University of Virginia Library

DICEY LANGSTON.

Dicey Langston was the daughter of Solomon Langston, of Laurens District, South Carolina. She possessed a brave spirit, which, living in the days of the Revolution, she had more than one chance to display. Situated in the midst of Tories, and being patriotically inquisitive, she often learned by accident, or discovered by strategy, the plottings so common in those days against the American patriots. This intelligence she used to communicate to the friends of freedom on the opposite side of the Ennoree River.

Learning one time that a band of the enemy, called the “Bloody Scouts,” were about to fall on the “Elder Settlement,” a place where brothers and other friends of hers were residing, she made up her mind to warn them of their danger. To do this, she must hazard her own life; but off she started, alone, in the darkness of the night, traveled several miles through the woods and over marshes and across creeks, through a country where foot-logs and bridges were then unknown; came to the Tyger, a deep stream, into which she plunged and waded till the water was up to her neck. She then became bewildered, and zigzagged the channel some time; but at length reached the opposite shore, for a helping hand was beneath, and a kind Providence guided her. She hastened on, reached the settlement, and her brothers and the whole community were safe.

She was returning one day from another settlement of patriots, when a company of Tories met her, and questioned her in regard to the neighborhood she had just left; but she refused to give them any information. The leader of the band then held a pistol to her breast, and threatened to shoot her, if she did not make the wished-for disclosure. “Shoot me, if you dare! I will not tell you!” she replied. The rascal, enraged at her obstinacy, was in the act of firing; but one of the soldiers threw up the hand holding the weapon, and the brave heart of the girl was permitted to beat on.

The brothers of Dicey were no less patriotic than she; and they having, by their active services in the cause of liberty, greatly displeased the enemy, the latter were determined to be revenged. A desperate band accordingly went to the house of their father, and, finding the sons absent, they were about to take their vengeance on the old man, whom they hated on account of his sons. With this intent, one of the party drew a pistol; but just as it was aimed at the breast of her aged and infirm father, Dicey rushed between the two, and, though the ruffian bid her get out of the way or take the contents of the weapon in her own breast, she flung her arms around her father's neck, and declared she would receive the ball first, if the pistol were fired. The heart of the “Bloody Scout” was softened, and Mr. Langston lived to see his noble daughter perform other heroic deeds.

One time, her brother James, in his absence, sent to the house for a gun which he had left in her care, with orders to deliver it to no one except by his direction. On reaching the house, one of the company made known the errand, whereupon she brought the gun, and was about to deliver it. At this moment it occurred to her that she had not demanded the pass-word agreed upon between herself and her brother. With the gun still in her hand, she looked the company sternly in the face, and called for the countersign. One of the company, for a joke, told her that she was too late; that the gun as well as the holder was already in their possession. “Do you think so?” she boldly asked, aiming it at him. “Then take charge of it!” Her appearance indicated that she was in earnest, and the pass-word was given without delay. A hearty laugh on the part of the “Liberty Men” ended the ceremony.—

Noble Deeds of American Women.

Miss Langston married Thomas Springfield, of Greenville, South Carolina, where many of her descendants are still living.—

Lossing's Field-book of the Revolution.

SCENE, MR. LANGSTON'S HOUSE, IN LAURENS DISTRICT, SOUTH CAROLINA; TIME, NIGHT.
MRS. LANGSTON.
Hark! what's that noise?

MR. LANGSTON.
Nothing, except the wind
Flying among the trees.

MRS. LANGSTON.
But what is that?

MR. LANGSTON.
Some rabbit, or some fox, that prowls outside,
Seeking for food or shelter.

MRS. LANGSTON.
And what's that?

MR. LANGSTON.
An owl—bird-watch-dog of the woods: he makes
The night seem twice as lonely.

MRS. LANGSTON.
Oh, my child!
Rushing through dangers, creeping over snares,
For three long days and nights you have been gone,
And I a-sitting safely here at home!
Why did I let you go upon this journey?

MR. LANGSTON.
To save your other children.

MRS. LANGSTON.
And, perhaps,
Lose them the same, and her besides. 'Tis sad
To sit here childless, may be, and reflect
That she to-night might be here safe with me,
If I had not surrendered to her pleading!
What's that?

MR. LANGSTON.
A step.

MRS. LANGSTON.
A voice! Her voice, thank God!

Enter Dicey.
DICEY.
Home again, safe! Oh, 'twas an awful tramp!
Why, father, how you hug me! And you, mother,
Are crying so, it brings tears to my eyes.
Why, one would think I had been gone a year,
And then the word had come that I was dead,
Instead of being absent three short days,
And then returning safely home to you.

MRS. LANGSTON.
Three days and nights! You must be starved to death!

DICEY.
Oh no! not near! 'Tis not so easy done!
Two things are o'erhard with a healthy girl:
Those are, to starve her, and to break her heart.

