel as it hung
in air a moment; a flash — a sweeping flash — clear as the crescent
moon — and there was no retreat! he threw up the hand
which still grasped the story of poor Pilgrim! The steel smote
sheer through the wrist, and rushed, deep, down, into the neck
of the victim, almost severing the head from the body. He sank
without a groan! A moment of quivering muscle, and all was over!