MR. LANGSTON.
You must be tired to death with lack of sleep.

DICEY.
Oh no! I slept to-day in the safe house
Of one who stands within her door, and shouts,
“Long live our great and glorious George the Third!”
But whispers to her girls, “Get supper, now,
For the next rebel who may come along.”
She hides the patriot colors in a trunk,
And when there's news of rebel victories,
She drapes her bedroom with our country's flag,
Shuts the doors tight, that none outside may hear,
And shouts, “Hurra for Washington and right!”

MRS. LANGSTON.
Now you are safe, dear daughter, what about
The ones you went to save? Were you in time?

DICEY.
Yes, in full time! Let me alone for that!
And the red Cunningham will have to scent
Farther than he has ever done before,
If he makes good his threat of finding them.
Let him look out they are not finding him!
For they are rallying swift to give him fight.

MR. LANGSTON.
Your journey must have been a rough one, girl.

DICEY.
'Twas not a pleasure trip, I must confess.
It was a long and fearful walk. The night
I left my home, the storms were quarreling;
And as I felt along the hard-found path,
Great clouds seemed e'en a'most to brush my head.
Cold drops plashed in my face; the wind sometimes
Made such a doleful sound, it almost seemed
That 'twas some dead man, waked up in his grave.
Once, at first sight, I thought I saw a ghost,
That beckoned to me with its long white arms,
As if to call me to it; then I shouted,
“Say! If you are an honest rebel ghost,
Come and shake hands; if not, go on your way,
And let an honest girl go hers in peace.”

MRS. LANGSTON.
Why, Dicey! How could you dare be so bold?

DICEY.
What is a ghost, for any one to fear?
Are ghosts good eaters? Would they eat me up?
I do not think there ever was a ghost.
But if there are such things, they're not so fierce
That any one need fear them. Now, when I
Am not afraid of any man alive,
Tell me, why should I fear him when he's dead?
Ghosts may have arms; but have they flesh on them?
They may have mouths; but have they teeth in them?
They're cowards, too, and ne'er can stand their ground,
If you will talk good honest sense to them.
I'd rather that a thousand ghosts would come,
And grin about me with their faces white,
And beckon to me with their long thin arms,
Than have a live wolf growl too close to me.

MR. LANGSTON.
You wouldn't run for the wolf; but, I'll be bound,
'Twas not a ghost. Go on and tell the rest
About your journey. We are fast to hear.

DICEY.
Well, when I started for it, and cried out,
It disappeared, as ghosts will always do;
I think my fancy must have made it all.
Just then I stumbled on some little thing,
That gave a cry of anguish; and I stooped
And picked it up; it was a little bird;
And it had lost its nest, and helpless lay,
With none to care for it. I picked it up,
And said, “My poor, weak, helpless, silly thing!
This is a cold world into which you've come,
Thinking, perhaps, that you can live in it;
But here you are, just ready now to die.
Say! is it war-time, too, among the birds,
That you are here so helpless and so lone,
Without a mother nigh to care for you?
Perhaps the great God—who has said that He
Would never see a sparrow fall without
Noting just where it lay—has picked me out
To save your life; so come with me, my dear.”
It nestled trustingly into my hand;
And so I carried it unto the end
Of my long journey, and protected it
Even when dangers hung above my head.
I left it safe with friends, and made them say,
That when 'twas strong they'd give its freedom back.

MR. LANGSTON.
Well, that was noble, good, and kind in you,
And, mayhap, interesting—to the bird;
But we had rather hear what 'came of you.

DICEY.
Trudging along the road, I heard a sound
Like horses' hoof-steps; so I drew one side,
And hid myself behind a wayside tree,
More like some rogue than a well-meaning girl
Struggling to save the lives of them she loved.
It was a company of British horse;
And as they galloped past, I heard them drone,
“God save the King!” 'Twas all that I could do,
To keep from shouting, so that they could hear,
“And take him into heaven this very night!”

MRS. LANGSTON.
Dicey, you must not wish that folks would die.

DICEY.
I know 'twas wicked; but it seemed, somehow,
As if the thought would come, in spite of me.

MR. LANGSTON.
Tell your adventures; let your politics
Go till another time.

DICEY.
Your pardon, father.
Well, on I walked, through midnight cold and black;
And, just before the morning streaked the east,
Came to the river's ford. The waters raged,
Swollen by the rains, and all was drear and dark.
What should I do? I stood there for a while,
Thinking what I should do: behind me, home
And parents, needing my good watch and care;
Before me was my duty; but, perhaps,
Death in between us. For a while I stood;
Then, with a stern resolve to do my best,
And a short prayer, I stepped into the stream.
The water touched my knees—my waist—my arms;
I felt a shudder as the cold chills struck
Through me; and still the water crept and crept,
Up to my shoulders—to my chin—my mouth;
And still I prayed for guidance, and pressed on.
Which way I went, or up or down the stream,
Or whether for the shore—I did not know;
I only prayed, and struggled on. And once
The water swept up past my mouth; and then
I strangled, but kept on; when, in a trice,
It grew less deep—less deep—less deep—and then
I came out on the bank, and found the road,
And once more went my way, drenched to the skin,
And cold, and chilled, and clogged with clinging drops;
But my heart felt so warm, it almost seemed
As if 'twould dry me in a little time.
The morning got there just before me. When
I knocked at brother's door, he did not know
What evil beast so early was abroad,
And near had shot me for an enemy. But when
I gave my message, and they knew what risk,
What labor, and what pain I had endured
To save their lives, they gave me such a cheer!

MRS. LANGSTON.
Thank Heaven you're safe! Thank Heaven your brothers are!

MR. LANGSTON.
And give the girl some credit, too. Now what!

[A knock at the door. Enter the bloody Scouts.
CUNNINGHAM.
Your rebel sons came very near their death,
Old man. A little more, and we had found
Their hiding-place; but they had run away.
The Lord knows how they scented us so soon!

DICEY
(aside).
And I know, too.

MR. LANGSTON.
Thank God!

SECOND SCOUT.
Old rebel!

THIRD SCOUT.
Kill him!

[Second Scout points his gun at Mr. Langston; Dicey throws herself between them.
DICEY.
I am the cause of all your trouble, sirs;
I traveled through the midnight, and alarmed
My brothers to their danger. If you kill,
Kill me, I am the one. What! Harm my father?
Him whose gray head has not a sinful hair?
Shoot, soldiers! shoot! and kill a weak, pale girl!
For now I swear no bullet shall go nigh
His body, but it first shall crash through mine!

CUNNINGHAM.
Well, that's well acted.

DICEY.
And well meant.

CUNNINGHAM.
Oh, well,
If you'll be taking on at such a pitch,
We'll let you go this time, and go ourselves.
No doubt, my little shrew, you'll yet get hung;
For you're the liveliest rebel in the State.
But 'twill be sin to hurt so brave a girl!
Forward, march!

[They pass out.
MRS. LANGSTON.
Good, brave daughter! it is you
Have saved your brothers' lives, and now your father's!

DICEY.
I did no more than what I felt, dear mother.
I've heard that you were glad, when I was born,
A daughter had at last come here to you;
But father thought 'twas hard, in such fierce times,
In these wild woods, that all could not be sons.
I often heard this whispered, when I 'came
So old that I could understand it; then
I vowed that I would be as useful to
The father that I loved as any son.

MR. LANGSTON.
And well you've kept your vow. And if, indeed,
It is a sin to be a girl, you yet
Right well have made it up. But did you see
Young Springfield in the settlement? Ah, now
You blush.

DICEY
(coloring).
He was not there. What's he to me?

MR. LANGSTON.
More than you'll own, my girl. You have the heart
Of woman, with the courage of a man.

[Another knock at the door. Enter three Men, disguised.
FIRST MAN.
Is this the house of Mister Langston?

MR. LANGSTON.
Yes.

FIRST MAN.
We are three patriot soldiers, watching sharp
For that bold captain, the red Cunningham.

MR. LANGSTON.
Then follow quick, if you'd be finding him;
Or run quick, if you fear he will find you;
For he is not a half a mile away.

SECOND MAN.
We fly from him! Not now! Our force is large,
And we shall capture him before the morn.
But we were told, sir, by your oldest son,
To call here for a gun that he had left.

MR. LANGSTON.
Dicey, go bring it.

DICEY
(appearing with it).
Here it is, sir. Oh!
There is a pass-word must be had for this;
My brother said I should not give it up
Without the pass-word.

SECOND MAN.
But, my pretty miss,
Why should we need to give a pass-word now?
We have you all here in our power; the gun
Is ours already.

DICEY
(cocking the gun, and pointing it at him).
Yours already? Well,
If it is yours, take charge of it!

THIRD MAN.
Hold! hold!
Don't fire, my girl! I'll give the countersign.
“Death to the tyrant! Liberty and right!”

DICEY
(trembling and blushing, and giving up the gun).
I know that voice! 'Tis Thomas Springfield!

SPRINGFIELD.
Yes;
I have just come from Marion. He has heard
Of your adventures, and has sent this ring,
From his own finger, as an offering
And testimonial to your bravery.
[Aside to Dicey.
And as for me, I have another ring,
Which I would place upon your finger, if—

DICEY
(aside to him).
Never, until my country's wars are done,
Will I accept the hand of any one.
Whatever love or loves may plead with me,
My country is my love till she be free.

SPRINGFIELD.
And if I'm faithful—when the war is done,
And by my help our freedom has been won—

DICEY
(giving him her hand).
Then come to me, and claim my heart's reply.

SPRINGFIELD.
I will remind you of these words. Good-bye.

[Men march out.